yeesh sorry about this 240 pixel photo idk who let me cook
the first time you realised your relationship was unconventional was about half a year ago when you got a call from your neighbour at 3 in the morning. while en route to her own apartment after a night out, she’d nearly tripped over your boyfriend who was sat up against the front door to your apartment sleeping. you’d sighed, knowing all too well what was going on. after assuring your concerned neighbour that he’s not drunk and you’d be right out, you quickly ripped your sleep mask off your face and threw your legs over the side of your bed. you’d briefly taken less than a second to wonder why jihoon hadn’t just called to tell you he’d forgotten his key and needed you to let him in. you already know the reason he doesn’t knock anymore, so this thought only lasted a blink long. the answer is simple. this has happened before, and the last time he called, he felt so terribly bad about waking you up that he’d promised it wouldn’t happen again. you know he probably tried so hard to get here before you went to sleep. oh, jihoon.
you lazily roll out of bed into your slippers and make your way to the door, making sure to open it slowly so you didn’t injure him.
once you got a glimpse of the state of him, you almost wanted to cry. you haven’t seen him in a day or so, indicative of him being awake that entire time. you hate that his job keeps him up so late that he can’t even keep himself upright long enough to get inside somewhere. anywhere.
through the very small sliver in the door that you’d opened, you crouch down and shake his shoulder gently. “jihoon,” you quietly nudge. it’s still 3 in the morning regardless of everything else, so you try your best not to cause a public disturbance. it was already enough that your neighbor had seen him and felt compelled to contact you about it. you open the door a little more and try to maneuver your way out of your apartment to better help him.
he stirs a bit once your hand moves to the side of his head to keep him steady. “jihoon? come on, baby, get up for me, please.” as much as you hate to wake him up, it’s really painful, both physically and emotionally, to see him sleeping on the hard concrete outside just because he didn’t want to wake you.
eventually, he opens his eyes long enough to see you and recognise his surroundings to which he drops his head in shame. the words aren’t quite registering yet, but you’re patient enough to wait until they come. “i’m sorry, baby,” he laments, but you only ignore him and help him to his feet. your arm finds a place around the middle of his back and you push your way into your apartment. he breaks away from you to kick his slides into the coat closet. you watch as he drags his entire body to your room and you follow behind and quickly help him take off his clothes before he collapses in your bed.
as soon as you slide out of your slippers, you gently find a place next to him and once he feels your presence, he immediately wraps his arm over your waist and pulls you closer. his lips leave light kisses around your jaw, and if he hadn’t been on the brink of a deep slumber, you would’ve asked for more.
“I love you,” he says. you hum in response, not only because you already know of his love for you, but because by the next time you look over at him, he’s already asleep.
——
the second time you acknowledge the uniqueness of your relationship with jihoon was, again, at 3 in the morning. he runs on a different schedule than most, so 3AM to him is more like 3PM and vice versa. this time, though, it’s you who’s going to see him.
the problem you were having was with the security of the building he works in. it was based on facial recognition, and you’re not in the system. at least, you don’t think you are. you could see the lights of his studio from the street, so you knew he was still up there working. you’d also talked to him a few hours ago and he’d said he was finishing up a song with someone.
you were in your pajamas at this time of night, complete with your sleep mask resting atop your head, so it was a bit embarrassing waiting outside like this. “oh, come on. you can’t walk any faster?” you whine to your boyfriend through the phone. he told you he was walking as fast as he could, but you didn’t really believe him.
“hey, look up.” he says. you step back from the glass door and do as he says. you immediately see him from the fourth floor waving at you. is he laughing? “what are you laughing at?” you ask interrogatively, not finding it amusing. “you just look so cute in your little pajama number.” he lies. well, you know he’s telling the truth, but you hate how pleased he sounds while he’s getting a good laugh out of your attire. anytime you come to your boyfriend’s studio to sleep, he always tells you that you don’t have to bring anything and he’ll give you one of his shirts to sleep in, but you find it more convenient to be prepared and he’s already being kind enough to let you sleep there in the first place. even if it’s more beneficial for him than you.
eventually, he meets you at the front door and opens the door for you, greeting you with a kiss. his classic black shirt, black shorts, and slides combo still hasn’t failed him even today.
you and jihoon don’t usually talk about much when it’s so late like this unless either of you really needs conversation, but you know the gratitude of sharing space is mutual.
in the elevator on the way up to his studio, jihoon stands behind you and loosely wraps his arms around your neck, propping his chin up on the top of your head. “I missed you today,” he says in the quiet. you echo his sentiment in the form of a hum. he knows you’re tired, but he always makes it known how much he loves you.
you close your eyes until the elevator dings, and you two are shuffling out on the floor. while on the long walk down the hallway, jihoon stays a few paces behind you, watching you closely as if you’d disappear with the blink of an eye. the two of you finally reach the door to his studio and he rushes in front of you to open it, letting you enter first. “thank you,” you say quietly.
before returning to his music, he grabs a large thick blanket from an adjacent room and gives it to you. “thank you,” you echo yourself. you two really don’t talk much at night.
once you get comfortable on the couch, you just start scrolling through your social media feed to pass the time until you get tired enough to sleep. jihoon always goes to sleep after you. even if he’s more tired, he makes sure that you’re situated first before he even worries about himself. it’s one of the things you love and hate the most about him. it’s sweet that he’s so caring, but you really wish he could be this way about himself.
after a while, he starts actively working on his music again and you can hear it playing quietly on the lowest volume. usually he’ll play it in his headphones so he doesn’t disturb you, but he knows you like to hear what he’s working on. he also swears it puts you right to sleep (citation needed).
“what’s this one? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.” you comment quietly, looking up from your phone. he turns to you with his eyebrows raised. “oh this? it’s.. nothing. I haven’t gotten anywhere with it. don’t think i’m going to either.”
you frown a bit, before throwing the blanket off of you and springing up from the sofa. “play it again.” you get closer until you’re practically breathing down his neck. he hits play again and you listen closely. there’s no real lyrics, but you can hear jihoon’s distant hums and other gibberish layered over the backtrack.
“sounds kinda romantic.” you comment, resolving back to the sofa. you thrust the blanket into the air like a parachute and yank it around yourself as it comes down.
“how do you figure? there’s no lyrics.” he turns back to his computer, resuming his clicking.
“vibes.”
he lets the word sit in the air for a bit before responding, “hm. well good guess because I made it after that one time on the beach.”
“so it’s about me?”
he reiterates, “if there were lyrics it would be, but there aren’t any so not yet.”
“but it will be.”
“you just want me to say it’s about you.”
“can you?”
“it’s about you, baby.” he sighs, and if you could see his face, you know he’d be rolling his eyes as well.
“thank you.”
“everything’s always about you.” he beckons you over and you clutch the blanket tightly and attempt not to drag it on the floor on your way to his desk. he pulls you into his lap and you settle in with your blanket draped over the two of you as if this is a regular occurrence. “wanna hear something else?” you nod and he maneuvers his head around you so he can see his computer screen. you watch the cursor as he clicks around in his files, clearly looking for something specific.
“here it is.” you read the title, if you leave me. “i’ve heard this one already.” you point out. he shakes his head. “this one’s just my voice. did you know it was about you?”
“but seungkwan said it was about carats.” he gives you a sideways glance that says ‘you actually believed that?’
you backpedal a bit. “okay, okay, maybe i’m a little naïve, but still. we weren’t even really serious in our relationship when that song came out.”
“I was.”
your eyes go soft. at the beginning of your relationship, the two of you struggled to make sense of each other. it was clear you both liked each other very much and saw a future together, but it was almost like neither of you had any idea what the other was thinking at certain times. for instance, when jihoon asked you to be exclusive, you initially thought he was breaking things off. he invited you for coffee late in the afternoon and mentioned he’s been meaning to just spit out what he wanted to say. you braced for impact and actually held your breath as he delivered the news. “I think I really, really like you. would you wanna see where things go?” but it freaked you out because he never really communicated that to you before.
your response was, “oh thank god, I thought you were ending things.”
“what?”
“well, I didn’t know how you felt about me.”
“really? that’s my fault then. i’ll do better.” and he did. whenever he would ask you out somewhere—dinner or whatever—he would be very specific and mention he wanted to go on a date with you. if he randomly asked you out on short notice, he clarified it was just because he missed you and wanted to see you sooner. it did take a while for him to get into the habit of being very clear and straightforward with you—which you’re assuming is when he made this song—but for someone whose mind can get carried away with hypotheticals, you really appreciated his thoughtfulness.
now, there’s never a time when you feel uncertain about your relationship. he tells you every day he loves you and each time, you melt a little more. it doesn’t matter how long it’s been, you think you’ll always keep falling in love with him everyday.
“are you gonna keep working like this?” you whisper, your head falling to his collarbone. the song from before is still playing in the background, and you notice some lyrics that aren’t in the version you’ve heard many times on spotify. “yeah, unless you’re going to bed, then i’ll put my headphones on.”
“what if I asked you to come to bed with me?”
“okay.” he immediately starts closing out of his thousand-plus windows he keeps open on his work computer. another thing you love about jihoon is no work is more important than you. when you’re with him, all you have to do is say the word and he’ll drop whatever he’s doing to give you his full attention. though usually, you prefer him to do his work as you know it’s something he’s passionate about. even if you just sit in the background taking up space, you still feel cared for.
once all of his windows and tabs are closed and his computer is shut off, he hooks one arm under your knees with the other supporting your back, and carries you to the oversized sectional. after setting you down, he stretches a bit, having not done so in a while.
after peeling off his shirt and shimmying out of his slides, he yanks the blanket from under your body where he set you down and drapes it over the two of you. “you gonna kill the lights?” you ask, looking up at the pink, purple, and blue mood lighting that he seems to always have going.
“I was getting to that, silly.” he says curtly, unearthing his phone from what appeared to be thin air. he pulls up the app for his studio lighting and dims it to a deep but soft purple. “is this good?” you make a neutral-ish face that jihoon doesn’t like. “little darker, hm?” he questions, to which you nod. “thank you.” you respond as he fulfills your request.
he smiles, reaching an arm to the furthest side of your waist and squeezing the flesh there. “like I said before, everything’s always about you.” you curl into him on the couch and he immediately wraps his other arm around you, placing a kiss on your temple.
when i log back in every blood moon i am so lost looking for what i want, without you pumping good shit into my veins i am nothing #ioncewaslostbutnowimfound
OMG hello my darling you are missed dearly <3 very funny you say this bc this is also me revisiting your banger works from time to time since you *are* in fact the writer of all time. that said, i try to reblog those which give me similar feelings to your absolute smashers >.<
summary: You try to send Jihoon off to work with a parting gift that he doesn't like--or so he claims.
word count: 959
SVT Shorts Series | Masterlist
You stir as Jihoon’s warm body shifts out of your grasp, leaving cool air behind. He takes a moment to stretch; you take a moment to admire his naked torso, blinking sleep out of your eyes. He looks so good with his lithe form backlit by the early morning sun.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice still low.
“Mm…like what?”
“Like you want to bite me.”
Giggling, you snuggle deeper into the pillows. You already did that last night; left a beautiful mark behind, too. He’ll find it soon. You’re looking forward to it.
Yawning, Jihoon heads into the bathroom. Wait for it…
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You stifle another giggle, tugging at the thin straps of your camisole, which have slipped down in the night. You like to sleep with bare arms, mostly so you can enjoy the feel of his skin against yours. It’s grounding.
Jihoon’s angry face appears in the doorway. “What did you do?”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“This!” Pointing at the huge red mark high on his neck, he hisses, “You know, just the giant hickey you left on me!”
Rolling over onto your stomach, you grin. “I did a good job, huh?”
“I can’t go to work like this!”
He absolutely can and that’s the point. You’re sick to death of the Head of Information Security thinking that just because she has a fancy title, she can keep trying to ask your fiance out to dinner. She’s tried making it a date, a team-building exercise, a reward for his hard work. Jihoon is running out of ways to politely refuse her.
So you thought of a more straightforward one.
Striding over to the closet, Jihoon pulls on his work clothes, feeling along his shirt collar. His nerdy little polo falls just underneath the edge of your mark, almost an underline to your explosive statement.
“I think you look sexy.”
“I’m not supposed to look sexy at work.” He tugs his shirt collar up a little more, trying and failing to cover the mark.
“I don’t know,” you tease, kicking your feet back and forth. “I kind of like the idea of the hot IT nerd coming over to help fix my computer problem.”
Jihoon responds with an exhausted glare. “We are not doing roleplay. This is a serious issue.”
Sighing, you push yourself off the bed and head to the bathroom. Rummaging through your makeup bag, you pluck out a tube of concealer. “Come here.”
“Now what are you going to do to me?”
“Hide all my hard work,” you say, showing him the tube. “It’s supposed to match your skin tone when it goes on, though I don’t think it does transparent.”
“Hurry up,” he urges, tugging his collar down for you.
It’s tempting to lean forward and give him another one. Instead, you go about covering it up the best you can. When you’re done, the hickey is practically invisible. His skin looks a bit strange if you stare at it too long, but there’s not much else you can do with so little time.
Jihoon turns to study his neck in the mirror, then nods. “Good enough.”
“So glad you approve,” you retort.
Not bothering to clean up your makeup, you wander out into the living room where your desk is set up facing the window. Dropping down into your chair, you yank your laptop open and type in your password.
