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Seoul Redemption| knj romance

Pairing: Forger!KNJ x female!reader

WC: 19.5 k (Welp! My longest yet!)

Tag warnings: the smallest mention of drug use, smut, swearing, some mention of parental abuse, some religious references, criminal activity, single mom.

Smut warnings: oraling, body worship, love-making, fluffy pillow talk. Emotionally intense sex?

Minors, do not interact. If you are under 18, you are under aged. Come back on your 18th birthday.

Summary: Kim Namjoon has fallen for you. You have fallen for him. What’s the problem? You just want an honest man. And he’s anything but that.

Many thanks to the following people who have encouraged and beta’ed and supported me so lovingly:

@wwilloww, @hesperantha, @vyduan, @jinfizz @xjoonchildx @miscelunaaa @bangtanmademedoit @hobi-gif @hamsterclaw

Willow, Max, Bunny, Jie, Madz, Ana, Em, Mina, Hopie, Rei, if not for you, this fic would not be fucking possible. At all. Dedicated to you all. Because you walk with me.

Banner made by the beautiful and stunning Mina @bangtanmademedoit. She's pure genius.

*******************************

Five-year old Kim Namjoon is a talkative kid.

He babbles about the rainbow colours in gimbap, prattles about the pale pink of his favourite summer drink, hwachae.

At bedtime, he chatters on and on about the colours he might see at sunrise tomorrow.

When his mother, exhausted from overtime at the factory, stumbles through the doors with him one chilly evening, the last thing she wants to hear is about the beautiful crane dancing by the village rice field.

“Eomma! It had a long beak, and a curvy neck, and a red patch on its head, like a crown! The neck was like this—”

Mrs. Kim sighs. It was hell at the Yang factory today.

“Eomma needs to lie down.” She lays a tattered box of crayons and a piece of scrap paper for him on the table. “Be a good boy, Namjoonie. Let Eomma sleep,” she pleads. Namjoon watches with wide eyes as she passes out on the threadbare couch, her body too numb to feel the hard wooden slats digging into her ribs.

“Sleep, Eomma. I promise to be good,” he whispers to his mother’s tired form. Carefully, he kneels by the low table pushed next to her, and takes out his beloved crayons.

Grasped in his little fists, the short, flimsy crayons don’t look one bit like the ones the Yang boy brought to school today. Those crayons were fat with colour, each with a beautiful sharpened edge that could make the thinnest, most precise lines on paper.

Nevermind.

There is a crane to draw—a surprise gift for his mother when she wakes up.

Usually a humble surface for the family’s meagre meals, the wobbly table transforms into an altar in worship of the crane.

The little boy devotee brings the crane to life with his offering of every stroke of colour.

Black, as dark as the winter night for the feathers. For the eyes, yellow, like the shiny gold ring Eomma gave up at the pawn shop last week. And the red crown must be as red as Eomma’s wedding hanbok in the faded photo on the otherwise bare wall.

Woken by the soft creaks of the table’s worn wood from Namjoon’s strong, sure strokes, Mrs Kim opens an eye, disoriented as to why she’s on the couch.

Slowly, she turns her head, breath held in astonishment as she watches her young son bite the inside of his jaw, translating his memory of the elegant bird, line by line, curve by curve onto the paper.

With his steely gaze focused on the paper, little Namjoon looks so much like his father.

Yeobo.

She bites her lips, keeping them from trembling.

Namjoon glances up, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Here, Eomma,” he says proudly, “durumi.” On his paper, the elegant crane has one leg lifted mid-air, ready to take flight. “Eomma, do you like it?” he asks, eyes wide with innocence.

It’s beautiful.

She kneels on the hard, linoleum floor next to him and cradles his face in her hands. “I love it.” Sweeping the fine, silky hair from his eyes, she continues, “Do you know durumi brings good luck? They can fly very far because their wings are very strong.”

Namjoon smiles. He likes things that are very strong.

“And what about their heart, Eomma?”

“Their heart?” Mrs Kim falters a bit, remembering the words her late husband whispered to her on their wedding night so many years ago.

The durumi love for a lifetime. One love. One partner. One life. I will love you as long as I shall live, as sure and steadfast as the wings of the durumi.

“Their hearts are very, very strong,” she says solemnly.

“How strong?” he asks. Namjoon is enamoured with strength these days.

“As strong as Appa’s,” replies Mrs. Kim, voice cracking with emotion.

Gently, Namjoon brings his own hands to cradle his mother’s face. “And as strong as Eomma’s.” His words are soft but sure. “Don’t cry, Eomma.”

Mrs Kim tilts her head back to blink back the tears, hoping that the dim light from the bare bulb on the ceiling will hide her emotions.

She takes a deep breath. Pressing her forehead against his, she holds Namjoon’s gaze and implores him to remember the following. “Appa was strong. Eomma is strong. So, Namjoonie will be strong.”

It’s a familiar chant she has said over and over again to herself on those cold, lonely nights when the baby’s fever won’t come down.

A chant that kept her company when she braced the bitter wind on the long walk home, carrying a toddler heavy with sleep, in her arms.

“Me? Strong?” he asks, eyes round with wonder, cheeks puffed with pride.

“Yes, you. Strong,” she says, with all her heart.

Her husband never got to pursue art even though everyone said his sketches on faded newsprint were incredible. There was no time, no money. No training. But perhaps, their little one has potential. Perhaps, Namjoonie will become a great artist and pave their road out of poverty one day.

It seems like such a foolhardy wish.

But Mrs Kim never leaves anything to chance when it comes to her son’s future.

The next day, to his great delight, five-year old Kim Namjoon is enrolled in the afterschool art program at the community centre.

Poor Mrs. Kim.

How could she know that giving up her daily sweet potato for lunch just to pay for Namjoon’s art lessons would one day pave his way into a life of crime—as one of the top master forgers in the world.

*******************************

The ninth circle of hell is not in some deep bowel under the earth. It is right here, in the sweltering Seoul summer, in front of a hot vat of oil, frying chicken by a roadside stall.

“Two drumsticks!” yells out your boss, an elderly man who hired you when his wife sprained her wrist. His lean, wiry figure is the evidence of half a century of back-breaking labour.

“Drumsticks coming up!” you call back.

Goddamn, you feel like one of those pieces of chicken in this heat. With a pair of tongs, you pull out the sizzling meat, the other hand ready with the small grease paper to wrap around the base of each drumstick. The usual cardboard cartons for the fried chicken have all run out. Business has been too good.

“2400 won! Hurry up!” you bark at the fumbling customer in front of you. Why the fuck can’t people just get their money ready while waiting in the goddamn line?

The drumsticks are dripping hot fat into the wrappers—it’s going to be a tricky exchange.

He gives you the won bills.

You grab them.

You hand out the drumsticks.

He takes them.

You get the change.

He’s reaching out to take it from you when a loud “hurry up!” from your boss startles you.

The 1000 won note slips through the grease of your fingers, fluttering innocently into the bubbling hot fat as both watch on in silent horror.

Shit.

“Sir, I’m sor—”

“I’ve always liked nice, crisp bills anyway,” the customer says ruefully.

That’s when you look up and really notice the man. He has nice eyes, you think. Nice smile. Nicer voice.

It’s hot out here, but it’s his kindness which warms your insides. You wonder where on earth you’ve seen that smile before.

“Y/N! Hurry up! What’s the matter over there?” yells your boss. Striding over, he spies the won bill in the vat of oil. “What’s this? How dare you drop the money into the oil? We have to throw it all out now!”

You’re about to admit your mistake when the customer cuts in swiftly, “I’m sorry sajangnim! It’s my fault–I dropped the change after she gave it to me! Here, let me pay for it.” He’s bowing apologetically to your boss, trying to put two drumsticks in one hand while fumbling for his wallet with the other.

You protest, but the customer shoves a fifty thousand won bill to your boss, bowing deeply again as he speaks. “Please accept my apologies!”

The ornery old man gives a rough harumph, and waves the troublesome customer away with a dismissive hand. To you, he commands like he always does, “Get back to work! Hurry up! Next order!”

Tearing your gaze from the man’s disappearing form, you spit out, “Next order!” like how your boss expects you to, and swallow your pride, its bitter aftertaste already a familiar friend.

Nothing tastes sweet anymore.

*******************************

Sixteen-year-old Kim Namjoon is sweating. Profusely.

“Are you Kim Namjoon?”

The calm, assured tenor could only belong to the Yang boy. Heir to the Yang textile empire, Jihoon hardly speaks, but when he does, it is with a crystal clear accent that the teachers fawn over.

“Depends on why you’re asking,” says Namjoon, trying hard not to let his uneasiness show.

Yesterday, he’d shared a seat on the bus with a girl from another class for the field trip. She was breathtakingly beautiful and Namjoon knew he was lucky to sit next to her.

It was only when he got home when his best friend called to say there were rumours that Yang Jihoon was dating her. Namjoon shivers. These Yangs are a crazy, unpredictable lot. His mom works at the Yang factory for fuck’s sake and he hopes to God that his litle impasse wouldn’t put her job on the line.

“Relax,” Jihoon says drily, “no one’s in trouble here.” He’s cool and calm, oozing a self-assuredness that Namjoon envies. “Well, no one, except me.”

What would the Yang Jihoon want from him? Namjoon remains silent, but his curiosity is certainly piqued.

“Listen man, I need your help. End-of-year reports are going out in two weeks. I heard you’ve a good eye and a steady hand for this kind of stuff—”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Namjoon says quickly.

Namjoon knows exactly what the hell Jihoon is talking about. This kind of stuff meant fake doctor’s notes and school forms used to dupe parents and teachers alike for whenever his classmates needed a day off to fuck around. Apparently one of them couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.

“Let me show you something, then,” Jihoon gestures towards the back of the bleachers by the athletic field.

Away from prying eyes, Jihoon unbuttons the top button of his school uniform to reveal the ugly purplish-yellow bruise below his collarbone. “My dad did that because of the maths exam. I lost two fucking points on question 15. Two. Fucking. Points.”

Damn. Almost everyone in Namjoon’s class had lost two points on the binomial theorem question. Taking a closer look, Namjoon spies a few raised scars near the bruise.

Burns.

Looks like those rumours of the elder Yang’s cruel, savage temper aren’t rumours after all.

“No guarantees. I haven’t tried this level of shit before. For one, the paper with the school’s embossed watermark for report cards is gonna be a problem.” How the hell is he going to pilfer the coveted special paper kept under lock and key in the principal’s office?

“I got the paper.” Jihoon hands over a fat manila envelope.

Staring into the envelope, Namjoon sees several thick wads of ten-thousand won notes that accompany a piece of report card paper embossed with the school’s crest. He doesn’t know which paper is more valuable.

“It’s yours. Just get it done,” Jihoon says, aiming for the words to come out flat, nonchalant. But the desperation laced in his speech is obvious, even to both of them.

“Jihoon, you know that’s not going to solve anything right?” Even if I get you all straight As with all the teachers’ signatures perfectly copied?” Namjoon swallows hard before continuing, “your dad might still–”

Yang Jihoon spies pity in Namjoon’s eyes, and he would not stand for it.

“Stick to your job, Kim,” he said gruffly. “What my father will do is none of your fucking business.”

Namjoon watches as Jihoon saunters away, a strange limp intruding in his swagger every other step.

Namjoon better get the teachers’ signatures exactly right.

If he fucks this up, Jihoon might not walk again.

*******************************

“Appa, story please?” you plead. “I want the story of the prince! He finds the princess and they live–”

“Same story, again?” your father chides gently.

“It’s so good, though! I can’t wait to marry a prince one day!” You have a dreamy far-off look as you settle into your father’s lap.

“Sweetheart.”

You’re five years old and you already know that voice. It’s when your father wants to tell you SOMETHING IMPORTANT.

Sighing, you ask, “Yes, appa?”

“An honest man is better than a rich man.”

“Yes appa, but an honest, rich man is better than an honest, poor man!” you answer without missing a beat.

Your father laughs. It’s deep and comforting, and you love to hear its echo reverberating through his chest as you lean in for a snuggly hug.

