hi, i know this is a huge shot in the dark but wanted to just let you know i very much enjoyed the photographer jae x photographer reader x architect johnny fic :) those are my fave boys of all time ever and jae made my heart do lil flips. miss that guy
Aww thx a lot love <3 yeah missing jae is valid but hey atleast we got our neo king tae back😩🤍
Hi! I love reading your fics but I’m wondering if you’d be able to create a masterlist on your bio where we can find all the fics in one place? This makes it easier for us readers to re-read our favourites 😍😍😍
Hey love. I'll DEF make a masterlist soonnnn dw. Makes me happy to know some of y'all reread my stories 🥺💗 I'll try and upload more <3
thank you for keeping the jaehyun & johnny tags alive with your fics 🔥🫶🏻🥰 i seriously loveeee the way you wrote and portray them!!!! really can’t wait to read more of your upcoming works ✨✨✨
Aww im so glad there are ppl out there who genuinely enjoy my work, thx for reading!! 😭💗
Aww that was sweet i love enemies to lovers trope 🥰 reminds me of this one kdrama called Suspicious partner where the ML and FL always bicker but they actually have a soft spot for each other 🤣
Appreciate the feedback, means a lot. I'm glad you loved itttttt<3
Jeong Jaehyun × Reader | Rival Lawyers AU | Grumpy × Sunshine | Enemies to Lovers | Angst Humor · Romance · Soft Smut | ft. Johnny, Mark
Preview: Rivals in court, disaster everywhere else. He’s grumpy, meticulous, and impossible to impress. She’s bright, fearless, and completely immune to his scowls. When a high-stakes case forces them to team up, arguments fly, egos collide, and sparks… well, they’re unavoidable. One stolen glance, one teasing remark, one unexpected kiss—and suddenly, their carefully controlled rivalry might be the last thing they’re holding onto.
First Clash — The Courtroom
The courthouse smells like disinfectant and nerves.
You adjust the strap of your bag, balancing your files against your hip as you weave through the crowded hallway. It’s your first hearing of the week, and you’re actually—dare you say—excited. The sun’s out, your favorite blazer fits just right, and you managed to get through traffic without swearing once. A good omen.
That is, until you see him.
Jeong Jaehyun.
Standing just outside courtroom 3B in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than your rent. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, like he’s not about to verbally eviscerate someone in front of a judge. His hair is neatly parted, his expression unreadable—except for that slight crease between his brows that says he’s already three steps ahead of everyone in the room.
Your stomach twists. Of course it’s him.
The first time you went up against Jaehyun was a year ago. You’d walked into the courtroom armed with meticulous notes, a sharp smile, and just enough caffeine to conquer the world. He’d stood up, delivered a clean opening argument, and destroyed your cross-examination with surgical precision. And then he’d smirked—like he knew exactly how good he was.
That smirk still makes your blood pressure spike.
“Great,” you mutter, pushing the door open. “My week’s officially cursed.”
Inside, he’s already at the plaintiff’s table. Papers lined up in neat stacks. Pen positioned exactly parallel to the folder’s edge. He doesn’t look at you as you walk past, but the corner of his mouth twitches—barely.
“Running late,” he murmurs without turning. His voice is smooth, low. It lands like a jab.
“It’s 8:57,” you shoot back. “Court starts at nine, not Jaehyun-o’clock.”
Finally, he looks up. His gaze is steady, assessing, just a little too intense. “Some of us like to be prepared.”
You offer him your brightest, most saccharine smile. “And some of us don’t need to rehearse breathing.”
The bailiff calls the court to order before he can respond, and you both rise. As the hearing unfolds, you can feel him beside you—every movement, every objection, every quiet exhale. His arguments are clean, clinical. Yours are fiery, persuasive. The judge even raises a brow at the tension that simmers between the two of you like a live wire.
When court adjourns, Jaehyun closes his file calmly. You, on the other hand, are gripping your pen like a dagger.
“Good try,” he says as he walks past, voice annoyingly soft.
“Choke,” you whisper sweetly.
His shoulders shake once—almost like he’s laughing.
The second you step outside, your phone buzzes. Mark Lee, your best friend since university, is already calling.
“Did you win?” he asks before you can even say hello.
You sigh. “Define win. I didn’t commit homicide, so that’s a plus.”
“Jaehyun again?”
“Jaehyun again.”
You hear him snort. “You’re obsessed.”
“I hate him.”
“Uh-huh. And I hate bubble tea but drink it every other day.”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Mark—”
“No, listen. I’m telling you, one day this enemies thing is gonna implode, and I refuse to be surprised when it does.”
You ignore him, because he’s probably right and that’s infuriating.
Back at the firm, you’re halfway through organizing case notes when a shadow falls over your cubicle. You look up to see Johnny Suh, leaning against the divider with the ease of someone who’s never tripped in his life. Tall, devastating smile, sleeves rolled up just enough to make everyone in the office swoon—Johnny’s the guy who flirts like it’s an art form, but never crosses a line.
“Heard you were in court with Jaehyun this morning,” Johnny says, sipping his iced Americano. “You looked good. Feisty.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Feisty is a nice way of saying I almost threw my pen at him.”