Jihoon hovers behind you. “Baby.”
“Bye, go to work.”
“Don’t be like this, please.”
“I’m busy. Working.”
You open your email to make a point, clicking through each one without reading it. Jihoon sighs.
Placing a kiss on your bare shoulder, he finishes getting ready and heads out the door. You continue staring at your computer screen until you hear the door close and lock. Then you slump in your chair.
Whatever. He’s right, he’s the Security Operations Center Lead. He can’t show up to work looking ravished.
It still drives you crazy that his boss gets to spend all day flirting with him while you have to sit here and deal with it. And it’s not that you don’t trust Jihoon, because you absolutely do. His boss doesn’t stand a chance against you.
You just can’t help your desire to make it really, really obvious that he’s yours.
Resolving to be more mature about the situation when he gets home, you head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. It’s only after you’ve dressed, brushed your teeth, and started on your hair that you hear the front door close.
Jihoon should be at work right now. Unless…
Sure enough, he’s standing in the entryway, hurriedly toeing off his shoes.
“Jihoon? Did something happen?”
Your eyes drop to his collar where the edge has been rubbing against his neck. The fabric is stained with concealer and you can see the very bottom of the hickey. Your heart rate jumps.
“You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”
“No. I took a sick day.”
“But–”
“I kept thinking about the mark you left and, well…”
You follow his gaze down to the very obvious bulge in the front of his work slacks.
“Ended up with a bigger problem.”
The grin that splits your face is indecent. “You made such a fuss about it and it secretly made you horny.”
“Not a secret,” he grumbles. “Get over here.”
But you dance just out of his grip. “I think you owe me an apology.”
Jihoon’s eyes flash; his hand darts out, catching you around the waist. With one smooth movement, he pulls you flush against his body. “I think,” he says dangerously, “that I owe you something else. Something to match.”
in high school i used to pretend i didnt know spanish and then i would tell my friends i learned a new word and id make them say it to our hispanic classmates and it was always pendejo
Warnings: lots of crying. (y/n)’s not the sharpest tool.
[Established Relationship AU] You find a strange box in your boyfriend’s drawer and it brings forth a life-changing event.
You were buzzing with unburnt energy, itching for something – anything – to do.
It was just one of those days where you couldn’t sit still. It wasn’t that you hadn’t already done much: the standard 8-hour work day was already finished and you still felt like you needed to be useful. There was so much to do and you were excited to get to it.
It was a blur of productivity. The speakers filled the apartment with the melodies of a playlist Jihoon had once made for you (you had lost track of what he made the playlist for; he had simply made you so many) as you practically waltzed around, finishing chore after chore at near magical speeds: the dishes, the laundry, the windows, the curtains. You watered the plants and gave their big green leaves a good wipe-down.
Around 11 pm, a text chimed on your phone. It was Jihoon, a heart emoji proudly on display by his contact name.
“Want anything to eat?” he asked, ever so thoughtful – or perhaps trying to avoid the awkwardness of eating alone.
You gladly replied to him, practically begging for your favourite noodle dish, and returned to organising your wardrobe. Even that task was done soon and you were once again left with a strange itch to just do something else. Literally any chore. But you had done them all already.
Well. Except Jihoon’s side of the wardrobe.
The half-wrinkled black and white t-shirts on the shelves and a random pair of sandals shoved in there was an eyesore compared to your perfectly folded blouses. He wasn’t the messiest person you had met, but he rarely had time to actually keep his closet as neat as he or you would’ve liked.
Usually you left his side for him to deal with, but – you thought to yourself – there’s no harm in helping out.
You folded his shirts properly, throwing a few stained ones to the laundry bin. You organised his jackets and sweaters by colour. You began organising his underwear drawer – the messiest of them all – when you found something curious.
It was a box. A very small one, covered in a velvety material. You thought, perhaps in a tired daze, it looked like something a piece of jewellery might come in. Earrings? Or a ring perhaps?
But why would he keep his rings in a box? He had a perfectly good jewellery tray on the nightstand – one you had handmade for him in a pottery class on a double date night. And the box couldn’t have been for you either – you rarely wore rings or jewellery of any kind and he knew that.
So what was in this box?
You tried so hard to fight the curiosity and just leave it be. You loved and trusted your boyfriend. You knew he wouldn’t hide things from you. Maybe it was a gift from someone. Maybe the box was empty and he had simply forgotten to throw it out.
But you had come this far and you were getting tired and you just had to find out. One little peek wouldn’t hurt, right? It surely couldn’t.
Against the warnings of your last rational braincells, you opened the box. Your jaw dropped in surprise.
It was, indeed, a ring. A pretty one at that. With an intricate golden band and a heart-shaped ruby in the middle. You thought to yourself that even you wouldn’t mind wearing something as beautiful as this.
But it wasn’t your ring. And, frankly, you wondered if it was really his either. Suspicions and curiosity grew and when you snapped back to reality you had already sent a photo to your friends’ chat, asking what they thought it was.
The answer was immediate and loud: “??? THAT’S CLEARLY AN ENGAGEMENT RING, YOU IDIOT?!”
Your heart dropped. Your body felt hot all over. You worried you might faint from shock.
Could it be? Was this really what they thought it was? Had you just accidentally ruined your boyfriend’s plans to propose?
And even more importantly – you thought, brain fully going into overdrive now, not even caring that the box sharply closed on your thumb as you clutched it to your chest and sunk to sit on the floor, tears burning in your eyes –, your boyfriend was going to propose? He actually wanted to marry you? It wasn’t just a tired fantasy he joked about with you late at night, giggling and joking about growing old together. He had bought a ring – an engagement ring.
Overwhelmed by your joyous feelings and the guilt of ruining what was clearly meant to be a surprise, you began to cry. Tears blurred your vision, mascara you should’ve washed off hours ago was smudging off your lashes, snot ran down your nose – you were certain you looked absolutely horrendous but you had bigger things to worry about for now.
Practically sobbing, you didn’t hear the front door opening and closing or Jihoon calling out to you from the front door, his melodious voice so full of love as he greeted you. You didn’t notice the rustling of the takeout bag or tired footsteps echoing in the apartment, nearing your location.
He walked into the bedroom, expecting to find you soundly asleep or maybe scrolling on Tiktok, ready to show him some nonsensical meme again. Even if he made fun of you for showing them to him, he greatly cherished the fact that your first thought was to share these things with him.
Instead he found you curled up in front of the closet, sobbing with a velvet box in hand. He froze. "Fuck."
Realising he’d come home, you scrambled to put the box back where you had found it and wiped your tears and runny mascara and apologised and hid your face and said, "Sorry. Don’t look at me. I’m a mess."
Jihoon only chuckled somewhat uneasily and slowly came closer, reaching out a hand to place it onto your shoulder before pulling you into a gentle hug. It was comforting. He was always comforting.
“Why are you crying?” he asked as if he wasn’t fully aware already.
"I–"
"You found the ring, right?"
"How'd you know?" you worried, eyes wide. Was he upset with you? Was he disappointed? Angry? Sad? You couldn’t live with yourself if you had made him feel bad when he had put so much thought into a future with you.
"I saw you put it away,” he pointed out so calmly that it almost lulled you into a false sense of serenity.
"Oh. That was something else,” you lied horribly. You were never a great liar, at least not to him. “What ring? I don’t know about any ring–"
"I think I know what the box of the ring I had made for you looks like, baby," he told you with a slight laugh before reaching into the drawer with his free hand and taking out the very box. Hesitating for just a moment, he then held it out for you, nodding for you to take it.
With shaking hands, you did as told. "It's for me?"
"If you want it," he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but his bright red ears and oddly glimmering eyes say he's about five seconds away from a mental breakdown of his own. He coughed to clear his throat before adding, "If you want me."
"What?"
"I– This wasn't how I planned this but," Jihoon ran a hand through his hair, “but I guess the cat's out of the bag.”
He let out a nervous laugh – the one he always did when Soonyoung or Jeonghan convinced him to do something dumb or embarrassing – before dropping to one knee right there, in front of the closet, in front of you – his girlfriend who he thought looked like a sad panda in the best way possible.
He closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath as you waited, holding your own breath. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed and gentle, as if he feared speaking any louder would give away how nervous he was feeling.
“I know this is kind of sudden and you probably weren’t expecting it,” he started, voice wavering, “but I feel like I’ll go crazy if I avoid my feelings for much longer. When I first met you, I knew I’d want you in my life for a long time – whether as a friend or as something more I didn’t know yet.
“But now I know,” Jihoon had begun crying, wiping his tears between anxious giggles when he saw your tear-stained but bright smile – an encouragement –, “I want you as my home, as my everything, as my wife. I’d sooner go insane than live a single day without calling you mine and myself yours. So,” he took the ring in one hand and your hand in his other, “I'm asking you to make me the happiest man alive and accept this ring and marry me. Will you have me?"
There was not a single doubt or even an echo of one in your mind.
“Yes. Yes!”
Nodding rapidly, almost frantically even, you semi-patiently watched him smile the brightest you had seen him do in weeks and gently place the ring around your finger. Before he could even admire the jewellery on your hand, your arms were wrapped around him, lips reaching for his to kiss him as flustered and silly as he had made you with his words.
“I love you,” you heard him whisper against your lips as he pulled you closer until there wasn’t even a molecule of air between the two of you.
You hummed and pulled back just enough to whisper back, “I love you too, future husband.”
He groaned at the words, a dumb grin on his face. “I can’t wait to marry you, seriously.”
“There’s a chapel down the street,” you half-joked (half- because you were so overcome with love for him that you wouldn’t have even mildly protested if he had gone along with the joke and made it a reality).
To your amusement, he was the one to protest, a grumpy frown taking over his previously bright and awestruck face. “I had an entire picnic planned with fairy lights and cake and live music and I even had Mingyu convinced to take photos for us, and instead I ended up proposing to you,” he glanced around the room almost judgmentally, “crying in front of the closet in our apartment, with my underwear drawer open.” He forcefully shut the offending drawer, earning a chuckle from you, before letting out a firm loud hum of protest and pulling you back into a tight hug. “I’m not letting the same happen to our wedding. You deserve the world and I’ll give it to you.”
“... So we’re not eloping then?”
“Not a chance,” he insisted, face scrunching up as if the very idea was offensive, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “We’re already missing out on engagement photos. Imagine how upset our moms will be if they don’t even get wedding photos.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you chuckled, pausing before adding on, “future husband.”
He tensed for a moment. Then he spoke, “So about that chapel – do you think they take last minute walk-ins, or…?”
warnings: exercise, mentions of food and eating (trigger warning: chicken breast :/ ), the word slut is used to describe mingyu (affectionately), talk of mingyu’s muscles, no mention of reader’s body
masterlist
the two of you meet through a mutual friend who goes to the same gym with you guys
at first you really just like mingyu’s energy so you categorize him in your mind as a new good gym friend
he seems to know exercises really well and is there to spot you whenever you add weight to your sets
he reminds you of a lot of your other gym friends in the way he’s super encouraging and always excited and quick to congratulate others’ accomplishments
but one day he’s spotting you for squats and you’ve really overestimated how much you could lift that day
and you’ve barely made it to the 5th rep and your muscles are straining, your face is clenching, and you can slowly feel the bar slipping
and mingyu notices right away and does his job as a spotter to slowly help the weight out of your hands
and you’re crouched down out of equal parts exhaustion, disappointment, and embarrassment
and as you stand up you feel mingyu’s hand softly cover your forehead while his other hands gently pushes you back, closer to his own frame
you realize he’s ever so kindly prevented you from hitting your head on the bar
even though its something you would’ve expected any friend to do, there’s something about the warmth of his hands and the way he shields your body with his own that has your heart fluttering
and you go home that night screaming into the group chat about your new gym crush
and somehow the word gets around from your two best friends (that also frequent that gym) to the bigger gym group
and a little birdie with a big mouth (soonyoung) tells your friends that a certain mingyu feels the same way…
so of course meddling ensues, but you couldn’t be more grateful bc it gives you your loving boyfriend mingyu
in the gym mingyu is lowkey a menace once the two of you become official
forces you to be in his slutty little gym mirror selfies
takes pictures of your strained lifting face whenever you’re doing a really heavy set (and then proceeds to harass you by texting it to you at 2am at least twice a month) (also makes it your contact photo)
is very attentive to your form. even if you’re an experienced gym-goer yourself he keeps an eye on you just to make sure you’re working the muscles you want and aren’t hurting yourself
he likes to think he’s a tough coach but really if u give a little pout when he suggests upping the weight on a machine/bar, he will immediately fold
outside of the gym, he’s generally just a very generous boyfriend
loves planning proper dates and spending the whole day out with you just hopping place to place
he just has an unbridled amount of energy so in the span of one day he wants to take you to the movies then shopping then lunch then dessert then a walk in the park etc etc
he loves to say you guys are gonna go get a sweet treat when really he means he’s going to buy you a sweet treat while you watch him guzzle down the driest chicken breast he’s been keeping in his bag all day (he pouts when u gag as if he’s not committing heinous crimes before you)
but it’s okay bc your heart gets full every time you get to eat a proper tasty meal with him, especially if you two were able to cook it together
loves to compare the size of his biceps to mundane objects to impress you
but ultimately knows that as fun and hot and cool (and for some reason tempting for you to bite?) his muscles are, they are not particularly comfortable to lie on
so every time he catches you falling asleep on his arm for a nap while you watch a movie, he’s careful to place a blanket gently beneath your head
but he makes sure to drape his hand over yours so you still get the touch you both crave
and each time, you wake up to him giving an endeared smile on his face, daring to pull you snug against him once he knows you’re awake again
a/n: guys turns out this headcannon format is kinda fun…hope ur enjoying reading them as much as i do writing them. plus im able to get them out so much faster than a drabble tbh. even tho honestly this is just a drabble in bullet points
thinking about wonwoo waking you up after a nap together, all soft and careful. thinking about him waking up first, the room still and hazy with late afternoon light. your head is on his chest, hair a mess against his collarbone, one of your legs tangled with his like you fell asleep mid-cuddle and never let go. he doesn’t move at first. just listens to you breathe. slow. warm. steady. his hand is resting on your back and he starts tracing lazy little circles there, absent-minded, like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he shifts too fast. he knows you hate being woken up abruptly. so he leans down instead, brushing his nose softly against your temple. “baby,” he whispers, barely audible. you stir but don’t wake, just tuck yourself closer. his mouth curves into the smallest smile. he pushes your hair away from your face, thumb grazing your cheek, then presses a slow kiss to your forehead. “it’s getting late,” he murmurs, voice still thick from sleep. you mumble something incoherent, brows pinching before relaxing again. he chuckles under his breath and slides his hand up to cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him just enough. your lashes flutter. you blink up at him, dazed and soft. “hi,” he says quietly, like he’s been waiting hours. you squint, still halfway in a dream. “why’d you wake me…” he kisses you before you can finish the complaint — gentle, lingering, warm. when he pulls back, his thumb brushes under your eye like he’s wiping away sleep. “because i like seeing you wake up,” he admits, low and honest. and when you hide your face back in his chest, embarrassed and clingy, he just wraps both arms around you and lets you have your five more minutes.