“Are you a rich man, appa?” you ask, suddenly curious, pulling away from his chest so you can stare into his eyes.

At school, you know the other girls whisper about you whenever you take out a new Hello Kitty pencil. Or when you wear a new pretty ribbon in your hair appa buys so often on his business trips.

You have an inkling that this is not normal and you’re a little proud of the fact that you have pretty things. But is your father truly rich?

“No, I’m not a rich man,” he says, steady and serious.

“But I thought—” you protest, a little crestfallen that he doesn’t consider yourselves rich.

“Let's be grateful for what we have, and always remember there are those who go to bed hungry.”

“But we’re not poor?” you ask, wanting to make sure that the dreaded thing—poverty—is not what you have, like some incurable disease.

“No,” he says simply. “Far, far from it.”

“Phew!” A wave of gladness washes over you. I’m not poor! Those stories about poor children and how they have only one matchstick to keep warm, or have to follow trails of breadcrumbs, or spin straw into gold—you don’t have to do any of that because you’re not poor!

Lost in your favourite fable of the prince and princess, you miss the thin film of guilt which clouds your father’s eyes.

That night, after you kiss your father goodnight, then rub the scratchy part of his chin, then tug his fat earlobes; and—

After he tickles your toes, and squishes your cheeks and tucks you into bed and kisses you one more time—

After all of that, he finally settles back in the expansive leather recliner.

In the quiet of the night, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, he lets out a deep, deep sigh of relief.

It’s a sigh of relief not because it’s fucking hard to be a single dad to a little girl.

It’s a sigh of relief because he’s glad you asked him if he was a rich man.

And not if he was an honest one.

*******************************

The school field trip to the National Museum of Art took about two hours there in the morning. But the way back will take three hours now with the notorious Seoul traffic at rush hour.

Namjoon gets a seat in the front of the bus, hoping no one else would sit next to him so he can revise for the biology test tomorrow.

But his heart stops.

A feminine smell of something sweet and fresh and floral lures him away from the textbook; it heightens all his senses. The page in his hand trembles a little before he dares to look up.

“Sorry, Mr. Lee sent me to this bus. Someone isn’t well and needs to lie down across a row of seats on my bus,” you say apologetically. “Is it okay if I sit here?” You’re in the narrow aisle, feeling uncomfortable as fuck with nowhere else to sit in this bus full of students from another class.

“S-sit here? Sure! Of course!” He’s flustered by your beauty, and forces himself to remember to be a gentleman. “Um, hey, do you prefer the window seat?”

“That would be nice,” you say, blushing a little when your knees bump against his. He’s standing now in the cramped space, shuffling around you so you can scoot in and take your seat by the window.

Namjoon rolls his eyes at the hoots coming from the back of the bus. His classmates love every chance to tease him. Throwing them a warning look, he mouths shut up at the unruly lot before focusing his attention back to you.

Finally settled, you smooth your uniform, taking care that not one inch of your skirt or school blazer is encroaching on his space. You shiver. The air conditioning is at full blast, but you wonder if it’s the warmth of his gaze that electrifies your spine.

“Are you… are you cold?” he asks, his words coming out cracked and uncertain.

“A little,” you admit.

He reaches up to swing the air vent towards him. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” You give him a polite smile, not sure what to do or say anymore.

The bus rumbles off and Namjoon’s mind races against his heart. He’s staring blankly at the biology textbook, wondering why the hell he’s learning about mitochondria.

What he really wants to study is how to say something suave, something intelligent to a pretty girl when his brain feels like a plate of japchae—a hot, tangled mess.

“You liked the exhibit?” he asks, embarrassed that his voice has suddenly taken an octave higher.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, I get so inspired to paint when I see all these masterpieces.”

“You paint?”

“This and that. Nature and stuff. But there’s so much studying to do these days, and my mom now thinks it’s hard to make money from painting. I just don’t want to disappoint her.”

“I’m sure you’ll make her proud, whatever you do,” you say, not sure what gave you the right to be so certain.

Namjoon gulps a little when his little transgressions wave at him devilishly in the dark recesses of his mind.

“I hope so too.” Clearing his throat in an attempt to rid himself of his guilty conscience, he introduces himself, an outstretched hand ready for your handshake. “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

“Kim Namjoon—so that’s the name I’ll be looking for in the headlines one day!” you tease and then introduce yourself, revelling in the warmth of his hand.

A lop-sided smile emerges, curtained by his cute dimples. “Thanks,” he says simply. “You know what, I especially can’t get over Kim Whanki’s work we saw today. Those blues… I feel like I can stare at them forever.”

“Appa has one of his pieces,” you say, excited now that someone loves art like you do. “It’s beautiful. Every time I look at it, I feel like it’s saying something different to me.”

“No way!” He looks at you, a little awed and a little envious. “Wow, you’re lucky.”

“It–It’s just a small one.” You don’t know why you’re lying. Why you’re downplaying your wealth. Perhaps it’s the longing so clearly etched on his face.

“One day. One day I hope to own an original work by him too,” he says, each word shy, like he’s afraid of ruffling the order of how things are.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you!”

The rest of the ride flies by. He sees the dance of your eyes when you tell him about your favourite books. You hear the lilt in his voice when he lets you in on how he writes poetry, rap verses, little scribbles and mixtures of rhythms.

It’s dusk when the bus pulls up to the open gates of the school yard. You both linger longer that you should, letting everyone else get off the bus first.

He stands and tells you to be careful, warns you that the steps of the bus are slippery as he goes first and offers his hand to help you down.

“Thanks,” you say, glad for the short moment of warmth you find in the cradle of his palm.

“No problem,” he says. There’s something the way he says it that makes you look up at him. It sounds like longing and regret and hope rolled into one.

On the sidewalk, you try to find the dark, soulful eyes you saw in the dim light of the bus. You’re wondering why you haven’t really known this tall, handsome boy in school until today.

But from the darkness behind you, someone calls your name. Shyly, you say you have to go; your friend is giving you a ride home.

He waves at you cheerily, voice carefully masking his disappointment. See you around.

And when he looks and looks until your silhouette merges with the darkness, he wonders why hasn’t he gotten the guts earlier to speak to you.

Ah. He remembers why.

Because people like you—with friends who have cars—don’t usually hang out with people like him—who walk, or bike, or bus.

Not anymore.

He’s going to own a Kim Whanki one day.

By hook or by crook.

*******************************

“Open up! Police! Search warrant!”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bleary-eyed, you open the door, wondering, what on earth?

Surely, this must be a joke. Maybe some kind of prank? You’re just about to embark on your junior year. Tomorrow’s breakfast with faculty and student council pizza party were already penciled into your calendar.

“Sorry? Is there a mistake?”

Too impatient to answer you, the cops burst into your apartment and upend everything. As you follow the chaos in the apartment, you learn with every slam of closet door, and every emptying of drawer that your father is a fraud who ran his small hedge fund like a ponzi scheme, swindling hundreds of private investors.

“Ma’am, this note from your father. When was this written? What does he mean? Did he give you instructions about where to meet him?”

“W-what note?”

The plainclothes policeman holds up a note you haven’t seen before, written in your father’s distinctive quick, rounded script.

I’m sorry you have to clean up the mess. Gonna try to make it up to you. One day.

“Did he leave bank account numbers with you? Did he give you instructions to meet him? Perhaps an air ticket to the Caymans?”

No. NO. NO!

You didn’t know anything then, and you don’t know anything now.

Faced with an army of reporters outside your apartment building and the crowd of creditors who have come for their money, the next few weeks spiral like a nightmare. Bit by bit, you find out about the gambling debts, the women, the deals from bribery he constantly collected for people in government. When did this all happen?

He certainly went away for longer periods of time on his business trips ever since you started high school. He’d been drinking more than usual in the last few years. A bit distant, recently. But you’ve been busy too.

Sigh.

You trail your fingers around the apartment you know so well. It’s a final goodbye to the home you’ve had ever since you were born.

Everything has to be liquidated. Except those photos on the wall.

You stare at each picture, searching for signs in your father’s expression that could have told you he was a liar, an embezzler, capable of fraud worth trillions of won. But in every picture, he looks attentive. Loving. Doting even, and you—you’re happy.

Were happy.

You feel like retching. The life he has built for you has been destroyed with the lies he has fed you.

You stumble into the bathroom just in time to heave into the toilet.

Stomach churning, you make sure everything is completely gone before you walk with unsteady feet out of the bathroom.

In a box of things labeled, Unsold, you stare at the trinkets, the little curiosities your father got for you when he went on his “business trips,” which you later found were trips to launder money.

According to the NIS liaison officer who interrogated you, these trips were not to London or Paris, but to places where dodgy money was made clean by dodgy means.

Bile rises up your throat again. Is your body that disgusted by your father’s betrayal?

You get to the sink in time and you retch once more, all the while cursing this terrible situation.

As you throw up yet another time, you vow that you’ll never be betrayed like this again.

In this whole wide world, there’s gotta be one honest man who will love you.

And you hope to God that Yang Jihoon is that man because you think you might be pregnant with his child.

*******************************

The Fairy Bird or Pitta Nympha is native to Jeju Island and other parts of East Asia. Well-known for is seven-coloured plumage, they can be found on Jeju island during breeding season.

One, however, must have lost her way and arrived in Seoul.

“Fairy bird! Fairy bird! Come here!” Little Gi calls out, arms outstretched.

With strong chubby legs, the four-year-old propels himself higher and higher up the climbing frame. If only he could just touch it, just touch those beautiful blue-green wings!

“Fairy bird!” Little Gi is at the top rung and leaps off to touch the bird taking flight.

“Gi!”

Your scream reaches him too late. His tiny body tumbles from the top towards the ground when a blurry figure hurtles across the park. Cradling the little boy in his arms, the tall man looks around for the voice he heard.

Gi wails uncontrollably, the shock of being locked in the arms of a stranger scarier to him than merely falling.

“Gi! Gi!” You rush to your son, worried sick. “Are you hurt?”

Gi howls now, triggered by the commotion around him and the realisation that the fairy bird flew away. “Fairy bird! Fairy bird! Eomma! I want to touch the fairy bird, it looked just like the one we saw on Jeju!”

“He’s fine. I caught him just in time,” the man says.

That voice. It’s so familiar. Glancing up, you realise he’s the same guy from lunch who liked the crisp bills–and saved your ass.

“Oh my god. It’s you! Thank you for catching Gi!”

“No problem,” he smiles in the dusky dim light.

The two words trigger a memory for you. Where did you hear the very same voice and those very same words years and years ago? It was an evening, dusk; moon and stars in the wings ready to make themselves known on their night sky-stage, a night just like this with its deep blues and dark blacks.

“I—I… wait. Wait. Ilsan Science and Tech High. The bus. Field trip to the art museum?” you ask tentatively. The shape of the boy is still somewhat visible in the form of the man before you. He’s taller, bigger, but the kindness in his voice remains the same.

You reach for his name—stuffed somewhere back in the attic of your mind. It’s hidden in a drawer of favourite memories which are too precious to take out and too beautiful to savour in the bitter bite of the last few years.

When you open that drawer, his name flies out, as if it’s been waiting for this moment. “Kim Namjoon—the name I’ll be looking for in the headlines one day.”

Slowly, the thing he buried, the thing shoved deep down which throbs with hurt and hope on rainy days like an arthritis of his heart bubbles to the surface of his consciousness.

Namjoon gasps out your name. “Your father. He has a Kim Whanki.”

“Had,” you say wryly. “Things have changed since, and I had to sell it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly. I happen to have—”

“Eomma! I’m hungry!” Gi calls out.

“Shh… okay, Gi, we’ll go home for dinner. Let’s thank Namjoon Ahjussi for catching you.”

“Thank you Namjoon Ahjussi for catching me,” Gi parrots after you. But before you can placate him, he begs, “Eomma, I’m tired. Can’t walk no no more. Carry me please?” His large innocent eyes look pleadingly at you.

Bending down, you lift him up, letting out a small oof at how heavy he is. “Okay Gi, but remember, Eomma gets tired too, so you have to carry me some of the way.”