i hate when fics are mislabelled like so and so x plus size reader and then there’s absolutely no indication or reason to indicate that the reader is plus size because it’s irrelevant to the plot 😭 one of the few times when woke is not needed
you call your boyfriend by his stage name as a prank. he does not like this.
[ warnings \ tropes ] idol au, fluff, est. relationship, boyfriend seungcheol, grumpy cheol, reader pranks him by calling him s.coups/coups, lots of kissing, pouting (mainly from coups), he's a whiner guys </3
[ saint's voice note ! ] still not happy with my icon selection but this fic is more important to you guys than it is to me so...we ball! we're also 59 followers away from 1k?? so there's that 😭😭 ANYWAYS enjoy! i love you and thank you for reading <3
[ saint's now playing... ] can't feel my face -> the weeknd
[ wc / writing for ] 1,022 / @kstrucknet @k-records
it all started when you thought to yourself how good of an idea it would be to prank your boyfriend after he got home from work.
"welcome home, coups." you greet seungcheol at the door, pecking his cheek as you take his things from his arms. he looks tired, but offers a cute smile to you anyways, pulling you in for a greedy kiss as he huffs afterwards.
seungcheol doesn't even seem to notice you're calling him by his stage name, and so you just smile, prancing off into the living room as he trudges behind you.
he finds a seat in the kitchen, sleepily climbing on top of a stool as he lets his head hit the counter. "rough day?" you question him, and he nods, groaning as he runs his hands over his tired face.
"very rough. choreographing for a solo i had no intention of dancing to is the worst thing ever." seungcheol whines, and you chuckle, throwing your head back as you glance at him to gage his reaction.
"you're just being dramatic, s.coups. lighten up! you always deliver when the fans want it," you turn your back to him to prepare the stove for dinner, but you can feel his dark brown gaze hot on your back. oh, you're definitely paying attention now, you say to yourself.
sure enough, when you turn around to put the cutting board down on the countertop, seungcheol's glaring at you like you've said a curse word in front of a bunch of kindergarteners.
"what?" you question innocently, even going as far to cock your head to the side in faux confusion. seungcheol's eyebrows scrunch slightly before he shakes his head, running a hand through his tousled hair as he shrugs.
"thought i heard you say something." he mumbles, annoyingly digging his phone from his pocket as the buzz of a phone call sounds off.
"not now, please," he says aloud, powering off the device before smacking it against the counter face-down. his head is on the marble again, cheek smudged against the surface as he glances up at you with those puppy dog eyes.
"what are you making, baby? already smells so good," seungcheol groans like a little baby, making you giggle as you throw the chopped vegetables into a bowl.
"some recipe i found on the internet." you reply, turning your back to him to put the vegetables in the pan and fry them in butter. "hey, coups, will you hand me the shredded cheese out of the fridge?"
the chair pauses mid-scrape just seconds after your question is posed, and seungcheol's burning holes through your head with his intent gaze. you turn around to meet him, feigning confusion once again as you speak. "what's wrong?"
"you keep calling me that." seungcheol says, and you laugh, shaking your head at him as if you're clueless. "calling you what? what are you talking about?"
"you've called me 'coups' twice now. you never do that." seungcheol says, dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion as his plump lips turn up in a pout.
"you're being silly. i haven't called you that at all! are you hearing things?" you combat his claims just as quickly as he brings t]hem up, and he just glances at you, silently fulfilling your request as he plops the bag of cheese next to the stove.
"thanks, s.coups." you peck his cheek, and he freezes in place, eyes widening just a fraction as he realizes what you've said.
"see! you just called me s.coups!" seungcheol points to himself, and you stare blankly at him, silent as he stares at you accusingly. he's towering over you now, not only tired and grumpy from his tiring work day, but now your constant 'slip-ups'.
"why are you calling me that? you know that's my stage name. when i'm off the clock, you know i want you to call me cheol. seungcheol, even. i just..." seungcheol trails off, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as he mumbles.
"i want you to call me by my real name. when i'm home, i'm yours. not carats, or anyone else's. just—just yours."
that makes your heart soften instantly, and you set your spatula down, taking seungcheol in for an embrace as you smile. "okay. i'm sorry for pranking you."
"it's okay, baby, i—" seungcheol pauses mid-sentence when he registers your words, and you can't help but laugh aloud at his reaction. "what? prank?"
"yeah! i thought i would prank you once you got home from work, and so i decided to call you by your stage name until you realized it." you explain, and seungcheol rolls his eyes, a small smile escaping nevertheless as he scrunches his face up at you.
"you little devil," he lowly teases, and you shrug pridefully, glancing over at him as you nod. "what can i say? you're all cute when you start confessing to me."
"god, ignore...ignore what i said earlier. if i knew you were pranking me, i would've—" seungcheol starts, and you stop him, stuffing hot vegetables into his mouth as he chews hurriedly.
"save it, cheol." you tease, gloating in the way his cheeks heat up so easily at the simple nickname. "we both know how soft you get when i call you by your full name."
"i hate you." seungcheol grumbles with a smile on his face as he kisses your neck, and you smile proudly, stirring the vegetables as his arms find their way around your torso, resting his head on your shoulder as you nod. "i love you too, seungcheol."
"okay, stop calling me that." seungcheol says, and you oblige for a second, more than ready to carry on the teasing. "right, s.coups. sorry."
"...never mind." the words are so quiet you can barely hear them, but you know seungcheol's blushing now, lips curving into a small smirk on your skin as he huffs a sigh. "i like seungcheol ten times better."
"me too." you nod, ruffling seungcheol's hair with your free hand as he nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck even more.
vitals: still yours - choi seungcheol imagine PART ONE
yes you read that right. this is part ONE. as much as i wanted to have it all in one post, it wont fit and it felt criminal to not included all the scenes after how hard i worked for it. i'm gonna sound biased but I LOVE LOVE LOVEEEE this fic sm 🥺
hope you enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed making it🤍
The hospital lobby is a blur of white coats and muted chatter, but your focus is on the little girl clutching your fingers. Eunji’s steps are still a bit wobbly, but she toddles forward determinedly, her soft sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. She’s clutching her stuffed bunny against her chest with her free hand, her other small hand nestled firmly in yours.
Your appointment card feels damp in your grip. Maybe from your nerves, maybe from the sheer warmth of holding onto her. It’s been years since you last set foot here, and even though this is technically a different department, you can’t quite shake the weight in your chest.
“Eomma,” Eunji mumbles, looking up at you with those big curious eyes, “cawie?” her way of asking if something is scary
You crouch down a little, brushing back a stray strand of her soft hair, the ends curling around her ears. “You don’t have to be scared, okay? The doctor is good with kids.”
The receptionist calls your name.
Y/L/N Y/N, patient: Y/L/N Eunji.
You scoop Eunji up, her little arms automatically circling your neck, and push the door open into the pediatric office. The room is warm, decorated with pastel decals on the wall. A neat pile of blocks sits in one corner, and the faint scent of baby powder hangs in the air.
And then, of course, there’s Yoon Jeonghan.
He’s leaned back in his chair, hair swept neatly away from his face, white coat draped over his shoulders like he was born to wear it. He looks up from the file in his hand, lips curling into that half-smile that never seems to leave his face.
“Well,” he says, voice smooth as ever, “if it isn’t Lee Y/N.”
You hesitate, then bow politely. “Doctor Yoon.”
His gaze drops to the little girl perched on your hip, eyes wide as she stares at the stranger in white. Eunji buries her face shyly into your shoulder, and his smile softens in a way you’ve never seen before.
“And who’s this pretty one?” Jeonghan asks, lowering his tone as if he’s talking to Eunji alone.
You shift your weight, rubbing Eunji’s back gently. “This is my daughter. Eunji.”
Something flickers in his eyes at the word—daughter—but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he leans slightly forward on his elbows, lowering himself just enough to meet Eunji’s curious gaze.
“Hello, Eunji. I’m Doctor Yoon. I promise I’m nicer than I look.”
To your surprise, Eunji peeks out again, her tiny fist still gripping your blouse. “Go ahead and sit her down. We’ll take it slow.”
You ease Eunji onto the padded table, her bunny still clutched tight in her hand. She looks around, eyes landing on the colorful stickers plastered across one cabinet. Jeonghan notices too, and without a word, he peels one off and offers it to her.
Her tiny hand releases the bunny just long enough to take the sticker. “F’ower,” she murmurs, proud of herself.
“That’s right,” Jeonghan praises, as though she just solved a riddle. “A flower. Good girl.”
You exhale, tension leaving your shoulders. You’d braced yourself for awkward questions, the raised eyebrows, the pitying looks but Jeonghan, true to his reputation, simply moves on. He checks Eunji’s vitals with practiced ease, explaining each step not just to you, but to her.
“This will feel a little cold, okay?” he says as he presses the stethoscope gently against her chest. Eunji flinches but doesn’t cry, too distracted by the sunflower sticker now on the back of her hand.
“She’s healthy,” Jeonghan murmurs after a moment, jotting notes in her chart. “Strong heart, clear lungs. You’ve taken good care of her.”
By the time he’s done, Eunji is babbling more confidently, pointing at the block set in the corner. Jeonghan indulges her for a few minutes, handing her one while he explains a few details to you.
“She’s a little on the small side for her age, but nothing concerning. Just make sure she keeps eating balanced meals and gets her naps. She’s hitting her milestones just fine.”
Crouching slightly to look Eunji in the eye again. “You did very well today, Eunji. Brave girls deserve rewards.”
From his desk drawer, he pulls out another sticker. This one a shiny star. He presses it gently onto the back of her hand, right beside the sunflower. Eunji beams, holding it up proudly for you to see.
“Say thank you, baby,” you remind softly.
“Tank you,” she lisps, and Jeonghan chuckles warmly
Jeonghan flips through the thin folder in his hand, pen tapping idly against the corner. He’s reading carefully, as all good doctors do, but his eyes inevitably pause at that one blank space on Eunji’s record.
Father: [ ]
A line left empty, like a silence no one wants to fill.
You feel your stomach clench. You know what he’s seeing.
But Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, not directly. His expression doesn’t change still calm, still professional. Only the subtle flick of his gaze in your direction betrays that he noticed.
He’s Yoon Jeonghan, after all. The same man who’d sat in the corner booth of that café years ago, smirking while Seungcheol ranted about how “work was getting in the way again,” the same man who never once kept his opinions to himself back then. If anyone could piece things together, it was him.
And if anyone knew exactly when you and Seungcheol broke up, it was also him.
“She’s one and a half?” Jeonghan asks casually, his tone deceptively light.
You nod, adjusting Eunji’s position on your lap as she fiddles with the sunflower sticker. “Mm. Eighteen months.”
His pen taps once more against the file. He doesn’t write anything, doesn’t underline, just sets the folder aside with a soft thump. “She looks younger than her age. But that’s not a bad thing. Sometimes kids catch up to the growth chart later.”
“Is that… okay?” you ask, even though he already explained before
“Yes,” he reassures smoothly, leaning back in his chair “Completely fine. She’s active, alert, and obviously loved.” His eyes flick briefly to yours, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Kids who are loved don’t stay behind for long.”
Your throat goes dry at the weight of that statement.
Eunji interrupts the tension by grabbing at Jeonghan’s stethoscope where it hangs loose around his neck.
“Do you want to try listening?”
Before you can protest, he slips the earpieces off and gently fits them into her tiny ears, holding the bell of the scope against his own chest. Eunji’s eyes widen, mouth forming a perfect little ‘o’ at the thump-thump-thump she hears.
“That’s my heartbeat,” Jeonghan tells her softly. “It’s working hard, just like yours.”
She giggles, kicking her little legs in delight. “Boom boom!”
“Exactly. Boom boom.” He winks at her, then retrieves the stethoscope before she decides to taste it.
You watch them quietly, your chest tight for reasons you can’t name. You’d prepared yourself for judgment, for whispered questions about why her father wasn’t listed, about where he was. But instead, Jeonghan treats you like any other parent like any other mother who walked in with her baby girl, seeking reassurance and care.
Still, you can feel it. The knowledge hanging in the room like a shadow. He’s smart. He can do the math. He knows Seungcheol better than anyone, and he knows you.
But when he picks up the file again, sliding the pen neatly into the crease, his voice is steady. “She’s perfectly healthy, Y/N. Bring her back in three months for her next check-up, or sooner if you have any concerns.”
You let out a slow breath. “Thank you, Doctor Yoon.”
He tilts his head, gaze softening just slightly. “You’re doing well. Don’t doubt that.”
It’s such a simple statement, but it hits deeper than you expect. You nod, blinking rapidly as you gather Eunji’s things.
Eunji squeals, grabbing it with both hands, and Jeonghan laughs again. “Take care of your mom, okay? She needs you just as much as you need her.”
As you walk out of the office, you can feel Jeonghan’s gaze on your back, but no words follow.
The hospital after hours always feels different. Quieter, darker. The usual rush of nurses and residents fades to a hum, the corridors thinning until only the soft beep of monitors and the muted squeak of rubber soles remind you that life doesn’t pause just because the clock strikes midnight.
Choi Seungcheol’s office is one of the few with its lights still on. Through the frosted glass, a tall figure moves behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, white coat draped on the back of his chair. His pen scratches quickly across paper, then pauses, before he leans back and rubs his eyes.
The door opens, and Yoon Jeonghan slips inside like he owns the place, two paper cups of coffee in hand. His tie is loose, hair a little messier than it had been earlier in the day, but his smirk is intact.
“You’re still here,” Jeonghan drawls, setting one cup down on Seungcheol’s cluttered desk
Seungcheol glances up briefly, sharp eyes narrowing. “So are you.”
“I had evening consults,” Jeonghan answers smoothly, settling into the chair opposite him without invitation. “And you’re still buried in charts.” He gestures at the thick stack of files. “Not very chief-like, if you ask me.”
“Good thing I didn’t.” Seungcheol takes the coffee anyway, sipping once before returning to his notes
For a moment, silence falls the kind only two people who’ve known each other long enough can share comfortably. They talk about surgeries, upcoming schedules, a difficult case from the afternoon. Routine. Familiar.
Then Jeonghan leans back, twirling his pen idly between his fingers. “I had an interesting consult today.”
Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “You have interesting consults every day. You’re a pediatrician.”
“This one,” Jeonghan continues, ignoring the jab, “was a little girl. About a year and a half. Cute kid. Bright eyes. Brave.”
Seungcheol’s pen doesn’t pause. “And why are you telling me a normal consult?”
That’s when Jeonghan grins. The kind of grin that means he’s about to stir something, the kind that used to get under Seungcheol’s skin during their residency years.
“Because,” Jeonghan says lightly, “she wasn’t alone. She came in with her mother.”
“And,” Jeonghan leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, “her mother was Y/N.”
The words land like a scalpel dropped onto metal. Sharp. Echoing.
Seungcheol stills, eyes darkening in an instant. His jaw tenses, but he says nothing. Only stares across the desk as though waiting for Jeonghan to retract the statement.
“She looks well,” Jeonghan adds casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “Different, but… the same. She named her daughter Eunji. Sweet kid.”
Silence stretches long between them, broken only by the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead.
Seungcheol’s hand curls slowly around his pen, knuckles pale. His voice, when it finally comes, is low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“Why,” he repeats, “are you telling me this?”
“Because I thought you’d want to know.”
Seungcheol sets his pen down with deliberate calm, aligning it perfectly parallel with the edge of the file. His eyes drop back to the chart in front of him, though he hasn’t read a single word since Jeonghan spoke your name.
“Not sure why you’re bringing this up,” he says evenly, voice clipped. “People move on. She clearly did.”
But the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the way his jaw locks just a fraction too long, tells a different story.
Jeonghan notices of course. Leaning back in his chair, he crosses one leg over the other and props his chin lazily on his hand, watching him with barely concealed amusement.
“You know,” Jeonghan muses, “for someone who prides himself on being logical, you’re a terrible liar.”
Seungcheol shoots him a glare, sharp enough to cut, but it only makes Jeonghan grin wider
“This is the same woman you spent what—months? A year? Maybe longer—trying to get over. Honestly, I’m not sure you ever did.” Jeonghan’s voice softens, not unkind, but unflinchingly honest “Aren’t you even a little curious?”
Seungcheol’s fingers drum once against the desk, betraying him. Then he sits back, exhaling through his nose, adopting that detached air he always wears when a conversation digs too close to the bone.
“Curiosity isn’t the same thing as relevance,” he mutters “She made her choice. I respected it.”
“You respected it? That’s a generous way of describing how you worked yourself into exhaustion for months, trying to drown her ghost out in the OR.”
“Jeonghan.” Seungcheol’s tone carries the same weight he uses to silence a reckless resident in the operating room
But Jeonghan only smirks, unbothered “What? You think I didn’t notice? I was there. Watching you walk around half-dead, living on caffeine and spite. The woman drops out of your life overnight, no explanation, no closure and suddenly you’re the youngest chief surgeon in the country. Congratulations, by the way, but we both know what fueled that climb.”
Seungcheol doesn’t answer. His gaze is fixed somewhere over Jeonghan’s shoulder, eyes hard, expression schooled into a mask of indifference.
“Still not curious?” Jeonghan presses, voice softer now, more pointed “Not even about the little girl holding her hand?”
For a fraction of a second, Seungcheol’s composure cracks. His lips part like he’s about to say something, his brow tightening, before he forces the mask back on.
“She’s not my patient,” he says finally, clipped and cold. “She’s yours. Keep it that way.”
Jeonghan leans back, lips twitching. He doesn’t push further, not yet. He’s always been patient when it comes to his best friend’s pride.
But he files the reaction away, every flicker of it, knowing that under all that ice, Seungcheol’s hands are already shaking with questions he refuses to ask.
=
It’s been a couple of weeks. You didn’t expect to come back so soon.
The pediatric lobby hums with the quiet chaos of late morning. Parents whisper to restless toddlers, nurses shuffle charts, and somewhere down the hall a child lets out a sharp wail before being soothed by a calm voice. You sit tucked into the corner, rocking Eunji gently on your lap, her small cheek pressed against your chest.
She’s warm, her forehead sticky against your collarbone. Her little fists clutch her bunny half-heartedly, not with her usual stubborn grip. The worry has been gnawing at you since last night, when she pushed away her spoon after just a few bites. Your baby never refuses food.
The door to one of the consult rooms opens, and Yoon Jeonghan steps out with a wide smile plastered across his face, saying goodbye to another child who skips happily down the hallway clutching a sticker. He notices you almost immediately, his gaze flicking to the bundle in your arms, and the smile softens into something quieter.
“Y/N,” he greets, striding over. “Rough day?”
You rise carefully, shifting Eunji against your shoulder. “She’s been warm since last night. And she hasn’t eaten much
His expression turns clinical in an instant, though the gentleness never leaves his tone “Let’s have a look, then. Come on.”
Inside his office, the routine feels strangely familiar now. The pastel walls, the scattered blocks in the corner, the stickers he always keeps at hand. You settle Eunji on the padded table, brushing her hair back as Jeonghan dons his gloves and gently tilts her head.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, shining a small light into her ear “Let’s see what’s bothering you.”
Eunji squirms, tiny nose scrunching, but she doesn’t cry. You stroke her leg in encouragement.
“Mm,” Jeonghan hums after a moment “There it is. Ear infection. That explains the fever and the fussiness.”
“Is it bad?”
“Not at all,” he reassures, jotting notes into her chart “It’s common, especially at her age. I’ll prescribe antibiotics. She should be feeling better in a few days.”
You nod, relief loosening the knot in your throat “Thank you.”
He glances back at Eunji, who now sits clutching her bunny in both hands, eyes watery but still curious. Jeonghan crouches slightly, studying her face with a small smile.
“She really does look like you,” he says, almost to himself “Same eyes. Same way her mouth tilts when she frowns.”
You blink, caught off guard “Everyone says that.”
“Because it’s true,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a little longer. Then he reaches out, tapping Eunji’s chin lightly to coax a smile.
She obliges, her lips parting to reveal the tiniest dimple denting her left cheek.
You smile despite your worry, brushing the back of her hand “She has dimples. It gets cuter and deeper when she smiles”
The words slip out before you can catch them. They sound innocent enough. Just a mother talking about her daughter.
But Jeonghan stills. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicker with the sharp gleam of recognition, the gears of his mind turning faster than you can see.
Dimples.
He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t ask. His expression remains calm, even amused, as if nothing in the world has shifted.
“Lucky girl,” he says lightly, straightening again “That’ll charm her way through life someday.”
You laugh quietly, distracted by gathering Eunji back into your arms as she leans against you again, tired but calmer. You don’t notice the way Jeonghan studies the two of you in silence, filing the detail away like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
For now, he keeps the thought to himself.
It’s late again. Past midnight, the corridors quiet except for the occasional echo of hurried steps from residents. Seungcheol’s office light is still on, of course, the man bent over a stack of surgical reports like the world will collapse if he doesn’t finish them tonight.
The door opens without a knock.
“You ever heard of knocking?” Seungcheol mutters, not looking up
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jeonghan breezes in, plopping himself down on the couch across from the desk. He tosses a kimbap he got from the cafeteria bar onto the table like it’s an offering “Dinner, Chief.”
Seungcheol gives the bar a flat look, then goes back to his chart “You didn’t come here to feed me.”
“True,” Jeonghan admits, stretching out comfortably “I came to ask you a question.”
“That already sounds like a bad idea.”
Unbothered, Jeonghan twirls his pen between his fingers, eyes glinting “Genetics.”
Seungcheol sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jeonghan…”
“No, seriously. Riddle me this.” He leans forward, animated now, as if he’s lecturing a room full of interns “If one parent has a dominant trait, say—dimples—”
“Dimples,” Seungcheol repeats flatly.=
“Yes, dimples. Follow along. If one parent has dimples and the other doesn’t, what are the odds the kid has them?”
Seungcheol sets his pen down with exaggerated care, giving him a long, unimpressed stare “You barged into my office at one in the morning… to talk about dimples.”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m a surgeon, not a geneticist.”
“You’re still a doctor, come on. High school biology. One dominant allele, one recessive. What happens?”
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, exhaling like he’s already regretting every friendship choice that led to this moment. “Depends on the pairing. If the parent with dimples is heterozygous, then maybe a fifty-fifty chance. If homozygous dominant, then the kid definitely has them.”
“Exactly,” Jeonghan says, snapping his fingers. “So… let’s say a little girl shows up with dimples. But her mother doesn’t have them.”
The silence that follows is heavy, deliberate.
Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens, though he keeps his expression carefully neutral. He’s too experienced in control to give Jeonghan the satisfaction. Still, his hand curls slightly against the armrest of his chair.
“You’ve officially lost it,” he says, voice dry “Go home, Jeonghan.”
But Jeonghan just smiles, the smile of a man who enjoys poking sleeping bears “What? I’m just talking science.”
“Dimples,” Seungcheol repeats again, deadpan
“Dimples,” Jeonghan confirms with a nod, utterly unbothered by the warning edge in his friend’s tone.
As he heads for the door, Seungcheol forces his attention back to the chart in front of him. But the line of his mouth is tight, and in the quiet after Jeonghan leaves, the word lingers stubbornly in his mind.
Dimples.
Seungcheol sits at his desk long after Jeonghan leaves, the silence of his office pressing in like a weight. The reports in front of him blur, the neat black text turning into meaningless lines.
It’s ridiculous. He knows it is. He’s a surgeon, a scientist. He doesn’t chase shadows.
And yet he can’t stop his mind from circling back.
He knows your face. Knows it like the back of his hand, maybe better. Every curve, every tilt of your smile, the exact shade your eyes turned in sunlight. He’d memorized you back when you were his, when he thought you’d always be his.
And he knows, with the same certainty he trusts in the scalpel in his grip, that you don’t have dimples.
So he imagines it now, against his will. A little girl—your face softened into baby roundness, eyes wide with that same spark he used to drown in. And when she laughs, a dimple breaks through.
Dimples you never had.
Which means someone else must.
His jaw tightens. Who is he? Did you move on that quickly, back when he was too buried in residency to notice the ground crumbling beneath his feet? Did you really spend those months after walking away building a new life, a new family?
The questions knot in his chest, ugly and bitter.
But then another part of him stirs. A quieter, dangerous part he doesn’t want to acknowledge. The part that remembers the nights you curled against him, your voice muffled against his shirt as you whispered about the future. About homes and children, about names and little pieces of forever.
He’d shoved that memory so far down it had calcified, another scar under his ribs. But tonight, with Jeonghan’s pointed grin still fresh and the word dimples echoing in his skull, something slips loose.