Gi giggles and you hear the man behind you laughing a bit. All too often, it’s just you and Gi, getting through the tough days together with silly songs and silly rhymes and silly stories. Now that someone else is laughing along, it feels strangely satisfying that your mothering is appreciated by a stranger.

Namjoon’s still smiling when the sight of you walking away startles him into motion. Scrambling after you, he racks his brain for a way to drag this meeting out. “Hey, I have tons of japchae my mother dropped off today. I don’t live too far from here, just two blocks away. Does Gi like japchae?” Remembering how his mother carried him in wind and rain as a child, his heart is moved with compassion as you struggle under Gi’s weight.

“Japchae! I like japchae!” Quick as lightning, Gi slithers from your grasp and onto the ground, tugging at your fingers. “Please, japchae? Japchae?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.” God. When was the last time you got invited to dinner?

“Hey, trust me. You’re not imposing," he reassures you. "I could use help to finish the japchae. Mom always sends me tons.”

You finally relent and Gi whoops enthusiastically. “Japchae!”

Still, the two-block walk back is slow with you having to carry Gi who finds himself back in your arms after some whining.

“Gi, how about we give Eomma a break? Do you want to ride on my shoulders and pretend you’re Anpanman?”

Gi hesitates. He has never ridden on a man’s shoulders before. It sounds exciting. Anpanman. He looks to you for assurance.

“Do you want to?” you ask.

Gi nods shyly, his soft eyes peeking beneath those too-long bangs.

“Go on then,” you smile reassuringly.

In one smooth motion, Namjoon lifts up Gi and seats him on his shoulders, making sure to still hold Gi’s hands securely with those little arms stretched out.

“Anpanman! Look Eomma! I’m flying!” Gi grins with pure delight.

“Hello Anpanman!” you call out, glad to see your son so incredibly happy.

“Yeah! Anpanman! I’m Anpanman!” he chortles gleefully.

You suddenly wonder if this is what it’s like if Gi had a father. It’s been four years, four years where Gi has missed out on bear hugs from appa, rides on appa’s shoulders, pretend wrestling on the carpet with appa. Appa. Appa. Appa. You wonder if he even knows that word.

Namjoon sees a cloud of sadness float across your face. “You okay?”

“Yeah. It’s nothing. Happy to see Gi happy.”

Namjoon decides to let it go for now. He’s gonna try to coax another laugh from you. Swaying Gi side to side on his shoulders, he speeds up, and then slows down, sometimes even tickling Gi with his hair by rolling his head against Gi’s belly.

When you finally laugh at Gi’s excited squeals, Namjoon feels proud of himself.

Inside the condo’s quiet lobby decorated with muted lighting and expensive wood, Gi climbs down from the man’s shoulders, preferring to walk and hold hands with both of you while he stares up at the soaring ceiling.

It’s strange how holding hands with Gi in the middle of both of you and walking into his apartment building feels so complete and domestic.

If only—

“Are we there yet?” Gi asks tiredly in the elevator.

“Yup, buddy, we’re here!” Namjoon hurries ahead down the corridor to the corner apartment. He flings it open grandly and bows with a flourish when you and Gi enter. “Welcome to Kim’s japchae restaurant!”

After giggling, you turn serious as you look at all the glass and porcelain that is placed artfully around the living area. “Gi, don’t touch anything and no jumping on the sofa,” you warn quietly as you bend to take off his shoes.

“He’s funny, Eomma,” Gi replies, mischievously avoiding your imperative.

“Say I promise not to touch anything without permission,” you insist.

“I promise not to touch anything without permission,” Gi says solemnly, putting his little palm over his heart. “Eomma, I need to pee-pee.”

Namjoon’s head pokes out briefly from around the corner. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I'll show you around the apartment once I get the japchae in the microwave.”

His quiet apartment rings with life—Gi splashing around in the sink, his excited cries are matched by your gentle, steady voice.

A thrill zips up his spine at your melodic alto. It’s been so long since a woman’s voice rang within these walls. Telling himself to calm the fuck down, he gets busy with setting the table.

“Eat! Eat! I want to eat!” Gi claps enthusiastically.

“I guess I’ll postpone the grand tour of Kim’s japchae restaurant for young master Gi’s tummy.”

“Thank you for the food! Thank you for Eomma. Thank you God for everything!”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow but says nothing at the prayer. If that’s what the kid believes, so be it.

Digging into the japchae, your eyes close momentarily with pleasure at how good it is. It’s been so long you’ve had home-cooked food from someone’s mother.

Namjoon and you talk about bits and pieces of who you know from high school. The Choi guy is some hotshot lawyer. There’s Lee Daeun who’s trying to make it as a model. There’s also—

“Look,” Namjoon whispers.

Gi’s head is resting on the meat of his chubby elbow for a pillow, completely asleep, a little sliver of carrot hanging by the corner of his mouth.

“Let me lay out a futon for him—have it somewhere in the guest room. He can sleep better while we finish eating. And if he wakes up, he’ll see us here and not get scared of being in a strange place.”

Before you can protest, Namjoon comes back with a lightweight futon. He rolls it on the floor. After you lay Gi down, Namjoon grabs a soft, warm throw from the sofa.

“Why are you so good with kids?” you ask. The question should have come out breezy and teasing, but instead there’s a little catch in your throat as you watch him tuck the blanket around Gi like he’s a precious gift.

“I was living at home to save money for a while after high school. Mom was a babysitter to make a little extra. Always had a baby under our feet.” He smiles wryly, “Sometimes, literally. But it sure paid better than overtime at Yang’s factory. Speaking of which—do you know what happened to Yang Jihoon?”

That name belongs to another drawer, one permanently padlocked.

“Not a lot. We dated for a few years and it didn’t work out,” you say, clearing your throat with practised nonchalance, “What about you? Look at you! And this apartment! You have a Kim Whanki now! You must be doing not bad yourself!”

Namjoon heads off to the kitchen to get two wine glasses. He’d do anything to evade your gaze for the moment.

"This place is a rental by the way! So I still have a ways to go!" he laughs good-naturedly. "I deal in art, a bit of this and a bit of that. Relocation, insurance, auctioning, brokerage services, the whole works. It’s pretty boring, actually. Wine?”

“Just half a glass please,” you say as he leads you on the plush sofa.

The wine and heated flooring send a warmth to your cheeks. The conversation eases back into art and it’s as if the both of you never really got off the bus from the field trip.

But the chime of the clock startles you by how quickly time has passed.

“I—I should get going,” you say reluctantly.

“Is—” he hesitates because he’s dying to know, but also unsure how to put it delicately in case he hurts you. “Is there someone waiting at home?”

Someone waiting at home? When was the last time someone waited at home for you?

You take a deep breath because sometimes telling the truth is as difficult as hearing it. “There’s no one waiting.”

“Then stay. Stay the night. There’s a guest room for you and Gi. Please, it's late. It’s not safe. And I—I would love your company.”

The boy born poor, born on the wrong side of Ilsan reminds him that he doesn’t deserve you or love or all of this. And so he clears his throat and adds, “But if you need to go, I–I’ll see you home.”

“I’ll stay.”

With a happy beam, Namjoon motions for you to drag the futon with him—Gi still blissfully asleep on it—down the hall in the guest room. It’s a large room by Seoul’s standard. Clean and minimalist with dark wood and soft, warm light, and a large comfortable bed.

Like a good host Eomma taught him to be, he fusses with pillows and blankets from the linen closet. Arms full, he backs out to pass them to you, not knowing you’re right behind him.

Namjoon hears your muffled cry as you fall backward and reach for him. Instinctively, he reaches out to grab you, hands around your waist, brain too addled to think except oh shit I did it again.

Together you fall in a heap on the bed, pillows and blankets tossed about you. Your back sinks into the plush surface with Namjoon on top of you. Noses bumping, lips a hair’s breadth apart, you feel him everywhere—his hard chest on your breasts, his hard abdomen on the soft of yours, his hard thighs pinning your legs inside his, his hard—

You’re both not breathing. Both not thinking. Both wanting. Wishing. Longing.

There’s a mountain of fear in making the first move. For the second time, Namjoon wishes he was more suave, more cool. Why can’t he get a grip? On his cock, for starters. Damn thing has a mind of its own.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t ask you to stay the night just so that—” he starts.

“Shh… this is—this is nice. It’s just… it’s just been a while.” You laugh a little as you shift awkwardly beneath him. Oh my god, why is he so hard everywhere? “I finally get to see these dimples up close after all these years…”

He’s so grateful. So grateful that you can laugh about this and not get mad or weird.

You let him press in more than you should, let his weight linger over you—you can’t resist the smell of him—the sweat of skin, the musk of man.

“I, uh—I, uh, best get up now,” he says.

But your arms are still around him.

And his legs are still straddling yours.

Because you’re staring and he’s staring and there’s what ifs and should we and then you raise your lips, and he lowers his, and the saint and the sinner come closer and closer on this side of heaven when—

A soft cough from Gi stops the kiss.

For a split second, you stare at each other, then at Gi, then back at each other before collapsing into silent laughter. He climbs out of the bed, and looks away embarrassed.

“I’m so awkward,” he sighs ruefully. “Sorry.”

“We’re so awkward,” you assure him. “Next time, we’ll be better at this.”

“I’d like that.” He smiles. “A next time.”

“Goodnight, Namjoon,” you say, soft and shy.

He almost wants to tuck you in like he did for Gi earlier that evening. But he doesn’t. He would be a little too close to you, the act too intimate, too ironic— because what he really wants is to throw caution to the goddamn wind and throw off the fucking covers and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you.

Instead, he settles for a goodnight and a yell if you need anything. And then he closes the door to let you rest.

In the comfortable guest bed, sandwiched by the smooth silk of expensive linen and a peaceful, sleeping Gi, you finally fall asleep.

Somewhere in Seoul, the lost Fairy Bird, tired of flying by herself, finds a place to rest her wings.

*******************************

Control is a heady thing. Like a drug denied, it creates an unquenchable thirst once it’s in possession of someone who hasn’t had much of a taste of it.

Mrs. Yang could never control her husband; but her son is another story.

In the beautiful living room decorated with ornate Louis XV rococo furniture, she examines three national newspapers and four international ones.

For her, nothing beats the smell of newsprint, the flipping of each page, the ability to scan across the broadsheets for what might catch her eye. And today, what catches her eye is your father’s name.

His name is splashed all over the headlines. Yours too, is inserted here and there as a salacious detail, dangled like a tempting treat for the public’s vapid hunger for gossip.

She’s sure sooner or later, your relationship with Jihoon will bring negative publicity to the Yang empire.

“You must stop seeing her. At once,” she declares. “She’s bad for you, bad for business. She’s—”

“Pregnant,” Jihoon says matter-of-factly.

“Well,” she pauses only to arch a perfectly drawn eyebrow, “You know what to do. It’s not like this is your first time knocking up some girl.” Mrs. Yang rolls her eyes, annoyed that her son has gotten in such trouble again.

“Looking at the list of creditors, she would need the money. That slut better keep her mouth shut—but why she keeps her legs open all the time for you, I really don’t know!”

“She’s not like that. Stop it—”

“Oh, raise your voice now, aren’t you? What happened to my obedient little son? You got your trust fund now and you’re all cocky?” Her voice is low and dangerous.

Jihoon knows—another wrong word—he would lose the penthouse in Gangnam he was promised for his 21st birthday. Losing the penthouse would also mean losing the freedom he would have of finally being free from the oppression at home.

And so he does what he’s been conditioned to do.

Years growing up with two monsters disguised as parents have taught him enough.

“Yes, Eomma.”

*******************************

There’s always a little explosion of hope that happens in his heart whenever Gi shoots him a smile.

“Gi, look at this ladybug! It has seven spots! Seven is—” Namjoon says excitedly.

“—my favourite number!” Gi squeals.

Gi’s wide-eyed wonder reminds Namjoon of himself. Plants, bugs, flowers, birds seem to beg for his touch. Gi can’t keep his hands off from feeling the curve of a leaf, or the silk of a petal. Every bird needs naming, every critter, a close examination.

“Namjoon Ahjussi, what’s that bird called?” Gi asks, pointing to a bird which swooped to a nearby park bench.

“That’s the collared dove, Gi. See the black line around the dove’s neck? It looks just like a–”

“–a collar!” Gi announces triumphantly.

“That’s right, Gi!”

And so on and on it goes. These nature walks are getting quite frequent now. Namjoon goes with you to pick up Gi after school when his schedule allows, always stopping by the park with the swings, always stopping for ants, and butterflies, and birds.

There’s something about Gi that draws Namjoon like a magnet. It’s how Gi is filled with so much goodness, and sees only good in everything and everyone. It’s the way Gi looks at him. Like Namjoon is his Anpanman, so big, and strong, and smart.

His heart swells when he thinks of this.

And as much as Kim Namjoon wants to be good and noble like how Gi believes him to be, the memories of his own childhood haunt him constantly. The cold concrete floor in the winter. The meagre meals. The threadbare coats. Eomma’s well-worn hands that sew and sew and sew even at midnight.

He will do better than his father. Better for his mother. And better for his family he hopes to have one day.

And so, every time a new custom order comes from yet another nameless customer, he tells himself just one more.

*******************************

Gi’s temperature is not coming down.

The doctor had prescribed a generic fever-reducer for Gi to feel a little more comfortable. But like Gi’s personality, the fever is proving to be stubborn.

“Eomma, my throat hurts,” he whimpers.

“I know Gi. Be strong. Drink another sip of soup, sweetheart.” You proffer a spoonful of hot samgyetang you’d just made, blowing it lightly to cool it down. “It’s good for your fever, Gi-gi.”

Suddenly, Gi’s legs begin convulsing, jerking wildly, his flailing arms knock away the spoon with surprising force.

“Gi! Gi!” you cry out, panicking when you see the whites of his eyes. His limbs are thrashing with ferocity, as if clawed by unimaginable pain. “Gi! Look at Eomma!” You’re trying to pull him out of unconsciousness, but it’s no use. His skin deathly pale, only the whites of his eyes are visible.

Quickly, you dial for an ambulance. The operator tells you that the emergency care is full, they’ll try their best to send an ambulance over. But chances are, the seizure is likely to be caused by the fever and it’s not uncommon among young children.

“Just wait it out,” she says. “It should stop in a few minutes.”

You want to scream. Wait it out? Wait it out?

Hanging up, you do as the operator instructs. Turn Gi on his side. Make sure his airway is clear. Loosen any restrictive clothing.

The seizure seems to go on and on. But slowly, his twitching subsides, and Gi seems to regain consciousness as if surfacing from a fevered dream.

“Eomma, I wet my pants,” he sobs.

“That’s okay, Gi. Let’s get you a dry set of pyjamas.”

After getting him comfortable, a quick google search helpfully lets you know that febrile seizures are usually followed by sleepiness. Let the child have a nap but make sure he doesn’t get too sleepy.

Right. Let him sleep but make sure he isn’t too sleepy. What the fuck is this?

Exhausted, you sit beside your sleeping son. You wish you could nap, but what if Gi goes into another seizure while you’re asleep?

There’s work tomorrow at the chicken shop and the preschool is not going to allow Gi to attend if he just had a fever.

You never ask for help. You’ve managed so far, coasting on good luck and sunshine. Gi hasn’t had a really sick episode till now. But exhaustion looms on the edges of your consciousness.

And so with practised ease, your fingertips find their way to his number.

When you tell him what’s happening, he doesn’t hesitate to show up at your door, with food, and a hug, and a promise to stay awake to watch over Gi.

Because Kim Namjoon cannot say no to those three little words.

We need you.

*******************************

“You!” your boss barks, “here again to drop another bill into my hot oil?”

“No, sajangnim. I wouldn’t dare. Just here to get more chicken,” Namjoon bows politely, but he shoots you a wink.

The old man narrows his sharp, shrewd eyes as he assesses the scene before him.

He sees how you lift your lashes to look at the young customer who has been coming daily, hanging around until you’re done for the day.

Then there’s the way your hand lingers in the customer’s hand when you give him the change; how the tall suitor doesn’t even care about the chicken, or the fact that it’s raining wretchedly.

Ah. Lovebirds.

“Be good to her,” he warns Namjoon gruffly. “She’s my best employee.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen a little at being called out. But he surmises this is the closest thing he’ll get to parental approval to court you.

Blushing, he bows again. “Thank you, sajangnim. I will.”

You’re a little embarrassed but very much moved. Who knew that old man would look out for you like that?

“Ah, what the hell, let’s just close early. No one’ll buy from us when it’s raining like that.” He gives you a stern look before he warns, “I still expect you to be back here opening the stall tomorrow!”

“Yes, sajangnim,” you parrot dutifully. You’re just about to start emptying the hot oil when your boss stops you.

“I’ll close this time. Not like I have anything else to do today anyway. Go on, you lovebirds! But remember-–”

“Yes, sajangnim. You want me to open the stall tomorrow.”

“Well, that too. But I was going to say–” he pauses, searching for the right word because truth be told, he does care for you, he just doesn’t know how young people say things anymore "-–use protection.”

Your face heats up with embarrassment. You can’t believe what you are hearing! Namjoon looks embarrassed, suddenly interested in the puddle by his feet.

Under the umbrella, you walk away from the deserted open air market. It’s just two of you against the cold, dark skies. You’re grateful for the warmth of his body next to yours, the heat of his hand on the curve of your waist.

Exposed to the onslaught of rain, Namjoon’s shoulder is getting wet, but he doesn’t give a fuck. To have you so close is electrifying. He marvels at how you fit next to his side so perfectly.

When he was a little boy, his mother had told him the story of how the first woman was created from a bone out of the body of the first man. The bone did not come from the sole of his foot for she was not to be crushed.

No, she was fashioned with a rib from his side because she would be an equal. Someone to fight for. Someone to fight beside.

And here, with you beside him, is the best feeling in the world.

“Namjoon, where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I’m just kind of happy right now, being next to you.” He flashes his dimples at you and you fight every urge to thumb at them.

“My shoes are getting soaked. Let’s get indoors! Art Museum? Gi doesn’t need to be picked up for a couple more hours.” These free hours without Gi and without work seem like such a gift.

“I have a zoom call in about thirty minutes—sorry a client needs me all of a sudden. Shouldn’t be long.” He has to shout a bit now with the rain coming down hard. “Do you want to wait at my place and then we’ll go?”

With the rain pelting across your shoulders, the umbrella is all but useless at this time. Pressing into his side, breasts brushing against the side of his arm, you lean upwards to speak above the roar of the rain. “Sounds good! Last one back is a soggy gimari!”

And you take off—feet flying across puddles, legs leaping over cracks in the sidewalk as if you’ve been set free by the rain to do something silly and childish after being the solo parent all this while.

Namjoon gives himself a second to admire your supple form, hair lifting in the wake of your fluid strides.

You turn around and shoot him a mischievous grin. Catch me.

He takes off after you, surprised at how quick you are, loving the sway of your ass and the rounded curve of your hips. For a block and a half, he chases you, happy to go at half speed just to see you dance through the raindrops, so exuberant as you spread your arms out, like a bird, unafraid of rain.

He catches up, catches you. Without thinking, he pulls you into him by the waist, arms tightening around you. Laughing, you loop your arms around his neck, and with the rain between you, and nobody around you, you lean in and–

You kiss him.

It was meant to be a playful peck. Something fun and frivolous. But the first taste of his lips mingled with the glide of wet skin on wet skin weakens you, melts your resolve to stay strong and untouchable so that no man can let you down again.

You let him in, let him crowd his body into you, let his touch soak into your skin, and dare you say it—let his love into your heart.

You’re so hungry for touch, and he’s so thirsty for your kisses that he leans in this time, urging your lips to part for him, his nose nuzzling yours, silently pleading. Again.

You hear the call of his body to yours and answer by moulding your limbs around him, like the last sailor clinging on to the mast of the ship come hell or high water.

This second kiss—of tongues gently exploring, lips meeting and parting and meeting and parting like dancers who can’t touch enough of each other—this second kiss is hope, and lust, and love poured stronger and fuller into each other than all the rain from the dark heavens.

The second kiss becomes third, becomes fourth and fifth and sixth and you lose count.

All you want is more.

Namjoon’s fingers cup your face to tilt your eyes, nose, mouth to him. He kisses each feature, tasting the silver metal of rain and sweetness of your skin. The feel of your tightening nipples against the wet of your shirt presses into his chest, igniting hot burning heat under his rain-drenched skin.

He wants you, not just your lips. Every inch. Every way. Every time.

The long-forgotten umbrella lays upside down on the ground, quietly collecting the drips and drops that didn’t make it between the lips of lovers.

A loud clap of thunder pulls you apart.

“Your meeting.” You whisper the words with effort, fingers still entwined around his neck, taking the chance to steal a kiss at the side of his jaw then his chin.

“My meeting.” There’s regret in his voice.

“Last one back is still a soggy gimari.” And then you run. Because this time, walking back and not kissing him feels too much like temptation.

Temptation to believe that just maybe, life could be sweet after all.

*******************************

Back in his apartment, Namjoon feels flustered. The kiss in the rain disoriented him and his apartment which is home feels strangely unfamiliar with you here. It’s not like you’ve not been here before. But this time, it feels different. He’s kissed you now—knows the curve of your lips, and the pull of your mouth, heard the little noise you made when he kissed you back.

He tries not to stare at how your clothes cling to every curve and dip of your body, tries not to imagine his hands cupping you into him. Goddamn. Get a grip.

And so, busying himself, he tells you there’s a dryer at the back of the kitchen. That there are towels and some old clothes you can find in the guest room’s closet.

“I better not go and get them for you. Might end up falling all over you…” he laughs, a little ruefully.

“That might not… might not be a bad thing.”

“Yeah?” he asks, remembering how soft you felt beneath him.

“Yeah,” you reply, wishing your voice wasn’t so needy, so desperate.

There’s a moment where you both stare at each other, breaths still, hearts pounding as the memory of what could have been floods back. But your practical instincts kick in and you clear your throat.

“You said something about a meeting?”

Namjoon swallows hard—he’s hungry for another kiss. But his goal. Of making money. Yes. “Right. Meeting.”

Reluctantly, he turns and heads to his study.

There’s the click of the lock on the door and you think vaguely to yourself it’s strange he felt like he needed to lock the door.

No time to dwell on these trivialities—you’re cold and wet. Heading to the bathroom, you strip and enter the shower, longing for the hot water to cool your heated nerves.

You shiver despite the heat, knees weak with the smell of him in the soft glow of the bathroom in black marble. The steam permeates your pores with his cologne—the clean subtle scent of polished wood and whisky and dark leather.

It drowns you. Confuses you.

You’ve said before you wouldn’t let your heart trust again. But Namjoon. Namjoon.

Quickly, you turn the shower off. Any longer and you think you might become delirious. Now in a fresh baggy tee and ridiculously loose boardshorts that are probably Namjoon’s, you settle on the living room couch as you wait for your clothes to dry in the tumble dryer.

But before you know it, exhaustion lures you to fall asleep on the couch with a book on Medieval Art open on your lap.

*******************************

The call from Hitman Bang goes on a little too long.

It’s a little proposition. Audition now for the biggest heist of his life.

The test is a diplomatic passport of a certain Foreign Minister, country of origin to be revealed. All previous nations visited by this minister in the last five years with correct dates must be represented chronologically with corresponding diplomatic stamps. Package due in 12 hours upon receipt of brief. If he accepts.

“Are you in?”

If.

He takes a deep breath, “Of course.”

“Perfect. Expect a courier in one hour.”

One more. One more. One more. How many times has he said this to himself? But he’s sure of it now. He doesn’t want to worry if it’s the cops every time the doorbell rings.

He’ll audition for the team. If he makes it, then this heist would be the last one. The big one. The last one.

Just one more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There’s something about seeing you dressed in one of his old shirts, curled up on the couch fast asleep that makes his heart skip a beat.

Damn the call. He made you wait too long.

He leans down to wake you. He knows you need the rest but he’s sure you’ll be mad if you find out you slept the whole afternoon.

“Hey, time to go. Meeting’s over.” He rounds his fists so he doesn’t cup your face, fights for self-control so he doesn’t thread his fingers through your hair.