For the first time, he lets the thought creep in—the question he’s avoided at all costs.
What if…
What if the little girl Jeonghan described wasn’t someone else’s?
What if she was his?
Seungcheol exhales sharply, shoving the pen down onto the desk, the sound echoing through the empty office. He drags a hand down his face, furious with himself. With you. With the years between.
And yet, no matter how hard he tries, the image won’t leave him: a child with your face, your eyes—smiling at him with his dimple.
=
The change is subtle at first but only to those who don’t know him.
To the people who work under him, Seungcheol has always been strict, demanding, precise. But now… now it’s sharpened into something harsher. His voice cuts a little colder during rounds, his patience thins faster in consults, and more than once, a junior freezes mid-report under the weight of his glare.
Even outside the OR, the tension clings to him. Shoulders set, jaw clenched, footsteps heavier. Like he’s carrying something no one can see but everyone can feel.
And Jeonghan notices. Of course he does.
So one night, Jeonghan finds him. Corners him, really, because Seungcheol is halfway down the corridor when Jeonghan steps into his path, arms folded, his usual smirk missing.
“You’re going to start scaring the interns into cardiac arrest if you keep this up.”
“No, especially now.” Jeonghan tilts his head, studying him with that sharp, too-knowing gaze “You’ve been snapping at everyone like they’re knives in your chest. And don’t give me that crap about stress. You’ve lived in stress since residency. You were calmer back then.”
“I said drop it.”
But Jeonghan doesn’t. He steps closer, lowering his voice “This isn’t about work, is it?”
Seungcheol’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
That lands like a blade to the gut. Seungcheol’s eyes flicker, just for a second but it’s enough.
Jeonghan softens “You’ve been chewing on it since the last time we talked. Admit it.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been a storm waiting to break. And I don’t think it’s because of some random genetics lecture I gave.” Jeonghan’s gaze sharpens “You think it’s possible, don’t you? That little girl… being yours.”
Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t look at Jeonghan when he mutters, “You said it. Not me.”
Jeonghan’s lips twitch “Legally,” he says, dragging out the word, “I’m definitely not allowed to say it. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. but as your best friend. the one who had to drink with you for weeks after she left, the one who saw you try and fail to date other people—” he tilts his head, “I’d say I’ve had my suspicions.”
Finally, Seungcheol’s eyes snap to him, sharp “Don’t.”
Jeonghan ignores the warning, voice dropping “Come on, Cheol. The kid’s one and a half. You broke up what, two years ago?” He whistles softly, shaking his head. “I’m good at math, you know.”
Seungcheol clenches his jaw, his hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, really?” Jeonghan quirks a brow. “You’re the one who just admitted you’ve thought about it.”
“I didn’t admit—” Seungcheol stops himself, teeth grinding. He drags a hand down his face, frustrated. “This is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Jeonghan’s tone is gentler now, but no less pointed. “You know her better than anyone. And don’t lie—you’ve been picturing it. That little girl with her face.”
Seungcheol glares, but the glare doesn’t stick. His voice comes out quieter, betraying more than he wants. “She wouldn’t keep something like that from me.”
“Wouldn’t she?” Jeonghan’s expression softens, almost pitying. “Cheol… you and I both know she didn’t exactly leave in a way that made sense. No explanation, nothing. Just gone.”
That hits a nerve. Seungcheol’s chest tightens, the old wound ripped open again. He looks away, jaw tense, the weight of three years pressing down on him all over again.
Jeonghan watches him carefully. “You want to believe she wouldn’t. But there’s that sliver of doubt, isn’t there?”
Seungcheol mutters, almost bitter, “You sound way too happy stirring this up.”
Jeonghan only shrugs, pushing off the wall. “I’m just saying. If you really don’t care, stop thinking about it. Stop imagining dimples on a kid’s face you’ve never even met.”
Then he pauses, smirking just enough to twist the knife. “But if you can’t… Then maybe that tells you everything.”
The door clicks shut, leaving Seungcheol alone with the gnawing thoughts Jeonghan just shoved to the surface.
=
The ER is its usual chaos. Voices overlapping, the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air, the quick shuffle of feet as nurses move from one patient to the next. Seungcheol stands with a cluster of residents and nurses, voice clipped and precise as he runs through protocol about an earlier incident.
His tone leaves no room for argument, only nods of agreement.
But then amid the noise he hears it.
A cry. Sharp, shrill, frantic. Not unusual in the ER, but something in it hooks into him, drags his eyes away from the chart in his hand. Just a few beds down, a woman rushes in carrying a small child pressed tight against her chest.
And Seungcheol freezes.
Because in that instant, he sees you.
Hair a little messy from rushing, face flushed, panic carved into your features. The same face he used to wake up to, the same one he memorized like second nature except now, two years later, it’s here in front of him, and it feels like a punch to the chest.
His body moves before his mind catches up. One moment he’s standing with his team, the next he’s striding across the ER, leaving behind confused whispers in his wake.
The nurse who was guiding you startles when the imposing figure of the chief surgeon suddenly steps in. “Ch-Chief?” she stammers, eyes wide. “This is a pediatric case—”
“I’ll take over.” His tone brooks no protest, calm but cutting.
The nurse blinks, caught between confusion and terror, but she steps aside. Nobody argues with Choi Seungcheol.
And then it’s just you.
You, standing there frozen, eyes locked on him, clutching your crying daughter so tight your knuckles are white.
Your breath catches. For a moment, the chaos of the ER fades, swallowed up by the weight of recognition. His presence is exactly as you remember except now, the sight of him hits differently, sharper.
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the bed, voice steady even though his chest feels like it’s caving in.
You don’t move. Your legs feel glued to the floor, your heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
It’s the first time he’s seen you since the day you walked out.
And the way his dark eyes are fixed on you now, unreadable but burning, tells you it won’t be as simple as patching up a wound and walking away.
You finally lower Eunji onto the bed, your hands trembling as you smooth her hair back, whispering soft shushes that do nothing against her cries. Her little legs kick weakly, her tiny fists reaching for you, but then Seungcheol’s shadow falls across her, and your entire body stiffens.
He doesn’t look at you. Not once. His entre focus shifts to the small patient in front of him.
“Scalpel tray. Saline. 3-0 nylon sutures.” His voice is calm, clipped, the practiced authority of a man who runs an entire department. The nurse scrambles to hand him what he asks for, but when he speaks again—softer, gentler—you almost don’t recognize him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning close to Eunji. “It’s okay. Just a scratch. We’ll fix it up quick.”
Your throat tightens. Sweetheart. You’ve never heard him use that tone with anyone outside of you.
“What’s her name?” he asks you even though Jeonghan has mentioned this little girl’s name a few times
“Eunji” you mumble, still a bit in shock.
He doesn’t look at you. He keeps his attention on your daughter. His expression doesn’t show it. His face is composed, surgical precision in every movement but inside, he’s chaos.
Because the girl on this bed… she looks just like you. The curve of her nose, the shape of her lips, even the way her brows knit when she cries… It’s you. And for every stitch he pushes through her skin, his chest squeezes tighter, breaking in ways he didn’t think were possible.
“Almost done, baby girl. Almost done.” His voice is so low, so careful, like he’s soothing his own breaking heart.
You can’t speak. Can’t move. The sight of him—your ex, your Seungcheol—working so gently over your daughter is something your brain can’t fully process.
He finishes the last stitch, ties it off, and covers the wound with sterile gauze. His movements are practiced, flawless, but his voice is anything but clinical when he says, “There we go. Brave girl.”
Eunji sniffles, hiccuping against her own tears, and it’s almost too much. He straightens, still not looking at you, and turns his head slightly.
“Call Dr. Yoon. Tell him to get here immediately.”
The nurse blinks, startled. “Dr. Yoon—? The head of peds?”
“Now,” Seungcheol commands, his tone brooking no argument.
The nurse bolts, and the ER is left buzzing with tension, your silence stretching like a live wire between you and him.
For the first time in years, you’re standing beside him. For the first time ever, he’s standing beside her.
Seungcheol finally breaks the silence, his eyes still on Eunji as he adjusts the gauze one last time. His voice is low, steady, but you can hear the command beneath it.
“What happened?”
It takes you a moment to find your voice. “I—I got a call from her daycare. I needed to finish something for work so I dropped her off, just for an hour then they called. They said she was running… she tripped on a toy and hit the edge of the table. They stopped the bleeding but…” you swallow hard, eyes darting to your daughter’s tiny frame, “it wouldn’t close. And then she wouldn’t stop crying so—so I brought her here.”
Your words tumble out fast, uneven. His head finally lifts, eyes locking on you for the first time in two years. The weight of his gaze nearly knocks the air out of your lungs, but he says nothing. Just one curt nod.
Then he straightens, authority sliding back over him like armor. “Order a CT scan. Rule out concussion. Get neuro on standby, just in case. Monitor vitals every fifteen. Arrange pediatric aftercare for the wound, update her chart.” His voice leaves no room for hesitation, and the nurses scatter like waves parting from a storm.
Eunji shifts on the bed, hiccuping softly, and his gaze flicks back to her with something softer.
“Really, Choi Seungcheol?” A familiar drawl cuts through the tension. “Panicking over a minor forehead laceration?”
Both your heads turn at the same time. Jeonghan is strolling in, chart in one hand, hair a little mussed like he’s been pulled out of another consult. His grin falters mid-step, though, when his eyes land on you.
“Oh.”
The air shifts instantly. Jeonghan’s usual smirk softens into something unreadable as he glances between the three of you, Seungcheol, and Eunji.
Jeonghan stops just shotr of the bed, slipping his free hand into the pocket of his white coat, eyes sparkling despite the heavy tension pressing into the room.
“Well, this is new,” he drawls, gaze flicking deliberately from Seungcheol’s stiff posture to the toddler propped on the gurney. “Didn’t realize our Chief had the time—or interest—to handle forehead lacerations these days.”
The nurses behind him exchange quick, wide-eyed glances, clearly caught in the weirdness of it all. None of them dare say a word.
Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. “It came through the ER,” he answers gruffly, tone clipped.
Jeonghan hums, clearly entertained. “Thought you said Eunji was my patient.” His emphasis on the name is subtle, but pointed, and it makes Seungcheol’s jaw tighten. “So I should deal with it.”
Seungcheol’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “It’s an ER case.”
“Uh-huh.” Jeonghan smirks knowingly, dragging the sound out as he rocks back on his heels. The atmosphere only tightens more with that little push.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, he turns away from Seungcheol and toward you.
His expression shifts, softening instantly as he takes in the way you’re standing
“How are you holding up?” Jeonghan asks gently, his voice dipping into the same calm tone he always reserves for worried parents. “I know it looks worse than it is, but she’s in good hands.”
“Alright, Chief,” he says, deliberately stressing the title, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. But I’ll handle it from here.” He slides into the space at the side of the bed,
“Hi Eunji. You and I, we’re besties, right? You trust me more than this scary-looking ajusshi, don’t you?” Jeonghan’s voice softens as he leans down, smiling wide at the little girl.
Eunji sniffles, hiccuping as she blinks up at him with teary eyes. She doesn’t protest when Jeonghan gently takes her hand in his.
“See?” Jeonghan grins, glancing sideways at Seungcheol. “Besties. She just confirmed it.”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “She didn’t say anything.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Jeonghan shoots back easily, cooing at Eunji again. “We’ve got our own secret language, don’t we, pretty girl?”
Eunji lets out a faint hum, still sniffling but distracted by his playful tone.
Seungcheol finally clears his throat, straightening his coat. “Fine. Handle it.” His voice is brusque, clipped, but it carries a weight you recognize all too well.
Jeonghan smirks, victorious, before turning back to Eunji with a wiggle of his brows. “Don’t worry, bestie. Uncle Hannie’s got you.”
Jeonghan adjusts Eunji’s chart with a little hum, far too casual for the weight of the room. Then, like the menace he is, he tilts his head and says lightly,
“So… do you want me to call her dad, or—?”
The words hit you like ice water. Your stomach drops, your throat locks, and for a split second you forget how to breathe.
“No!” The answer bursts out too fast, too loud. Both men’s heads turn toward you, and you stumble over yourself, panicked. “I—there isn’t— I mean—no, there’s no need for that, uh— it’s just…” Your voice falters, eyes darting down to Eunji’s small form on the bed, “…it’s just me and her.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than anything that’s been said tonight.
Jeonghan’s smile falters for the briefest moment, but he covers it with a soft hum, nodding like you’d only just confirmed something he already suspected. He doesn’t press further, his expression sliding back into neutral calm.
But beside him, Seungcheol tenses like he’s been struck. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He stays silent, but the silence is louder than any outburst could’ve been.
You catch Jeonghan’s quick glance at him, just a flicker of knowing in his eyes, before he rests a reassuring hand on the bed rail.
“Alright then,” Jeonghan says smoothly, as if nothing happened. “Let’s get you to the scanner, bestie.” He flashes a grin at Eunji, who’s still sniffling but watching him with big, wet eyes. “We’ll make sure everything in that smart little head of yours is A-okay.”
He starts to wheel the bed forward, his tone light, his movements efficient.
And you trail alongside, your heart pounding, while behind you, you can still feel Seungcheol’s silence clinging to your back like a shadow.
The moment Jeonghan begins wheeling the bed toward radiology, Seungcheol steps back. His hand twitches at his side.