When you don’t stir, he finally allows himself to give you a soft pat on your shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Instinctively, you loll your head back a little so you can feel his soft warm hand cupping your face. Namjoon almost whimpers.

He lets his hand linger there a little longer, the courage to deny himself ebbs with every warm breath from you feathering across his palm.

Still deep asleep, all you know is you’re in some sort of delicious dream. You smell Namjoon. Feel him even. He’s so close. “Joon,” you sigh.

The sigh goes straight to his loins. Oh baby.

He clears his throat to say something gentlemanly, something caring. But another sigh escapes your lips.

“Oppa,” you murmur in your sleep.

Shit.

He feels so agonisingly close in your dreams, so close you can touch him, so close you can whisper to him all the little endearments you want.

A shudder of pleasure shoots through Namjoon. You’re so pliant in his hand, so needy.

Forcing himself to remain steadfast, he croaks out again, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

This time you stir. Blinking your eyes confusedly, Namjoon’s face comes into focus. “Namjoon?”

“You fell asleep. I’m sorry my meeting went over. Wanna head to the museum now?”

“I want—” In the hazy limerence of your dream and real life you try to string together a coherent sentence. “I want–” you whisper.

Words fail you.

And so do what you do when Gi cries after scraping his knees and your heart aches so much you just can’t say anything.

You touch.

Reaching up, you cup his face and draw it to yours, eyes imploring him to do what your lips cannot utter. Inch by inch. Closer. Closer.

Kiss me.

He leans in, heart pounding, because this time, this time—there’s no rain between you, no excuse that you’re both caught in a moment, no umbrella around to pretend he needs to be closer.

And when his lips finally connect with yours, you meet his hunger with your own. Because you’re starving. You want all of him, his taste on your lips, his touch on your skin, his tenderness all over you.

And he? He doesn’t know what to think. Just that he wants to be worthy of this kiss, this outpouring of love and vulnerability and hope when you urge his hands under your shirt, when you bring his fingers into the hot wet ache at the apex of your thighs, when you pant over and over in the airy voice I need you, I need you.

Stumbling like desperate lovers down the hall and into his darkened bedroom, you feast on his nakedness and he on yours. There’s licking, and tasting, groans of satisfaction as your lips roam all over to kiss him—shoulders strong enough to carry Gi and the burden of sick nights; that chest which hides a heart so big it welcomes you and the son fathered by another man. Sinewy arms. Thighs that tremble when you kiss him there. And there. And there.

You worship every inch of him, take his cock in your mouth because you want to bring him all the pleasure your body can give, take everything he gives to you because he’s so, so good.

He’s so hard that it almost hurts when the smooth silk of your lips slide up and then lick lazily down. And when you start teasing the tender curve of his balls, he fights to hold back, terrified to come too quickly in your delicious mouth.

He needs to stop you now. “My turn,” he rasps desperately.

He guides you on your back, begs you to open up your legs for him, begs you to let him love you and taste you and be good to you.

Your skin trembles as he puts his tongue on you, muscles and tendons weaken under his fingertips, limbs flailing as he licks at your clit, kisses the secret wetness there. You grow crazy, pull at his hair, moaning louder at each pass of his tongue and his fingers inside you, both working to draw you to the edge.

“Namjoon?” You’re scared, it feels like you’re falling, you’re so close. “Feels too good,” you whimper. “I think I–”

“Feel you clenching so hard. So fucking hard. Gonna cum?”

You nod desperately, barely able to force out a weak sigh. Yeah.

He keeps at it, keeps using gentle pressure, keeps urging you with everything he has. Your hands fist the sheets, jaw slack as you let him labour over your most intimate parts.

Oh god.

Toes curling tight in anticipation, you moan as your orgasm quakes from your core and ripples outward. How is it that this man seems to command your every cell?

Namjoon watches, dumbstruck by the way you cry out his name, mesmerised at the way your beautiful breasts sway in the wake of your high as you fight for your very breath, overwhelmed by all the explosions going on inside your body.

Watching you writhe with pleasure on his bed (his bed!), his hand—still glistening with your arousal—reaches instinctively for his cock, the up and down glide now so much more intense with your juices combined with his own pre-cum.

How long has he imagined this and cummed to this very sight? But you’re here now, and real.

It takes a few seconds for you to realise what he's doing. And it strikes you as profoundly unfair. You want him in your hand, your mouth, your cunt.

“Don’t you want to come inside me?” you ask, puzzled, a little hurt.

Fuck yeah but– “D-do you want me to?”

There’s a bit of the high-school Namjoon you hear in his uncertainty. Like he’s not worthy.

You rise on your knees to face him. Slowly, you reach down and wrap your hand around his, fingers intertwining over his cock, gliding over the hard, throbbing flesh. Together.

“Isn’t this so much better?” you whisper.

With your free hand, you guide his other hand over the tightened peak of one breast and then another breast. “How can you doubt,” you breathe heavily, “how can you doubt when this is what you do to me?” He sucks in a breath, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, almost stir-crazy when you let him palm your tits.

“And this,” you pant, as you guide his hand to your centre where you’re so wet for him, so wet from him, “T–this is all you.”

You nuzzle the side of his cheek, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Make love to me. Kim Namjoon. Make love. To me.”

Every resolve melts now. He comes to you, eyes dark with desire.

On his bed, he covers you with soft, fleeting touches–his fingerprints become a signature over your body, claiming you; each kiss a declaration—mine he says. Mine. You’re mine.

You beg to feel more of him.

It’s not enough that his cock slides along your wet folds as he nips along the column of your neck. It’s not enough that his thighs are straddling yours, the coarse smattering of hair on his thighs rubbing and igniting your skin whenever he rocks and rocks against you.

It’s not enough.

You make a desperate sound, pathetic in how you plead for him. Please, Joon-ah, don’t make me wait.

He finally fucks slowly and deeply into you, goaded by your little gasps of pleasured pain as you take him inch by inch, his mouth murmuring in your ear that the stretch will feel better soon, that he’ll make sure of it, that you’re taking him so well. That’s it. That’s my girl. Take my cock. Take it.

And it’s true. He’s right. It feels good when he’s completely inside you, anchored. Full.

Move Joon. You urge him. Wanna feel you.

The curve of his cock nudges against your g-spot, thick and throbbing as he thrusts into you, each stroke deep and sure. He sighs with pleasure when you whimper choa, choa. So good, Namjoon.

You’re squeezing him so tight, sheathing him. He feels so safe inside you like this, accepted completely for who he is. He makes a keening noise against your neck, the sensation of thrusting into your warmth, locked by your legs, welcomed in your arms proves too overwhelming. He’s in heaven. You’re heaven. Oh shit. Condom. “Are we safe?” He draws out half-way, hovering over you, eyes drifting to his hard cock, slicked all over with the cream of your arousal and his. Shit. How much of that is yours and how much is his?

“IUD,” you reply in the haze of climbing your own peak. “It’s safe. Please oppa.”

“Fuck. Here we go,” he says, not really sure what he means. His brain is all fuzzy—his cock is back inside the velvet clench of your slick walls. All he knows is he could remain there forever. He mouths at your breast, rolling the peak in his mouth, enjoying the way your voice gets airy and breathy before he pulls out a little and then surges back in.

Each plunge of his cock is taking you closer and closer to a heady rush. Without thinking, your hand goes to your clit, walls spasming at every tight circling of your fingers right there.

Namjoon feels the tell-tale tightening of your sweet pussy around his cock. “Don’t come yet,” he slurs with effort as he rolls his hips again and again into you, head thrown back. “Wait for me. Wait.”

You’re so close. Too close. Desperately, you stutter, “C-catch me.”

So he races you for the second time today, forgetting every inhibition, forgoing every vow to be self-controlled around you as he chases you and chases his climax, slamming his hips into yours over and over, breath broken as he can’t get enough of the sweet heat between your thighs.

He feels your release a split second before his own.

“Fuck. Fuck. Ah—ah, cumming,” he groans into your neck, hips bucking on their own accord.

You clutch him closer, urging him deeper inside you. You’re calling his name as you cum, he’s moaning yours, both of you holding onto each other, holding fast.

As warmth blooms into your cunt, your eyes roll back at how well he fills you. You don’t want him to slip out. You feel so full—full of his cum, full of his cock, full of love for this man. You trail your fingertips all over his big warm body on top of you, his heart beating next to yours, his mouth panting hard and hot in rapid breaths in the slope of your shoulder.

Blissed out at the feel of sweat-soaked skin, bodies still fever-hot with love and lust, it’s a while before the pounding of your hearts slow, and your breathing evens out. Tenderly, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Gonna clean you up. All you just have to do is lie there. Don’t move. Let me take care of you.”

He disappears into the en-suite bathroom and then comes back with a washcloth, comfortingly warm and soft. Open up.

You let him clean you from the stickiness of sex, both of you giggling. There’s so much cum. He goes back to rinse off the cloth and to get a towel to lay over the damp sheets.

A wave of satisfaction pins you into his bed, tempting you to curl up like a lazy cat for the rest of the afternoon. Hazily, you wonder if it’s the doorbell you hear. Wait. It is the doorbell. It rings and rings. The sound of running water in the bathroom tells you that Namjoon is preoccupied.

Without thinking, you grab Namjoon’s robe you see lying on the armchair by the bed. Who could it be? A client of his? Through the peephole, you see it looks like some sort of a delivery person, a package in his hands.

“Kim Namjoon?” the delivery man asks.

“He’s in the bathroom. Can you leave it at the door?’’ you call out.

“No can do. I need a signature.”

Apologetically, you open the door, stick out your hand to retrieve the package. You’re trying to ignore the delivery guy’s leering gaze so you quickly grab the pen he proffers and sign it with a simple Kim before slamming the door shut.

Outside the warmth of the bed, the chill hurries you back into the bedroom, package long forgotten by the side-table in the foyer. You’re glad to slip between the sheets that still retain the warmth of your love-making.

It’s not long before he climbs back into bed with you to put a soft dry towel over the embarrassingly wet spot on the sheets. You both sigh with pleasure as you cuddle, facing each other.

“What are you thinking about?” Namjoon asks, his low baritone thrilling you to your toes. Why does his voice sound deeper and huskier after sex?

“Mmm… nothing.”

“Must be something to make you smile like that.” Namjoon playfully and lightly pinches your cheek.

“It’s really silly. But I had the beginnings of a crush on you since the bus ride on that field trip,” you confess.

“Well. I had the biggest crush on you.”

You look incredulous. “I don’t believe it!”

“I’m being honest!” Namjoon protests.

You giggle. “My dad told me an honest man is better than a rich man.”

“I’m not rich.” He looks away. “Hope to be. One day.”

Drawing his face towards you, you touch his cheek comfortingly. “All I need, Joon-ah, is an honest man. My father wasn’t one.”

Namjoon holds you tighter then, gathering you into his big, warm body. Resting his chin over your head, his heart rate gradually slows. It’s safer to hold you like this—he wouldn’t have to lie to your face.

“Well.” He pauses, fighting against the grip of guilt over his words, “Well. I honestly love you.”

Shyly, you confess, “I love you too.” Sliding a leg between his and wrapping another leg over him, you sigh with pleasure as your fingers gently dance across the muscled expanse of his back. Made for each other.

Snuggling into him, you suddenly remember something. “Joon? A package arrived for you just now,” you say, too much in love to notice the slight stiffening in his arms around you. “While you were in the bathroom.”

Oh shit.

He’d forgotten about that damn phone call with Bang. That promise to audition for the biggest job of his life. The last one.

“Where’s the package?” he asks, voice tight.

“Side-table, in the foyer. Hey,” you say mischievously, “We have time for another round before we pick up Gi. What say you?”

“Sure,” Namjoon swallows hard. “Just one more.”

As your kisses start to get heated again, and the bed begins rocking again, you forget all about the advice from your boss to use protection.

Too bad he just didn’t have the right words to say what he actually meant.

He was not worried that Namjoon would leave you with a round belly.

He was worried Namjoon would leave you with a broken heart.

*******************************

It’s been a few months of three lives entwining together. Strand by strand, the schedule you’ve woven so tightly to fit you and Gi loosen in warp and weft to welcome Namjoon.

It’s amazing how seamlessly he fits into your lives, how easily Gi takes to him, and he to Gi. You and Namjoon fit each other perfectly too—you’ve found that out over many nights, in many, many ways.

Today, Namjoon has promised to take you guys out to dinner but a business call suddenly intrudes on the plan. He’s still in his home office, and the call has since dragged on for a bit.

There have been many of these calls lately, calls that come suddenly when you’re at dinner together, calls that make his jaw clench and his eyes to grow dark. Calls that go on and on and make you worry. Your father had those calls before and you wonder—-nah. He’s a broker for art. Rich people are going to demand his time whenever they want, for whatever they want.

Gi’s complaining about being hungry though, so you tell him to wait a bit while you wash some strawberries in Namjoon’s kitchen.

Strawberries washed, you call for Gi to come and eat them.

But you’re met with silence.

Lately, hide-and-seek has become a favourite of Gi’s. It scares you to death sometimes when you can’t even find him in your tiny apartment, much less in Namjoons’s spacious condo. Gi can contort his body into every corner, adjust his limbs to lie flat under the covers, or freeze straight as a board behind a door.

He must be here somewhere in Namjoon’s place. Gi has been over often enough to know every nook and cranny.

“Gi, Gi! Where are you? Eomma is looking for you! Ready or not, here I come!”

You check the living room, behind the curtains. The guest room? Not there. Must be the bathroom then, surely, hiding in the bathtub. Not there.

“Gi! Time to stop playing! Strawberries!” You try to keep the panic out of your voice, but the worry that something has happened unnerves you.

You search and you search, opening the closets in the guest room, resorting to the ridiculous of even pulling out drawers in case he somehow could squeeze himself that flat.

“What are you doing?”

Namjoon’s voice startles you. You freeze, hands stilled in mid-air, the drawer filled with important-looking papers still open.

“Gi. He’s missing. I searched everywhere.” Your voice is tight, anxious.

“And you think he’s in the drawer?”

“I-I don’t know.” Why do you sound so pathetic? Get a grip. “I’m worried sick Joon. I’m not thinking. If opening a drawer while I look for my son pisses you off, I—”

“I’m not pissed,” he says quietly, hating himself for suspecting you of snooping around. “I just need to know what’s happening. How long has he been missing?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes? He was hungry and tired of waiting, so I said I’ll wash some strawberries that he can eat before going out for dinner. The next thing I knew–”

Namjoon hurries to the foyer. Oh god. “The door's open.”

“No…” You’re unsteady on your feet. Gi!

“Stay here in case he comes back. Don’t call the cops. I’m going to look for him.”

“What if—” you choke on the sour taste of fear.

“No,” he says, voice firm. “We’re not going to think about that now.”

Namjoon runs out the door, heart pounding, his mind racing at all the possibilities where Gi might be. Was there an unsatisfied client looking for revenge? Can’t be. He usually deals through his handler, no direct clients for that business. Well, except for Hitman Bang.

Could Gi be looking for bugs at the park?

The park looks empty, dotted only with some elderly folk already done with dinner, strolling along the quiet paths. Namjoon checks behind every bush, glances up at every tree, always calling out Gi! Gi!

Maybe he’s at the playground nearby?

Run. Faster.

In the dusk of twilight, little shadows flit tiredly from swing to slide at the playground, the remaining handful of children running on their last legs of energy before dinner. No Gi in sight.

Think.

Anpanman.

Shit, he hopes to god Gi isn’t on top of some roof somewhere.

He was hungry and tired of waiting…

The chicken stall!

Running along the familiar route, Namjoon scolds himself for taking too long on the call with Bang. Bang had liked the passport—it was, in his words, authentic as fuck. The forged passport cleared with flying colours despite coming under heavy scrutiny by diplomatic handlers at Tehran, Addis Ababa, and Pyongyang.

We need you. You in?

And of course Namjoon said yes. Just one more. The big one. The last one. For Gi and for you—so that there will never be a cause for worry about money again. He’ll retire. Find a quiet place, spend his days painting sunsets, painting Gi playing on the beach. Painting you.

Your phone call comes just as he rounds the corner to the street market. “Namjoon! Sajangnim has him! Gi went to get chicken!”

“Yep, had the same thought. I’m almost there. I’ll bring him home.”

Home.

It’s really home now. With you there, waiting for him and Gi.

Namjoon sprints to the chicken stall, relief ushering him step after step. From afar, he spies the Gi’s little frame, holding a drumstick, eating contentedly.

The old boss looks up, consternation lining his face as he pulls Namjoon aside. “Took you long enough. What the hell were you doing? Letting a four-year-old walk through the streets, hungry? For God’s sake, do the right thing! Be a good father!”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t tell me you’re not his father,” the sajangnim says evenly. “Tell the little boy. He ran over and announced to me he thinks he has an appa now. I don’t want him to come to me hungry like that ever again because you lovebirds forgot to feed him!”

Namjoon swallows hard. “Yes, sajangnim.”

“Goddamn. Just get the hell out of here! I have a business to run and not be giving free drumsticks to lost little boys!”

Namjoon bows apologetically multiple times, pissed with himself. If only he didn’t take that call from Bang. Gi is strangely silent, beginning to have an inkling that he messed up big time.

In a quiet corner by the side of the shop, Namjoon kneels on the ground, the rough asphalt scraping against his skin. Eye to eye with Gi, Namjoon takes a deep breath, mind racing to think what his own father would say in such a situation.

“Gi, did you tell sajangnim I was your appa? Do you want me to be?”

Gi nods slowly. Then shakes his head. Then nods again.

Namjoon tries a different tactic. “Do you want to be an appa when you grow up?”

Gi nods.

“Good appas don’t leave. We don’t run away.” Making sure he still has Gi’s gaze, he continues, “If you want to be a good appa some day, that means you don’t run away either. Do you understand that?”

“Even when I’m hungry?” Gi asks, a little tearful.

“Even when you’re hungry. And about that—I’m sorry I kept you waiting. But running away is still wrong. Because it makes Eomma scared. And—”

“Were you scared too?” he asks softly.

Namjoon stops. Was he scared?

The truth is right there, staring in his face. Bringing his hand up to cup Gi’s little cheek, he swallows hard before answering, “Yes Gi. I was scared. Very scared.”

He doesn’t know why his arms are now wide open. Or why he welcomes the weight of the little body pressed into him in a hug, driving his knees further into the asphalt. Or why his heart soars as those little hands curl around his neck.

“Let’s go home, buddy,” Namjoon says, choking back the tumult of emotions in his throat. He hopes he made his father proud and sends a prayer to the wind. Thanks, Appa, for staying as long as you could.

With new resolve, he puts Gi on his shoulders and seats him there, the movement fluid and automatic. It’s the only way Gi travels now with him. Gi squeals with delight, flinging his arms out with abandon, pretending he’s Anpanman, flying in the sky. He’s safe now. On Namjoon’s shoulders, nothing can hurt him anymore.

They are about half-way home when they see you, running towards them. “Be good now,” he warns as he slips Gi down from his shoulders. “Tell Eomma you’re sorry for running away without permission.”

Gi nods solemnly before dashing to you with a cry of Eomma on his lips.

“Gi. Gi! Are you okay?” Your hands go to his face, his shoulders, then his arms and sides, as if you can’t believe he’s still in one piece. Threading your fingers through his silky fine hair, you wonder if mothers, like God, have the power to know if a hair is missing from a child’s head.

“I’m sorry, Eomma, for running out without per-permission,” says Gi. He looks so remorseful—eyes forlorn and cheeks pale—that you’re unable to scold him.

“I was so scared Gi. Eomma was so, so scared.” You draw him into a hug. “But I forgive you. Just don’t do that again, okay?”

“I won’t, Eomma,” he sobs into your embrace. “I won’t because I want to be a good appa when I grow up. And good appas don’t leave. They don’t run away.”

You’re stunned. It feels like a slap in the face. “What did you say?”

Gi looks at Namjoon helplessly. I thought I said the right thing?

Namjoon clears his throat. “He said, uh, good appas don’t run away.”

How many nights have you worried about Gi—that he will turn out like his father. Or your father. Men who leave at the first sign of trouble. Men who run away from doing the right thing.

How many nights have you thought that you were somehow at fault for causing the appas in your life to disappear, one after another. That maybe there was something wrong with you—some defect that repelled them from staying.

But with sudden clarity, you know now. It’s not your fault. And Gi’s not going to be like them.

A flood of tears follows your stuttered cry. As you cradle his face in your hands, you utter over and over again That’s right, Gi. That’s right. You’re my good Gi.

The three of you stand there in an embrace, arms twined around each other, tears falling freely.

You don’t know how long you stand there, like a cord of three strands, woven together by tears and love. But it’s Gi who stops crying first. “Can we eat now? I’m hungry.”

Namjoon laughs and you laugh too, eyes crinkled up with joy through the veil of emotion. And for the second time that night, he finds himself saying let’s go home

“Home!” Gi shouts with glee.

Tilting your face up at Namjoon, you smile. “Home.”

His heart does a somersault right there and then. Now he knows you feel the same way too.

At home, after bowls of instant ramen, after your bellies are full and Gi is looking sleepy and content, you wonder if this is what peace feels like. Your son, next to you, safe and sound. Your lover, beside you, looking dark and dangerous with that devastating smile of his.

This little love nest feels so complete and perfect that you forget to ask Namjoon about the strange thing he’d said when Gi went missing.

The strange thing which had puzzled you earlier.

Don’t call the cops.

*******************************

“Joon-ah please, I can’t take this,” you whimper, your face buried in the pillows, voice muffled. You wriggle your ass closer to him, a hand snaking backwards to draw him into you, legs trembling already with need and want.

“You’re so sexy,” Namjoon breathes into your skin, lips ghosting the delicate line of your spine, fingers tracing the delicate bones there that have withstood the trials of life with strength and dignity.

He lets both hands trail down the perfect curves of your ass, down the back of your legs and sweeps his fingers up on the inside of your thighs, loving how they lead his fingers to come closer, closer till they are trapped at the apex, a light sheen of your arousal already making a mess there.

Gathering you up to rest your soft ass flush against his hard cock, your neck arched, head propped on the slope of his shoulder, he brings his hands to your front to fondle the soft weight of your breasts, groaning as the peaks of your nipples tighten at his touch. He thumbs at them, shuddering at your low whimpers of oppa.

“How is it you’re so soft and strong at the same time?” he asks. “So soft here,” he says, lightly playing with your nipples, then teasing the twin curves, lush and full in his hands, “yet so strong here?” he asks, nipping at your shoulders.

“Me, strong?”

“Yeah. These shoulders. They hold up the whole world for Gi,” he says, dropping kisses across your shoulders, hot mouth licking up the sides of your neck along the way. “These arms, always carrying him when he’s tired,” he murmurs into your ear as he strokes the sides of your arms tenderly. “Yang Jihoon is a stupid ass.”

“Please Joon-ah. I’d rather talk about your perfect ass.” You shudder with pleasure as his hands drift down your front, over your navel and over your clit. Arching into his fingers, you let out a needy cry. “Oppa.”

“Shh… oppa’s here,” Namjoon soothes by your ear, sliding his cock right by your cunt, revelling in the arousal smeared between your thighs. So wet. And not even inside you yet.

Back and forth, Namjoon rubs his cock between your thighs, enjoying the heat, the glide, the way you try to rock forward so that your clit can catch the friction of his flesh on yours.

Grasping his hard shaft, you massage the head of his cock, drawing sharp gasps from him as pre-cum leaks out of the sensitive slit, staining your fingers. You dare him to come apart, fingers squeezing around him as he thrusts repeatedly inside the tight hold of your thighs.

God, he’s close.

Panting hard, Namjoon bends you down so that you can rest again on your arms, your ass up, ripe and tempting; the flare of your hips, perfect for his hands to grasp and pull into his own.

He lines himself up with your cunt, cock twitching in anticipation for your sweet heat. No more waiting. “Can you take me in one stroke, baby?”

“You know I can.”