“I have… other cases,” he mutters, voice rough, clipped shorter than usual. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
And before you can form words, before you can even call his name, he’s already turning on his heel. His strides are long, determined, cutting through the ER chaos until his white coat disappears around the corner.
You’re left staring at the empty space he vacated, your pulse thundering in your ears.
Seungcheol doesn’t remember the walk back to his office. He just knows that when the door slams shut behind him, his lungs finally collapse. He braces his hands on the desk, head dropping forward as a ragged breath tears out of him.
Everything. Every thought he’s shoved down for years, every question he’s avoided, every nightmare he’s forced himself to forget comes barreling back, chasing him down with merciless precision.
She has a daughter.
The image is seared into his brain: a tiny girl with your face, with eyes that felt like déjà vu, with dimples flashing through tears. Your arms wrapped protectively around her. Your voice breaking as you said it’s just me and her.
He squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching so tight his nails dig crescents into his palms.
Is it possible?
He doesn’t want to think it. Doesn’t want to hope it. But the timeline, Jeonghan’s hints, the way you froze when asked about her father. It all lines up, and he hates himself for noticing.
His chest aches, a dull, relentless throb. Because if she is his…
Why didn’t you tell him?
Why did you walk away, two years ago, leaving him gutted and blind, while carrying that secret with you?
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing the narrow length of his office, his composure unraveling with each step.
Later when Jeonghan is done with his rounds he drops by Seungcheol’s office, already expecting the storm happening in there.
The chief is sitting behind his desk, white coat draped over the back of his chair, tie loosened, sleeves shoved to his elbows. His jaw’s so tight it looks carved from stone, and he’s staring at a spot on the wall like it owes him answers.
“Thought I’d find you sulking here,” Jeonghan drawls, closing the door with his foot
“I’m not sulking,” Seungcheol mutters, not looking up
“Right. And I’m a neurosurgeon,” Jeonghan shoots back, strolling to the chair opposite him and dropping into it without invitation. He lounges, all ease and elegance, while Seungcheol is a coiled spring about to snap
“Don’t you have patients?”
“Had,” Jeonghan corrects, resting his chin in his palm “You’re spiraling,” he says plainly.
“I’m not.”
“You are. And you’re doing it badly. Everyone could see it in the ER—the big, bad chief surgeon suddenly hovering like a worried husband, stitching so carefully you looked like you were sewing silk. It was… touching.”
But Jeonghan doesn’t back off. He never has. “Look, I’m not here to poke. Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, lips twitching. “But you need to hear this, Cheol. You saw her. You saw them. And it shook you. Pretending otherwise is pointless.”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, slow and furious. “She… left. Two years ago. Without a word. Without—” He cuts himself off, fists curling against the desk. “I don’t get to feel anything about her anymore.”
“Then why do you?” Jeonghan asks smoothly, tilting his head. “Why did you pay her bill without blinking? Why did you look like you were bleeding every time Eunji cried?”
Seungcheol finally slams his pen down, the sharp crack echoing. “Because she’s a child, Jeonghan. A patient.”
But he doesn’t acknowledge the part where he called the admin office earlier to settle everything himself. WIth a very specific instruction to not let you know it was him who paid. But Jeonghan knew it even without asking.
Jeonghan leans forward, tone gentler now. “You don’t have to say it. I won’t either. But you and I both know the math. The timeline. The resemblance. You’re not an idiot, Cheol. You’re just… scared to ask the question.”
Seungcheol stares at him, and for once, there’s no mask of command, no iron shield of authority. Just rawness.
Jeonghan sits back, letting the silence stretch, then adds, “She left you, yeah. But maybe not for the reason you think. Maybe not for you at all.”
Seungcheol presses his palms to his eyes, shoulders heaving once, like the weight of it is finally too much.
And Jeonghan, smooth but honest as always, says quietly, “You’ve been running for two years. Maybe it’s time you stop.”
Seungcheol’s laugh is short, sharp, and bitter. It doesn’t even sound like him. It’s hollow. “Doesn’t matter. She still left.”
“And maybe it wasn’t even what she wanted.”
That makes Seungcheol’s jaw tick.
“We were drowning, Cheol,” Jeonghan goes on, voice calm but firm. “Neck-deep in residency, running on fumes, operating like machines. You really think she woke up one day and decided she didn’t love you?”
Seungcheol stares off past Jeonghan’s shoulder, but his mind isn’t in the room anymore. It’s two years back, that night. The night he still can’t scrub from memory no matter how many times he’s tried.
He sees himself, fresh from a thirty-hour shift, stumbling into the tiny apartment you shared, finding your suitcase half-packed.
He hears his own voice, ragged, desperate. “Don’t do this. Please, baby, don’t— I’ll do better. I’ll fix it. Just… stay. Please”
He remembers falling to his knees right there in the living room, hands clutching yours like a lifeline. Begging. Promising. Bargaining.
And he remembers your silence. The way you pulled away. The way the door shut behind you.
No explanation. No reason. Just gone.
The memory punches the air out of his lungs even now, and he forces himself back to the present, blinking hard.
Jeonghan studies him quietly, like he knows exactly what scene is playing in his head. “You’ve carried that night like it was the truth,” he says softly. “But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just… survival. Hers, and yours.”
Seungcheol’s fingers curl into fists on his desk, his throat is locked tight, like the words might choke him if he tries.
“You think you’ve moved on. You haven’t. And now… she’s back. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
Seungcheol’s voice cracks through the silence, low and sharp:
“Then why didn’t she tell me?”
Jeonghan lifts a brow, calm as ever. “Why would I know? She was your girlfriend. You knew her better than anyone. I should be the one asking you that.”
The retort lands harder than intended. Seungcheol opens his mouth, then shuts it again, no words forming. Because the truth is already clawing its way to the surface.
He did know you. Better than anyone. Better than you ever wanted to be known.
And you weren’t selfish. You never were.
You were the type to hide a headache so he wouldn’t worry before a surgery. The type to cook even after your own twelve-hour shifts, just because you didn’t want him running on instant noodles. The type to laugh and tell him “I’m fine” even when you weren’t because you thought his burdens were heavier, more important.
You’d bleed out quietly before you ever let him see you struggle.
And suddenly… the pieces shift.
What if that’s what happened? What if you left, not because you stopped loving him, but because you loved him too much? Because he was already drowning in residency, clawing his way toward his then dream, and you thought you were just another weight on his back?
The thought claws at him, hot and suffocating. His chest feels too tight.
He remembers those long nights when you sat at the kitchen counter waiting for him, even when he came home past midnight. The way your smile never wavered, even when your eyes were rimmed red from crying alone.
He remembers your voice soft, steady, even when he was snapping from stress. “You’re doing amazing, Cheol. Don’t worry about me.”
He thought you were fine. You made him believe you were fine. But what if you weren’t? What if you walked away not because you wanted to but because you thought it was the only way he’d get where he needed to go?
The realization twists in his gut until he’s gripping the edge of his desk, knuckles bone-white.
Jeonghan watches him closely, not interrupting, letting it all land.
And Seungcheol, for the first time in years, lets the possibility sink in. That the night you left wasn’t betrayal. It was sacrifice.
And it wrecks him more than the anger ever did.
=
It’s been days of chaos in his head.
The office is silent when Seungcheol finally does it.
He’s been staring at his phone for an hour. His thumb hovers over your name. The one that never left his contacts, no matter how many times he told himself to delete it.
For years, the number was just… there. A ghost in his phone. Untouched. Untouchable.
Because you had blocked him, and he learned to stop trying.
But tonight, he breaks his own rule.
He presses call.
And it rings.
His heart lurches so violently he has to sit back, breath caught in his throat. It’s ringing. It’s actually ringing.
You unblocked him.
“Hello?”
Your voice. On the other end. Familiar, achingly so. It’s like the years collapse in a second, dragging him right back to three a.m. conversations and whispered promises.
For a moment, he can’t breathe.
“…Cheol?” You say his name like you’re not sure it’s real
He swallows, forces his voice steady, though it comes out rough. “Y/n.”
There’s silence, the kind that feels alive, charged. He hears faint background noise—maybe Eunji fussing, the shuffle of movement—and it makes his chest tighten.
“I—” He clears his throat, tries again. “Can we meet?”
“Meet?” Your voice wavers, half cautious, half startled
“Yes.” His answer comes too quickly, too raw. “Just… to talk.”
Another stretch of silence. He imagines you biting your lip, the way you always did when you were torn between yes and no.
Finally, you exhale softly. “Alright.”
Seungcheol closes his eyes, the first real breath in days filling his lungs.
The day arrived too fast and too slow. Choi Seungcheol had walked down countless hospital corridors, faced impossible decisions on operating tables, told families news that shattered worlds yet none of that made his chest pound the way it did now, standing in front of a modest apartment door.
Your door.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had pictured a café, a neutral table between you, not being pulled straight into your world. The world you built without him.
Earlier you sent him a message.
Sorry, Eunji’s not feeling well. Didn’t want to leave her. If you don’t mind, here’s the address.
The message that led him here. That explained why, instead of the sterile hum of hospital air, he was breathing in the faint warmth of a lived-in apartment building.
He stared at the numbers on your door, feeling like they meant something. Like he should have memorized them long ago.
He lifted his hand, knocked once, then froze as faint sounds trickled from inside. The shuffle of feet. A soft, sleepy whine.
The lock clicked.
And then there you were.
The years hadn’t dulled the way his chest reacted to you. You stood in the doorway, hair loosely tied back, face bare except for the shadow of exhaustion beneath your eyes. You looked so much the same, and yet entirely different.
“Cheol…” you said, quiet, as if testing the reality of him standing there.
He swallowed. His voice betrayed him anyway, rough around the edges. “Y/n.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
You shifted, drawing his gaze back to you. “Sorry, she’s been running a low fever all day. She finally fell asleep a little while ago. I didn’t want to drag her out just to—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He cleared his throat. “I don’t mind.”
Another beat of silence. You stepped aside, tugging your sweater sleeve nervously. “Do you… want to come in?”
He hesitated for half a second, then stepped inside.
The warmth of your apartment wrapped around him immediately. The faint scent of fabric softener and baby powder. The soft hum of a heater in the corner. The world you built, without him in it.
He stood there, not knowing whether to sit or keep standing, until you gestured toward the small dinning table. “You can sit. I’ll get us some tea.”
As you disappeared into the kitchen, he sits down, staring at the toys in the corner, the blanket on the sofa. Every detail hit him like an accusation and a lifeline all at once.
You came back with two mugs, setting one in front of him. Your fingers brushed the rim as you slid it toward him, and for the briefest second, it felt like old times.
Then you sat across from him, tucking your legs under you, keeping a careful distance.
“So…” you began, voice soft, eyes lowered. “You said you wanted to talk.”
“Do you regret it?”
He looked at you fully now, eyes dark, searching. But he didn’t say it. Didn’t name what it was. The breakup. The silence. The years. The little girl sleeping in the other room.
You inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between you. “We both have things we regret, Cheol.”
He leaned back, dragging a hand down his face, then stared at the ceiling as though the answer might be carved up there. But his eyes betrayed him because every few seconds they drifted back. To the tiny shoes by the door. The sippy cup on the table. A pink plush rabbit tucked near the couch cushions.
You caught the flicker each time. He didn’t ask, but he wanted to. His restraint was almost louder than words.
“Cheol,” you said softly, and his eyes snapped to yours.
You held his gaze, even though it made your chest ache. “If you came here tonight for answers… you should just ask. You’ve never been the type to circle around things.”
His jaw clenched. For a moment, you thought he might finally say it. The question was sitting heavy on both your tongues but he didn’t ask. Not yet.
And you knew. You knew him well enough to see it. The war in his head, the question he was choking back.
You sat there, staring down into your untouched tea, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve. And then—
“So it’s true, then.”
His voice was steady, but it hit you like a weight. Your eyes shot up to find him looking at you, gaze sharp and unflinching, every ounce of restraint stripped away.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came. No words. Just the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
He saw enough. The flicker in your expression, the way your fingers froze before fidgeting again. He saw it, and his chest tightened, splintering.
“So it’s true,” he repeated, softer this time. And then, like the words dragged knives through his throat: “Why would you… why did you—” He cut himself off, jaw locking. “Was that why you broke up with me?”
Your lips parted, but you couldn’t meet his eyes. You stared at your hands instead, voice small, uneven. “I didn’t want to hold you back.”
“Hold me back?” His voice rose, not loud but sharp, trembling with the kind of anger that comes from hurt. He shot up from tje seat, pacing once before whipping back around to you.
“You think—” His chest heaved. “You think you were holding me back? y/n, I was—” He pressed a hand to his chest like he couldn’t contain it, voice cracking. “You were the only thing keeping me together. I was drowning every day in that hospital, and the only reason I got through it was because I knew I’d come home to you.”
Your eyes stung, but you forced yourself to look at him. He was flushed, furious.
“I begged you,” he said hoarsely, voice dropping, breaking. “That night—I begged you to stay. And you just walked away. You left me thinking I wasn’t enough for you anymore. That you didn’t love me anymore.”
“Cheol…” you whispered, but your voice wavered, guilt twisting in your chest
He laughed then, bitter, shaking his head. “Do you know what it did to me? Two years, Y/n. Two years of trying to convince myself it was over. That it had to be. And all this time—” His throat worked, eyes glassy as they flicked once toward the closed bedroom door where Eunji slept. “All this time…”
The words trailed off, heavy with everything he couldn’t yet say.