“One stroke like this?” he asks, snapping his hips desperately into you, groaning with relief once his entire cock is sheathed inside your slick, tight warmth.

“Just like that,” you whine. “Like that,” moaning as he pulls out and slams back into you, the angle sharper and harder. Better.

He pumps into you, ramming into your sweet cunt, eyes on the mirrored wall, watching your breasts sway to the rhythm of his thrusts. Love and longing from his loins draw him into you again. Again.

You’re trembling, fingers fisting the sheets, blood feverish, skin afire as he pounds into you. You want to come, want him to come. Weakly, with your last coherent breath, you turn back to look at him. “Oppa.”

Namjoon remembers a word from childhood, a conversation from long, long ago. “Durumi,” he exhales. “My durumi.”

He fucks long and hard into you, cumming inside your walls, his mouth panting desperately against your neck as you clench around him. Namjoon almost blacks out from the sweetness of your warm cunt milking his hard cock.

But from the edges of his consciousness, he hears you crying out for him; using his last ounce of strength, he curls his fingers around yours as you climb your own peak, wobbly knees finally giving out as you sink face-down into the sheets.

Oh my god.

You must have died.

Namjoon’s weight on you feels like heaven. He’s still buried inside you, and you’re grateful to be alive to experience his lovemaking.

“You’re a god, Namjoon,” you sigh, as you turn to face him, not caring his cum and yours have slipped out onto the sheets.

“Just a man,” he smiles, sheepish.

“And I’m your durumi. Gah, that was so hot.”

“I’m glad you found it hot,” he laughs. “My mom told me stories about the durumi all the time as a kid. I loved drawing them,” he says with a hand caressing your face, fingertips tracing the outline of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the slope of your shoulder. One day, he will paint you—the glow that’s dusting your cheeks, the quiet contentment in your eyes. One day.

Scooting closer into him, you bury your nose right in his sternum, tasting the salt-sweat of skin there with little playful licks of your tongue. You’re a little embarrassed by what you want to say, so you hope his muscled pecs would muffle your little confession. “I love you. I want to be your durumi, every day.”

“Just the day? What about nights?” he asks with feigned uncertainty, kissing your forehead.

“Oppa.”

“I know, I know. I love you, too.”

He wonders if now is a good time to propose. No, not yet. He’ll do it after the last when he’s completely unshackled from that business by then.

The ring, in his nightstand drawer, will just have to wait a little longer.

“I’ll be gone for a business trip next month,” he starts off. “Handling some expensive art for a big client. Do you want my mom to help with Gi?”

“No, it’s okay. Gi and I have managed on our own before. Don’t wanna bother her. Where are you going?”

“Europe. The usual. London. Paris. Amsterdam. Just for a couple of weeks.”

“Will you miss me?” you pout.

“Every day.” And every night. Oh baby. You don’t know half of it.

“Promise you’ll come back, Kim Namjoon.” You’re suddenly afraid.

“I’m not even going yet!”

“Promise?” you insist.

“I, Kim Namjoon, promise to come back.” He keeps his tone light, fun, carefree even, but the truth that he might not make it back gnaws at him. So he tries to change the subject, and asks you what you’d like to do together when he’s back.

“Maybe go to the birdwatching tour in Cheorwon? Gi would love it for his birthday. You’d love it too.“

“Cheorwon it is.”

Promise secured, you wrap yourself around him, legs criss-crossing, arms entwined. It’s going to be okay, you tell yourself. He’ll come back soon.

Sighing with pleasure, you drift off to sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It’s the cold bed which wakes you. Where’s Namjoon?

Perhaps Gi woke him. That must be it.

You wait a while for him to return. But minutes tick by and the bed feels colder. Lonelier.

Softly, you pad down the hallway to look into Gi’s room. He’s there sleeping soundly by himself. That’s strange, where’s Namjoon?

You see light coming from the opposite end of the hallway—he must be in his private study. The door’s open, allowing the dim light from the room to fall gently on the hardwood floor.

He works so damn hard. You do too, but when work at the chicken stall is over, it’s over. For him, it seems like it’s a never-ending cycle of business calls. Even at three in the morning.

Perhaps it’s a good time to take out the little silk number you’ve stashed in your bag. A splurge, from your own savings. The sheer black chantilly lace might lure him back to bed with you—-and to a reprieve from all the prep he needs to do for this big work trip coming up.

Softly, your feet pad back to the bedroom, fighting to tame the heady rush of anticipation. You want to be quiet. Very quiet. Once back in the bedroom, you take off his oversized tee you always wear to bed and pull out the wisp of lace from the fine tissue paper from the corner of your overnight bag.

The soft airy fabric hugs your body and cleaves to your breasts, the sheer panel of lace painting an intricate floral pattern in a V down your chest. It hugs your waist, flaring at your hips.

After brushing your hair a bit to give it some gloss and volume and adjusting the fragile hand-tied bow at the back which holds everything together, you steal a look in the mirror.

You’re a completely different person. Seductive. Alluring. Powerful.

A dark red lipstick would finish the look.

Should you put on a bathrobe and then undress in front of him? Or is it better to just lean sexily at the doorway in just the lingerie, neck arched, thigh exposed with heel against the wall, heart pounding for the moment he’ll notice you?

You go for number two. It will be a surprise. Halfway down the hall and you’re wondering what on earth made you think to go for number two?

What if—he laughs? It’s the first time he’ll see you on something so—explicit.

You press on, convinced that Namjoon needs this break. Be brave now, old girl.

Just two more steps and you will put yourself on display for him. Body tingling with excitement, you inch closer and closer, quiet as a mouse.

“Bang, I have all the passports ready for the team. The fakes will also be waiting for us at Addis Ababa—“

What?

“—I’ve checked them personally myself. The authentication is at 99.99%. Virtually undetectable.”

There’s a short pause before he continues.

“Sir, this is my best guarantee. I’m just being honest with you. There’s no 100% in this business. You chose me because I’m the best. Don’t forget, my life is on the line too. I want to make it back.”

No.

A short, cynical laugh and then Namjoon says, “There’s no just one more after this job. I’m retiring after this. You can find someone else to do the dirty for you. I’m getting out of the game—”

Oh my god.

“—I’m sorry, but it’s final. My days as a forger are over after this. I don’t want to keep looking behind my back for the rest of my life for footsteps in the dark. Yes. Yes. See you next month. Tehran.”

You’ve heard enough.

Quietly, you creep back to the bedroom, and undress quickly. Stupid. Stupid! STUPID! Angry with yourself, you wipe off as much lipstick with a tissue while you ball up the lingerie and chuck it in a corner.

Rearranging yourself back onto the bed, you angle your face away from his side of the bed and try to even out your breathing.

He comes in soon enough, bed creaking under his weight. You feel a kiss on the top of your head.

A warm arm snakes over your waist.

A sigh.

And then, a quiet murmur, “Durumi.”

Biting down your lip, you choke back the bitter bile of betrayal. You will yourself to remain soft and pliant in his arms, disguising your pounding heart with slow quiet breaths.

Pretend.

As Kim Namjoon drifts off to sleep, the master forger has no idea about the genuine tears quietly sliding down your face in your feigned slumber.

You cry because even a devoted durumi knows that when the seasons change, it’s time to take flight.

*******************************

Kim Namjoon wonders if he has been scammed. The irony is not lost on him.

He went to your apartment and it’s bare. Your clothes. Gi’s clothes. Gi’s favourite stuffed Anpanman. All gone. Sajangnim himself is gone. The fried chicken food cart has been replaced by one selling manduk. Namjoon even waited outside the preschool for you, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of you and Gi.

But there is no sign of you.

Of course, he’d also gone through all of his drawers, checked his bank accounts, made sure the 2.5 carat beauty he got custom-made for you is still there. Everything is accounted for.

As far as Namjoon is concerned, there was no reason for your departure. He’d noticed you looked a little quiet that morning before you had vanished. But he attributed your sadness to the fact that he was leaving soon for his business trip.

You’d mentioned that you needed to run some errands with Gi after school and you’ll grab dinner with Gi on the way back to his place.

When you didn’t come back that night, Namjoon was worried sick when he couldn’t reach your cell phone.

He has a contact who’s been searching for you. Even that has turned up nothing.

But a day before he has to fly for the biggest job of his life, the call comes from Min Yoongi. You’re in Daegu.

Namjoon is not sure how he gets to Daegu in under three hours. A romantic might say he flew there on the wings of love. But Namjoon knows better. He speeds there because the hound of fear chases him. It’s the fear of losing you.

In Daegu, he finds the dilapidated building ignored by the wave of gentrification which has swept through this district. Up the stairs littered with empty beer cans and cardboard and the smell of piss. This place is even worse than your little flat in Seoul. He shudders just thinking how dangerous it is for you and Gi to come home every day.

In front of your door, Namjoon checks and double checks the address Min passed to him. It’s the right place. He knocks.

“Sajangnim! You’re back ear–” you say, flinging open the door.

“Hey.”

You’re stunned. After three weeks of hiding, you’ve felt pretty sure Namjoon would no longer be able to find you.

“How did you–” you ask.

“Why did you–” he questions.

“Sajangnim asked for help. He wanted to bring his business here. Daegu’s cheaper than Seoul.” You give a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “I’m here to help him.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he says quietly. “Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” you retort back. “Where are you going tomorrow, huh?”

“Tehran.”

“For what?”

“It’s better that I don’t tell you.” He takes a deep breath, “But it’s the last one. I’m done. I’m done after this.”

“And then what? I heard everything the night that Gi got lost. I wore fucking lingerie to bring you back to bed, the fool that I was. We’ll have a few good years and then one day the cops come and you go to jail for the next how many years? Where does that leave me?” You feel a sob rising. “How can I ever trust you again?”

Kim Namjoon has nothing to say.

“Gi is waking up from his nap soon. I don’t want him to see you.” Choking back tears, you plead with him, “Please, go. Spare him the heartbreak of watching you leave.”

Namjoon hesitates. He wants to see Gi one more time. Ruffle the boy’s hair. Fly him on his shoulders. Just once more. But his time is up. “I’m so, so, sorry,” he says quietly. “So sorry.”

“Goodbye, Namjoon.”

You close the door, hoping it will somehow stop the wave of hurt and anger from overwhelming you. But it doesn’t. Wracked with tears, you slide down onto the floor, sobbing with your face between your knees.

Inside the cramped little flat, Gi comes out of the tiny bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Eomma? Who was here? I heard the door–Eomma! Why are you crying?”

“It was nobody,” you say, brushing away your tears quickly. “It was nobody at all. Eomma just misses Seoul. That’s all. Sometimes, people cry when they miss something.”

“I miss Namjoon App–” he falters. “Namjoon Ahjussi.”

Your heart breaks at his little confession. “Oh Gi.” You draw him into your embrace, your back still against the door. “Missing someone is just our heart telling us this person was important to us. Every time you miss Namjoon Ahjussi you can just come and tell Eomma alright? We’ll hug each other until you feel better.”

“Eomma? Do you miss Namjoon App–Ahjussi?”

All the time.

“Not really, buddy.” You take a deep breath, hoping Gi will not see through your lie. “Let’s go for a walk and see if we can find sajangnim and help him carry back the groceries, okay?”

From the other side of the door, Namjoon moves swiftly away, tears streaming down his face.

It’s time to do the right thing.

*******************************

The three biggest Korean news outlets, the Chosun Ilbo, the Dong-A Ilbo, and the JoongAng Ilbo, have seen their circulation rocket by 15 percent over the course of a month. Traffic on their websites have also doubled.

Kim Namjoon’s handsome face, his scandalous story of forgery, the mystery as to why he turned himself in have gripped the nation.

To fuel readership, the newspapers race against each other to piece a narrative of the suave forger. Suddenly, anyone who knew the Kim Namjoon is a person of interest for the gossip-hungry public. There’s an interview with his fifth-grade classmate. His art teacher from kindergarten. Even the lady who owns the jjajangmyeon stall which he used to frequent also got a feature on page eleven.

But it’s the interview with the mother and the speculated girlfriend that the big three newspapers are dying to scoop.

Mrs Kim had insisted on staying by his side through it all, but Namjoon put his foot down as the eldest and only son. “Eomma, you must go. The media will tear you apart,” he warned firmly. Pepared by Namjoon in advance, she went away to stay with a trusted friend in Shincheorwon with an ache in her heart that even the ache in her knees cannot compare to.

Nightly, she batters her knees in knelt prayer for the soul of her son. She prays that her errant son would come to know her good Lord. That the prodigal would repent. Make restitution. Learn contentment with food and raiment. Flee from the love of money which is the root of all evil. That the might of man’s justice would be tempered with the mercy of God.

She fasts and prays. She prays and fasts.

And you? You’re glad you’ve left Seoul and its media circus. But the truth is–-a part of your soul lingers in the capital. You wonder how Namjoon is holding up. If he has enough to pay for his legal fees. If he’s eating.

Try as you might to ignore the daily stories about him that flood Twitter, the newsprint that litter the streets of the outdoor food market in Daegu are full of updates on him.

Along with headlines that scream FRAUD, FORGERY, FAKES! are other stories about how he helped the cleaning lady in his building who needed help with her son's college tuition, or accompanied a friend in the middle of the night to a rehab facility, quietly paying the bill for his sobriety treatment.

The nation, captivated by the story of poor-local-boy-turned-forger-with-a-heart-of-gold–turned-repentant-criminal, is debating about his sentencing. (It reads almost like fanfiction!) Everyone and their mother has an opinion regarding the amount of time he would have to spend in jail.

You’re handing over fried chicken thighs over to a gossipy regular customer when the question barrels towards you without warning.

“So how long do you think he’s gonna serve time for?” she asks cattily. “My husband says ten years. Minimum.”

“Who?” you ask, trying to avoid thinking about this. About him.

“The Kim fella. The one with the dimples. Kim Namjoon! You know, that one.”

You steel yourself to give a casual nod, plaster a clueless smile on your face. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I haven’t really been following.”

“If I were the judge, I would say five years. Fifty percent discount for those dimples of his!” she crows, laughing at how witty she is.

Your heart sinks.

“Sentencing’s tomorrow! I made a bet with my husband! We’ll see who wins! If I’m closer to the actual sentence, we will go to Busan to see my parents for chuseok! If he wins—”

Her words stir something deep within. You’re not even listening to her anymore. Mind racing, you figure out a quick plan on how to tell sajangnim to give you a day off tomorrow.

It’s decided.

You will have to go to Seoul.

By hook or by crook.

*******************************

The Seoul Central District Court, with its soaring towers and imposing pillars, is made to look like the unflinching, unbending rule of justice. Every person tried in court, rich or poor, is equal in the eyes of the law.

The pair of tired eyes examining the brief regarding one Kim Namjoon in this case belongs to Judge Lee Dong-woo, 67. His fingers tremble as he reads the brief from Lead Prosecutor Gwan.

The Supreme Prosecutors’ Office has asked for a lenient sentence, in view that Namjoon has turned himself in and fully cooperated with the special prosecutors. Their recommendation for sentencing is five years, with the option of early release upon good conduct after three.

As the trembling in his hands worsen, Judge Lee forces himself to put down the brief. This case should have been straightforward as all cases of admission of guilt usually go.

Happily, a complication has arisen.

The complication happens to be sitting beside the brief—a beautifully packaged tea-set wrapped in a ribbon of yellow silk. Gingerly, he takes out the gift, courtesy from someone named Bang whatever. He’s not interested to know the full name. What’s of interest is the pure Colombian coke hidden inside.

Ah.

Tremors subsiding, Judge Yang feels the tightened muscles in his body gradually relax as the inhaled drug takes effect and brings a startling clarity of what he must do.

With a contented sigh, the judge rests his eyes before his final court session for the day.

It’s going to be easy.

Everything becomes easier after a hit.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Courtroom 21 is packed.

You are lucky enough to squeeze into a back row by the corner. From here, you catch a glimpse of the elderly Mrs Kim seated right behind Namjoon. Now and then, he turns to her, gives her a reassuring smile or a nod.

Your heart breaks for this slight woman dressed simply in muted grey. Even as she sits alone, she’s beautiful and dignified. You want so much to go up to her and hold her hand, thank her for all those times she has helped watch Gi so you and Namjoon had a couple of hours to go on a date. You wish you could sit next to her, show her photos of Gi and apologise for leaving abruptly without a word of goodbye.

But going up to her would mean seeing Namjoon, and you’re not sure what to say to him.

Would you start by saying Gi misses him and hugs his toy Anpanman to sleep, crying for Namjoon-Appa-no-it’s-Namjoon-Ahjussi?

Would you tell him you tried lifting Gi onto your shoulders just like how he lets Gi sit on his shoulders—but that you stumbled only after a few steps?

Would you mention that you dream of his arms wrapped around you, his lips by your ear murmuring welcome home?

Where do you start?

When would you ever end?

The court proceedings go by in a blur as memories of your time with Namjoon flood you. The kiss in the rain. The night he found Gi. The hours and hours spent in his bed, learning every inch of him.

It is only when the gasps echo throughout that you realise you just missed the sentencing.

“How many years?” you ask the lady next to you above the din.

“Twenty-five!”

You see Namjoon turn around to give his mother a hug as camera flashes blind the courtroom. He’s crying, saying he’s so sorry, bowing and bowing and bowing to her as he’s being led away.

There are reporters now surrounding her, vulgar in the way they demand a soundbite from her. You want to go to her and slap them away like flies but that would mean making yourself vulnerable. And you can’t let that happen ever again.

You turn away from the spectacle and push your way out the door, heart heavy, cheeks wet with grief.

Twenty-five years.

A quarter of a century.

Gi would be almost thirty by then.

It’s a long, long time.

You can’t even imagine.

But the truth untold is—

you would still love him.

*******************************

At night, visible from outer space, a dark, peaceful ribbon of land cuts across the middle of the Korean Peninsula which is otherwise shimmering with city lights.

It is a swath of land 160 miles long and two-and-a-half-miles wide known as the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). Established in 1953 by the United Nations, human settlement is forbidden on this no-man’s land meant to buffer the hostilities of two nations united by blood, by history, by culture, by geography.

Soil once stained with blood is now rich with minerals after decades of quiet fallow.

Forests scarred by bombs and grenades are now dense with vegetation.

Once a place of destruction, the DMZ is teeming with life—wildlife.

Abutting the south of the DMZ is the Cheorwon Plain, winter home to multiple species of the birds, among them–cranes, shrikes, eagles, and herons. Here, peaceful rice fields and ponds dot the landscape where birds of all feathers, flock together. With limits on civilian presence in this area by the South Korean government, nature’s rhythms dictate the ebb and flow of time and seasons here.

Today, for his sixth birthday, in the middle of winter, Gi finally gets his birthday wish of going on a migratory bird-watching tour in Cheorwon.

“Eomma! How many bird species do you think I will get to see today?”

“I hope at least six, because you are six years old today!”

“I hope seven! Seven is my lucky number!”

At the back of the tour group of twenty, a tall man hears the exchange. His heart pounds at the sound of the familiar voices. He found the right group after all. With the collar of his thick coat turned up to shield half his face, Kim Namjoon is unrecognisable, a dark beanie pulled down all the way to his sunglasses—worn to protect him from unwanted attention rather than from the glare of the winter sun.

“Jihoon!” you call. “Let’s take a selfie here, the three of us!”

Namjoon watches quietly from the back as three familiar faces smile happily at a phone, posing before a beautiful rural landscape. They look like a real family.

His heart leaps to his throat.

You look happy.

Gi looks happy.

Yang Jihoon looks happy too.

He almost wants to turn around and leave, but courage bids him to stay. As the tour guide prattles on and points out different bird species, Namjoon has only eyes for you. God. You’re beautiful.

At one point in the tour, the guide allows people in the group to spread out to explore the birdwatching area. Everyone seems to have brought binoculars for this special occasion.

“Gi, come with me. We’ll go check out the birds on the other end of the bridge,” Jihoon motions to the boy.

“Be careful!” you call out, “don’t fall off the bridge! Gi, stick with Jihoon-appa!”

Finally, with Gi occupied, you can truly take in the serenity of the quiet rice fields before you. With your binoculars, the assortment of birds are a blur of greys and whites and browns.

But it is the cranes that catch your attention with their distinctive red crowns.

Durumi.

You adjust the focus on your binoculars to get a closer look at the elegant cranes.

“Did you know that the durumi love for a lifetime?”

You still completely at his voice.

“One love,” he rasps. “One partner. One life.”

Hands still holding your binoculars, your fingers tremble at the cadence of his words.

Slowly, you lower the binoculars down.

Slowly, you turn to the voice next to you.

Slowly, your eyes widen in recognition.

The silhouette is unmistakable.

Namjoon.

“It’s you.”

Taking a deep breath, he removes his sunglasses. “It’s me.”

You must be dreaming.

You must be out of your mind.

“I’m out. For good," he takes a deep breath. "Jihoon got me out. Somehow. He knew someone, who knew someone. ”

You cannot speak.

“I’m a poor man now,” he laughs a little bitterly as he looks away, “so fucking poor. But,” he gazes back at you. “But at least I’m honest. And if you think you can trust me again, if you think we can—”

“Stop.” You’re surprised at how even and steady is your voice. “Stop. I’m your durumi, remember?” You take a deep breath, repeating the words he whispered to you before. “I love you. Will love you as long as I live. Steadfast. Like the wings of the—”

Tears are leaking out now.

“Durumi.”

You touch his hands, feel the strength of his grip even with his gloves on. And then you go to him, starving for the warmth of his arms around you, dying for his touch.

His nose is buried in your hair, nose chasing the scent of your shampoo he knows all too well, dreamed of, all too long. Durumi. Durumi. Durumi.

You’re standing there, enveloped in a miracle, enveloped in the man you love and respect and admire.

He’s standing here, with you, embracing the woman he has loved since that day on the bus.

“There you are. I was wondering when to bring Gi back,” Jihoon says, his tone playful, hand holding a very bewildered Gi.

“Gi—this is. This is—” you choke back tears.

“Anpanman!” he cries, recognising the shoulders he sat on so long ago. He lifts his arms for a ride. Namjoon is surprised how easily it’s all coming back to him. In one swift motion, he hoists Gi on his shoulders.

“Anpanman! Anpanman! I’m flying!” With his own arms securing Gi’s spread out ones, Namjoon soars with Gi’s simple faith in him. You stare at them, wondering why the picture looks so right.

Glancing over at Jihoon, you give him a grateful smile. Thank you, you mouth the words silently. Yang Jihoon knows when it's his turn to exit. He gives a little bow, proud of what he has orchestrated. He’ll come again, next year, on Gi’s birthday, like he promised you and Gi.

Walking away contentedly, Yang Jihoon knows that he will always be Jihoon-Appa to Gi. The plain title of Appa is a privilege that belongs to someone else. Someone else that only Gi can bestow.

Somewhere in Seoul, Mrs Kim rises from her knees, the text message from Yang Jihoon confirming her beliefs all along.

The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous woman availeth much.*

The End

*Biblical reference taken from James 5:16 from the Holy Bible (KJV)

*******************************

End note:

Dear Reader,

I’m not sure what kind of losses you’ve experienced in your life. I am going through a big one. For me, this fic carries my loss of a father figure in various seasons of my life, loss of trust, my irrational fear of the law, my religious upbringing. This fic is also about my love for nature, and also the innocent wonder of children. I am also a nut case about grounding my writing as a fanfic. I cannot resist by poking fun at this genre. It’s a reminder not to take myself too seriously, or for my reader to take this fic too seriously. (If you read my stuff, you know I like to remind my readers this is a fanfic, no shit!)

But anyway, it’s me, writing this in the midst of hoping but losing hope for someone to be redeemed. Hoping for the redemption of my own soul--from what, by whom, with what, I don't know.

Whatever you’re going through, I hope you get a second chance. And I hope too that you’ll give a second chance to someone deserving.

May we have the wisdom to know when to give those second, and third and fourth chances, and when to turn around and say, I’m sorry, it’s not a chance for me to give anymore.

In this shit with you.

Love,

Sam