You gripped your sleeves tighter, blinking hard, voice small. “I thought I was protecting you.”
He stared at you like the floor had been ripped from under him. His voice, when it came, was raw, almost breaking.
“You didn’t protect me. You destroyed me.”
The words cracked through the air like thunder. You flinched, guilt burning under your skin, but the defensiveness shot up before you could stop it.
“I did it for you,” you snapped, louder than you intended, your voice shaking. “You had your career, Cheol—you were killing yourself every day at the hospital, barely eating, barely sleeping, and I was just—just another weight! How could I—”
“You don’t get to decide that!” His voice cut clean through yours, harsh and raw.
“You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle, y/n! You—” he jabbed a finger toward you, his hand trembling, “—you took away my choice. You shut me out. You didn’t even let me try.”
You bit your lip hard, tears stinging, but your jaw locked as you fired back, “And what, Cheol? What would’ve happened if I had stayed, huh? You already barely had time to breathe. What would you have done with a baby and me weighing you down?”
“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare call Eunji a weight.” he says, anger barely contained
“That's what you thought! That’s what you made me believe all these years. That I wasn’t enough for you, that you wanted out. But it wasn’t that, was it? It was you deciding for the both of us that I wasn’t strong enough. That we weren’t strong enough.”
Your voice cracked, your fists balled tight against your lap. “I thought if I told you, you’d look at me differently. That you’d resent me. That I’d be the thing that ruined you.”
His face crumpled, the rage folding into heartbreak, but his voice still thundered. “You ruined me by leaving!”
Both of you stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked, every word hanging heavy between you. And then…
“Eomma…”
The faint, sleepy call from behind the bedroom door broke through the storm in an instant. You froze, tears still clinging to your lashes. Seungcheol’s head whipped toward the sound, his anger slamming into a wall of reality so fast it made his chest ache.
“Eomma?” Eunji’s little voice wavered again, soft and seeking
You were already up, wiping your cheeks, rushing toward the door before her voice cracked further. Seungcheol stood rooted to the floor, heart hammering in his throat, every muscle tight, the fight still buzzing in his veins but now layered with something else entirely.
You press the back of your hand to Eunji’s forehead, trying to gauge her temperature. Too warm. Too warm for comfort. You hum softly, rocking her in your arms, more for your own grounding than hers.
“I’ll get your medicine, baby,” you whisper against her hair, easing her back onto the pillows and tucking the blanket around her small body
When you step out into the living room, clutching the bottle of children’s paracetamol from the shelf, your eyes flicker to him still standing there like he hasn’t moved an inch.
Seungcheol. Your ex. Her father.
He’s staring at you, at the medicine in your hand, and it hits you like a physical blow. His eyes aren’t the sharp, furious ones from before. They’re focused, calculating, familiar in a way you hadn’t seen in years. The same way he used to look over his charts, his patients, steady and in control.
But this time it isn’t a stranger on a hospital bed. It’s his daughter in the other room.
Before you can fumble for words, he’s already moving.
“What’s her temperature?” His voice is low, clipped, all business now, but his hand is already reaching for the thermometer on the counter like it belongs in his hand.
You blink, clutching the medicine bottle tighter. “…I haven’t checked yet.”
He takes it gently but firmly from your hand, not unkind, just instinct. His doctor instinct. Or maybe something else now
“Did you give her any dose yet?” He asks, already shaking down the thermometer, his movements so precise you remember all over again how much of him belongs in this world of order and emergencies.
“No,” you whisper. “I was about to.”
“Let me.” It isn’t a request. Not really.
And for the first time tonight, you see the war inside him quiet just enough for one truth to break through. Whatever else stands between you, Eunji comes first.
Seungcheol, crouched beside Eunji’s tiny bed. The man you loved, the man you left, the man you tried to protect even from this. His broad shoulders look out of place in the soft little world you’ve built: the pastel blankets, the stuffed bunny tucked by Eunji’s side, the childish stars stuck to the wall.
He leans close, brushing his palm carefully over Eunji’s flushed forehead. You can see the precision in his movements, years of practice distilled into this one moment but beneath it, there’s something else. His hand lingers too long, his thumb trembling just slightly against her soft hair, as if touching her makes everything too real.
Your breath hitches.
It’s suffocating. Terrfying. And yet… it’s also something you never thought you’d witness. Him here, with her.
“She’s burning up… we’ll bring it down. Don’t worry, sweetheart.” The gentleness of his tone pierces through you, so at odds with the sharpness of the argument minutes ago.
“…Cheol.”
He doesn’t turn around. His eyes stay on Eunji, watching the rise and fall of her chest, as though if he looks away she’ll vanish.
You swallow hard, your hands twisting together. Try again, softer, more broken.
“Cheol… I’m sorry.”
The silence stretches. He adjusts the blanket around Eunji’s small frame, and for a heartbeat you think he won’t answer at all.
“Don’t.”
Not yet. Because for the first time since you left, he’s touching the proof of what was stolen from him and sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Seungcheol’s palms are steady against Eunji’s tiny body, but everything inside him feels like it’s shattering.
Her skin is hot under his touch, the fever still climbing, and he knows exactly what to do. Years of training, a thousand patients, countless nights spent saving lives. His hands move on instinct: cool cloth on her forehead, careful checks of her pulse, her breathing. The motions are automatic. Controlled. Professional.
But nothing about this is professional.
This isn’t just another child. This is his.
His daughter.
The realization pulses in his chest with every tiny whimper Eunji makes. Every cry cuts him deeper than any scalpel could. She looks so much like you. Your little nose, your soft cheeks but when she shifts, when her lips press together, a faint dimple flickers at the corner of her mouth. That’s his. That’s him in her.
And it destroys him.
All this time. All those years he spent trying to bury the ghost of you, convincing himself you were gone, that whatever future you’d once whispered about in the dark was nothing but a cruel fantasy. He told himself you didn’t want it, didn’t want him. That maybe you wanted someone else, another life.
But this… this little girl with flushed cheeks and trembling hands, she’s proof of everything you both dreamed of. Proof you kept from him.
His jaw clenches as he squeezes the cloth in his hand, water dripping onto the floor. Anger simmers low in his stomach, but it’s tangled with something worse. Hurt so deep he doesn’t know how to hold it.
You thought he couldn’t handle it. You thought you’d be too much. As if this wasn’t the very life he aimed for, worked for, bled for.
As if he hadn’t once told you that his future was only worth anything if you were in it.
And now? Now he’s missed her first steps. Her first words. The sound of her laugh. The way her hair smells after a bath. All those small, irreplaceable moments that should have been his.
What if Jeonghan hadn’t said anything? What if he hadn’t been in the ER that day? Would you have kept it forever? Would his daughter have grown up never knowing him?
The thought twists inside him, ugly and raw.
He adjusts Eunji’s blanket, brushing a trembling thumb over the curve of her tiny hand. She grips it weakly, fingers barely wrapping around his. And the world tilts.
It’s so much, all at once and still not enough.
By the time Eunji’s fever finally dips, the tension in your small apartment is unbearable.
Seungcheol sits back, eyes fixed on her sleeping face as if memorizing it, as if he’ll forget the moment he looks away.
When he finally stands, his voice is low, clipped. “Keep her hydrated. Small sips. Monitor her temp every two hours. If it spikes again, bring her in immediately.”
That’s all. No more, no less.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t trust himself to because the weight pressing against his ribs isn’t just exhaustion. t’s fury, grief, longing all tangled into one sharp edge. And he knows if he lets one word slip, it’ll cut you.
He doesn’t want to put that on you. Not now. Not while his daughter rests in the next room.
So he turns. Each step out the door feels like dragging chains. Heavy. Reluctant. And final.
The night air bites his skin as he exhales sharply, pulling out his phone. One name, one number. He doesn’t even think.
“Bar. Now.”
Jeonghan is already seated with a half-empty glass when Seungcheol arrives, his white shirt sleeves shoved up, his hair a mess from running his hand through it a hundred times on the way over.
He doesn’t order. Just takes the drink Jeonghan slides across the table and downs it in one go, throat burning.
“Rough night?” Jeonghan drawls, though his eyes sharpen the moment he takes in Seungcheol’s face
Seungcheol laughs bitterly, the sound flat. “You could say that.”
“Enlighten me.”
For a long beat, Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He just stares into the amber swirl at the bottom of his glass. But then it bursts, all the words, all the questions he’s been holding in since the ER.
“She’s mine.”
Jeonghan blinks. “...Eunji?”
Seungcheol nods once, jaw tight, like saying it again might split him in half. “She’s mine. Y/N. I went to her place. Eunji’s mine. She’s my daughter.”
Jeonghan leans back, lips pressing together, not surprised but solemn
“And she never told me,” Seungcheol continues, voice cracking under the strain. “Two years. Three months and two fucking years, Jeonghan. That’s how long it’s been since she let me… she let me go. Let me suffer, thinking she didn’t want me. Meanwhile, my daughter was out there.”
He downs the rest of the liquid in one go before setting the empty glass on the table.
“I missed everything. Her first laugh, her first steps, all of it. What kind of father doesn’t even know his child exists?” His voice fractures, thick with something between rage and despair
Jeonghan studies him carefully, sipping slow. Then, calm as ever: “The kind who didn’t know he was one.”
Seungcheol’s throat works, but he can’t answer.
Jeonghan sighs, setting his glass down. “Cheol, you’re allowed to be angry. God knows you have every right. But you also know Y/N isn’t cruel. If she kept this from you, there’s a reason and it wasn’t because she stopped loving you.”
“She robbed me of her,” he whispers, more to himself than to Jeonghan. “And I don’t know if I can forgive that.”
“You will,” Jeonghan says flatly, but not unkind. “You already did, Cheol. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Seungcheol glares into his glass “I didn’t do anything.”
“You tucked a fevered child in a blanket like you were patching a graft, you told Y/N how to give paracetamol like you were reciting orders you don’t trust yourself to give. That’s not ‘did nothing.’ That’s already soft, and you don’t get to pretend you’re unsoftable.”
“You don’t know what that’s like,” Seungcheol snaps. “You weren’t the one left wondering every night if… if I had failed at everything. If she left because I wasn’t enough.”
Jeonghan’s expression softens for one fraction of a second before his usual mischief reasserts itself. “Maybe I don’t know but I watched you stare at the ceiling at three a.m., thinking you ruined everything with silence. But you also never asked why she left. You wrapped yourself in your martyrdom and never gave her the chance to be a person who had reasons.” He leans forward
“She wasn’t selfish, Cheol. You aren’t the only one who does things to protect.”
Seungcheol looks away, the bar lights carving shadows into his cheekbones. “So what, Han? What am I supposed to do now? Walk back into her life and beg? Claim a daughter I don’t even know? Make up for two years with apologies and bought toys?”
Jeonghan snorts “First, stop with the theatrical moral panic. Second, don’t come in with grand gestures and apologies. You will break her, or you’ll break yourself. Be practical. Be honest. Be present.”
Seungcheol’s laugh is humorless. “And that won’t get me punched in the face by a woman who decided for me?”
“Maybe.” Jeonghan shrugs. “Maybe she’ll slam the door. Maybe she’ll fling a plate. Or maybe she’ll hand you a blanket and ask you to take care of your daughter’s fever. You don’t know until you stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t get explained. Which brings us to step three: find out why. Not to destroy her with accusations, but to understand. If you want to be a father, you need context as much as resolve.”
“And if I can’t forgive?” he asks, voice small enough that Jeonghan looks up
Jeonghan’s face goes quiet, not cruel now but frank
“Then you don’t,” he says. “But be there when your child needs you. Eunji doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of the mess her parents made when all they wanted to do was protect each other. You might have not known she existed but we both know Eunji was made with every bit love you both have or had for each other”
Seungcheol squeezes his glass until the ice clicks. The image persists in his mind—the little hand that barely clenched his thumb, the dimple on the laughing cheek, the tiny, hot body he’d tucked in like something sacred. Anger mingles with something softer: a fierce, aching protectiveness that terrifies him because it’s so immediate and irretrievable.
Jeonghan grins, sensing the thaw “I knew you’d get there. You always do. You’re stubborn, terrible with emotions, and spectacular at falling in love in a way that ruins your serenity. It’s why you became a surgeon—precise, committed, impossible to walk away from once you invest.” He leans in conspiratorially
“So?” Jeonghan asks, lowering his voice. “What’s the play? Are you going to run back to her apartment at dawn with a coffee and a surgical textbook? Are you going to call and beg? Are you going to lurk outside the pediatric ward like some gothic dad?”
“Shut up.” Seungcheol says, but there’s no heat to it. For the first time since Jeonghan started prodding, he sounds like a man making a decision rather than a man reacting to a memory.
“I’ll go back,” he says. “Not to beg. Not to demand. To ask. To be there if she wants me. To see her—my daughter. And to hear why.”
“Amen. Practical, lethal, slightly terrifying”
Jeonghan raises his glass in a mock toast. “And Cheol? Try not to look like you’re scheduling an operation when you talk to them. It’ll freak the kid out.”
Seungcheol lets a small, reluctant smile ghost his lips. It’s not victory. It’s not closure. It’s a first, honest step, and it tastes like the only thing he can live with: moving toward what’s broken rather than running from it.
The next day Seungcheol had barely sat down. Just having finished a complicated surgery that lasted the entire night, notes still open on his desk, when his phone buzzed.
[Jeonghan: She’s here. ER with Eunji. Fever’s not breaking.]
One blink, he’s in his office. The next, he’s striding through the corridors, his coat flaring behind him, pace clipped and urgent.
“Chief?” a junior resident calls after him, confused, but Seungcheol doesn’t answer
By the time he pushes through the ER doors, the room is in motion. Patients on gurneys, monitors beeping, nurses weaving around. It’s familiar chaos. But to him, there’s only one sound.
The small, fretful cry of a child.
He finds you immediately, clutching a flushed Eunji to your chest, panic etched into every line of your face. In three strides he’s there, voice firm, steady.
“What happened?”
Your head snaps up, eyes wide. You hadn’t expected him but before you can speak, he’s already reaching for Eunji. His hands are out, waiting, commanding
“She’s burning up,” you stammer. “I gave her the medicine like you said, but it’s not helping—”
“Give her to me.”
The authority in his voice leaves no room for hesitation. You swallow hard and transfer her into his arms, watching as this man—the one who had once held your heart, who now holds your daughter—moves with precision and a tenderness that hurts to witness.
“Temp?” he snaps toward a nurse
“39.8, Chief.”
“Cool compress. IV line. CBC, urine test, chest x-ray, rule out secondary infection. Move.”
The staff scramble, a few exchanging bewildered glances. The intimidating Chief Choi is cradling a baby girl like she’s glass, his thumb brushing circles over her tiny back as he murmurs something soft enough that only you can hear.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
The nurse beside him falters, nearly dropping the chart. No one’s ever heard that tone from him before. You stand frozen, hands twisting together. It feels like déjà vu, the way he takes command, the way the entire room bends to his will.
But this time it isn’t for a stranger’s child. It’s for yours. For his.
Eunji’s small fingers stayed wrapped tightly around Seungcheol’s, her palm damp with fever-sweat, her body shifting restlessly on the pedia bed. Every time you tried coaxing her to let go, she whimpered and clung harder.
“Eunji-ah, sweetheart,” you whispered, brushing her hair back. “Eomma’s here, too. You can hold my hand.”
But the little girl only whined softly, knuckles pale from how tightly she gripped Seungcheol’s thumb.
You exhaled, heart caught somewhere between relief and something heavier. “Cheol, maybe—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in, low and even, his eyes never leaving Eunji’s flushed face. His free hand kept adjusting the blanket.
You looked at him, then glanced around. A couple of nurses by the station were sneaking curious looks in your direction, whispering behind clipboards. You could already imagine the talk: Chief Choi barging into ER, staying glued to a pediatric bed, a child clutching his hand like he belonged there.
You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly. “Cheol… we can wait like everyone else outside. She’s not—”
His head snapped toward you, eyes sharp. “She’s not fine,” he interrupted, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “And she’s not waiting out there.”
Then he drew in a breath, steadied himself, and with the faintest shake of his head, murmured,
“Don’t worry about it.”
The door swung open gently, and a young pediatrician stepped in, clipboard in hand. Her brows arched when she spotted Seungcheol standing there
“Chief?” she blinked, surprised. “Is this… your case?”
You stiffened, words caught in your throat. You wanted to answer, wanted to keep things neutral, careful but Seungcheol beat you to it. He straightened, meeting her gaze with the weight of something final, something unshakable.
“Daughter,” he said. No hesitation, no faltering. His eyes flickered briefly to you, then back to the doctor. “My daughter.”
The pediatrician blinked, then smiled faintly, a touch of amusement curling at her lips. “I see.”
She pulled up a stool and settled beside Eunji, who still clung stubbornly to Seungcheol’s hand
Seungcheol crouched lower, murmuring softly, “Eunji-ah, it’s okay. Just for a moment, alright? Appa’s right here.”
The word slipped out naturally, instinctively and your heart lurched so hard it almost hurt.
Eunji blinked at him with fever-heavy eyes but allowed the doctor to place the stethoscope against her chest. Seungcheol’s other hand hovered close, ready to steady her if she flinched. His gaze was sharp, his tone professional when he asked, “What’s her temperature trend since this morning?”
You cleared your throat “It spiked after breakfast. I gave her the paracetamol but…” Your voice trailed
He nodded, then shifted his focus back to the pediatrician. “Have you ruled out an infection? Any blood work needed?”
The woman chuckled softly, glancing between him and Eunji. “Chief, you’re hovering like a resident on their first pedia rotation.”
But Seungcheol didn’t so much as flinch at the tease “She’s burning up. I want everything checked—lungs, ears, throat. Order the labs if necessary. Don’t miss anything.”
The pediatrician gave a small, knowing nod, jotting notes as she worked. “Understood.”
AFter the pedia checks a few more things she gave the notes to the nurses and excuses herself. Seungcheol’s attention still on the little girl holding on his thumb like a lifeline.
The moment he tried to slip free, her lip wobbled, and a soft whimper escaped her throat.
“Eunji-ah…” His voice broke around the edges, the sigh heavy in his chest. “Appa has to go for a little while.”
Her eyes watered, confusion clouded in fever. The sound of her crying hit him harder than any scalpel ever could. He froze there for a second too long, staring at the child he had only just been told was his, and already… already she had him. Completely. Utterly.
His throat tightened. So this is what it feels like, he thought bitterly, chest aching. To only just know about her and still feel like you’d give up the whole world just to stop her from crying.
A nurse hovered at the doorway, hesitating. “Chief, your meeting is about to start, and they’ve prepped the OR…”
He nodded stiffly, forcing himself upright. He smoothed Eunji’s blanket gently, fingers lingering longer than necessary. “I’ll be back,” he murmured. “Stay with eomma. Appa will come back.”
For the first time in years, Choi Seungcheol, the man who never wavered in surgery, never lost his cool in chaos felt powerless. Because no matter how good he was at fixing the broken, he couldn’t stitch back the years he had missed with his daughter.
Hours later the door slid open quietly, and you lifted your head from where you’d been half-slumped against the side of the bed.
There he was, scrubs rumpled from hours in the OR, white coat hanging heavy off his shoulders, his hair damp with the kind of sweat only stress and surgery could bring. His eyes were ringed with exhaustion, but the moment they found Eunji, something shifted.
Before you could say anything, Eunji spotted him. Her little head lifted, her fever-flushed cheeks wet from earlier tears. And then her tiny arms stretched out, fingers grasping toward him with a determined little whimper.
You blinked, stunned. She had never done that with anyone except you. Not even your mom, not even the sitter she saw every other day.
Seungcheol froze in the doorway as if the air had been punched out of him. For a heartbeat he didn’t movebut then Eunji made another sound and he crossed the room in two long strides.
The second he scooped her up, she nestled against his chest, tucking her tiny face beneath his chin. Her breathing slowed almost instantly, the tension in her little body easing as though she’d been waiting for him all along.
For him, it was suffocating and liberating at once. Holding her, he realized what he had missed, but also what he couldn’t let himself lose again. From the moment Eunji latched onto him, it was like she had decided something he didn’t even get a say in.
Seungcheol stayed seated on the edge of the hospital bed, her small frame tucked securely against his chest. She was so light, so impossibly small compared to the weight she carried in his heart.
Every now and then, she shifted in her sleep, a little whimper leaving her lips before she burrowed closer, tiny fists gripping at his scrub top as if daring him to try and let go.
Nurses came in quietly, checking her vitals, the IV line, her forehead. Each time, she clung tighter, a faint whine escaping, and he’d instinctively murmur something low and soothing into her hair. She calmed almost instantly.
One of the nurses smiled at him, whispering like they were intruding on something sacred. “Chief, she doesn’t want anyone else.”
He glanced down at Eunji’s flushed cheeks, the way her lashes rested against her skin. His lips tugged into the faintest smile. “Guess I don’t have a choice, huh?”
She was cleared a little later. No infections. Fever trending down. Nothing more than a stubborn viral bug. Jeonghan had texted updates to his phone earlier, but Seungcheol hadn’t even looked. He didn’t need reassurance from labs or reports. He could feel her heartbeat steady against him, feel her breathing regulate. That was enough.
“Chief, do you want us to—”
He waved off the nurse before she could finish. “I’ve got her.” His voice was firm, but gentle, like there was no room for debate.
The staff exchanged looks but didn’t press. They weren’t used to this side of him. Now here he was, rocking ever so slightly, rubbing soft circles against the back of a child who clung to him like her life depended on it.
At some point, Eunji let out a small sneeze, followed by a hiccup of a laugh, her little nose scrunching as if she found her wn sound funny.
“Cute,” he murmured under his breath, almost in disbelief, like the word didn’t quite capture it.
Beneath the soft moment, the storm in his chest never fully quieted. Every time she squeezed him tighter, every time she refused to let anyone else near, it hurt. Because it was proof of all the months—years—he hadn’t been there to earn this trust, to be the one she reached for. She didn’t know him, not really. Yet she held on like she did. Like something in her recognized him anyway.
And that thought alone made his throat tighten, his arms instinctively pulling her even closer.
The room had fallen into that strange hush hospitals knew too well. You sat in the chair by the bed, hands knotted together in your lap. His back was stiff, but his arms never faltered, cradling her like she was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever held.
It felt suffocating. the weight of everything unsaid between you.
Finally, you cleared your throat softly. “You don’t… have to stay.”
He didn’t look up. “She doesn’t want to let go.” His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the strain underneath it.
“You must be exhausted. Surgery, meetings… and now this.”
“I’ve been more exhausted,” he said simply. His eyes stayed on Eunji, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into her back. “This doesn’t… feel like work.”
Your chest tightened. You looked down, staring at your hands, trying to find courage where there wasn’t any. “Cheol…”
That finally made him glance at you. And God, the weight of his gaze was sharp, but tired, wounded. Like he’d aged years in the span of days.
“Why?” His voice cracked around the single word, softer than you’d ever heard it
You swallowed hard, eyes burning. “I told you. I didn’t want to hold you back.”
“You keep saying that like it makes sense. Like you didn’t rip my heart out without giving me the chance to choose.” His arms tightened around Eunji, his jaw clenching “Do you know what it’s like? To wake up every day and wonder what I did wrong? To spend years trying to bury you when I didn’t even have a grave to mourn over?”
Your tears slipped free before you could stop them. “I was scared, Cheol. You were already killing yourself with the hours, the pressure… I couldn’t be another burden. I thought—”
“Burden?” His eyes flashed, but he kept his voice low for the sleeping child in his arms. “You and her—” he looked down at Eunji, his expression breaking into something raw, painful, “—you were never a burden. You were the life I wanted. The one I thought we both wanted.”
Your throat closed. You wanted to speak, to explain, but the words tangled in guilt and fear.
For a moment, silence stretched. He looked back at you, gaze heavy, filled with things you didn’t know how to answer. Then, softer, almost a whisper: “Would you have told me if we never ran into each other again? Or were you going to let me die never knowing I had a daughter?”
The words stabbed deeper than any scalpel, and you broke down right there, covering your face with trembling hands.
Seungcheol’s knuckles tightened slightly where they rested on Eunji’s back. He had promised himself he wouldn’t break. Not here, not in front of you. He’d told himself he’d keep the wall up, that anger was safer.
But when he finally looked over at you, at the way your shoulders shook, your face buried in your hands, something in him fractured. You weren’t strong right now. You weren’t the woman who walked away with a steel spine and didn’t look back.
You were trembling, broken, weighed down by guilt.
And God help him, he’d never been good at watching you fall apart.
Before he knew it, his body was moving. Careful not to jostle Eunji too much, he adjusted her, cradling her tiny frame securely in one arm as he stood. His steps were quiet across the floor, but his heartbeat roared in his ears.
You didn’t notice until his shadow fell over you. Then, before you could look up, his free arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders, pulling you into him like no time had passed at all.
You stiffened, breath hitching, but the moment his chin dipped against the top of your head, the fight left you. Your hands clutched at his coat, clutching the fabric like it was the only thing holding you up.
He didn’t speak. He just held you, tighter than he should’ve, his fingers pressing against your shoulder as if trying to anchor you to him. The weight of Eunji between you made the embrace strange, clumsy even but in some twisted way, it felt whole.
Like the three of you fit together in a way neither of you could deny anymore.
You muffled a sob against his chest. “Cheol, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes squeezed shut, the words digging into the cracks already splitting him apart. He wanted to tell you how sorry wasn’t enough. That he wanted the years back, the nights he spent trying to forget you, the milestones of his daughter he never got to see.
But his voice failed him. All that came out was a shaky exhale, the sound of a man who’d been carrying too much for too long.
“Don’t—” His voice cracked, and he steadied it with effort. “Don’t disappear on me again.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, “I don’t care how mad you get, how scared you feel. Don’t ever do that again.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks anew, but you nodded, voice trembling. “I won’t. I swear.”
For a long moment, nothing else mattered. Not the years lost, not the arguments still waiting to happen. Just the warmth of his arm around you, the steady weight of your daughter nestled between you, and the quiet truth neither of you could run from anymore.
He pressed his forehead lightly against yours. His chest ached, still heavy with heartbreak, but for the first time since that night two years ago, there was a flicker of something else too.