Johnny grins. “Honestly? Would’ve paid to see that.”
He perches on the edge of your desk, all effortless charm. “Rumor is, your firm’s teaming up with his on the Kim & Han case.”
Your hands freeze over your keyboard. “…What?”
“Biggest corporate merger this quarter. Too big for one firm to handle.” He lifts his coffee in a mock toast. “Congrats, counselor. You’re going to be seeing a lot of him.”
Your heart sinks. Fantastic. Exactly what you needed—extended proximity to the one man who can simultaneously set your teeth on edge and your pulse racing.
Johnny notices your expression and chuckles. “Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad. He respects you, you know.”
You blink. “He—what?”
“Come on. You really think he’d waste his time glaring at someone he didn’t see as a threat?”
You don’t have a comeback for that.
Later that afternoon, you walk into the conference room and instantly feel the temperature drop. There he is—Jaehyun—already seated at the far end of the table, laptop open, posture perfect. He doesn’t look up when you enter. He doesn’t have to. You can feel his awareness like static.
Your boss is all smiles as he explains the partnership: joint strategy, divided responsibilities, shared travel for depositions. You try to focus, but Jaehyun’s occasional glance across the table makes it difficult. He’s so composed it’s infuriating.
When the meeting ends, you’re shoving papers into your folder when his voice stops you.
“Try not to slow us down,” he says without looking up.
“Try not to be insufferable,” you shoot back.
For a heartbeat, he looks like he might smile. But then he shuts his laptop and walks out.
You stay late that night, finalizing a portion of the brief. The office is nearly empty, lights dimmed, the hum of the printer the only sound. You stretch, rubbing your eyes, and decide to grab a coffee before heading home.
That’s when you hear it: soft jazz from one of the corner offices.
You follow the sound and find him. Jaehyun. Jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s bent over a stack of documents, focused, unaware—or pretending not to be aware—that you’re standing at his door.
He looks different like this. Less untouchable. More human.
“You’re still here,” he says, finally glancing up.
“Could say the same to you,” you reply lightly.
“I have work.”
“So do I. You’re not the only one with a martyr complex.”
He exhales through his nose—half amusement, half annoyance. “You talk too much.”
“Maybe you just don’t talk enough.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… charged.
You back away first. “Goodnight, Jeong.”
He watches you leave, his gaze lingering just a moment too long.
A Case Too Big to Ignore
Three days after your last late-night encounter with Jaehyun, your managing partner calls you both into the top floor conference room. The air is serious; folders are already laid out on the table.
“This is the Park case,” your boss says. “High-profile. Park Jihoon, 22, accused of murder during a robbery gone wrong. He swears he’s innocent. The prosecution’s gunning for life. Media’s everywhere.”
You glance across the table. Jaehyun’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten slightly around the file.
“We’re pairing you two as co-counsel,” your boss continues. “Your strengths complement each other. She connects with juries, you handle strategy. You’ll need each other to win.”
The moment you step into the hallway, you and Jaehyun speak at the same time.
“This is a disaster,” you both say.
Then you glare. He smirks. Of course.
Two nights later, the firm’s library is nearly empty. Law books tower over the long oak table where you and Jaehyun are working. Your side of the table looks like an organized storm—sticky notes, colored tabs, highlighters everywhere. His side is frighteningly neat, like a courtroom chessboard.
“You can’t just memorize the witness statements,” you argue, pacing. “You have to feel the jury. They’re people, not machines.”
“And you can’t wing it,” he counters evenly. “This isn’t a motivational speech. It’s a criminal trial. Logic wins.”
“Emotion moves logic,” you say, stabbing the air with your pen.
“Emotion distracts logic,” he shoots back.
It goes like that for hours. Strategy vs. intuition. Structure vs. improvisation. Every time you think you’ve worn him down, he throws a perfectly articulated counterargument that makes you want to strangle him—or kiss him out of sheer frustration. You can’t tell which is worse.
But then something shifts.
You’re running through a mock cross-examination of a key witness—Jaehyun playing the prosecutor, you playing defense—when he stops you mid-sentence.
“Do that again,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“That line. The way you paused. Do it again.”
He leans forward slightly, watching you as you deliver the question. For the first time, he doesn’t interrupt. He listens. And when you finish, there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes.
“That… works,” he admits.
“Of course it works,” you say, a little breathless.
Hours later, the library lights are off except for one lamp. You’re both exhausted, shoulders brushing as you review statements side by side. There’s no more bickering. Just quiet focus. It’s strange, almost peaceful.
The next morning, Johnny finds you in the hallway.
“So,” he says with a grin, “how’s boot camp with Mr. Perfect?”
You groan. “He’s infuriating. But… he’s good.”
Johnny tilts his head. “You sound surprised.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. He catches it immediately. “Ohhh,” he teases. “This is going to get interesting.”
Later that day, Mark drops by your apartment with takeout.
“I know that face,” he says, handing you noodles. “That’s your ‘I might be impressed but I’ll die before admitting it’ face.”
“Mark—”
“Don’t deny it. I love a slow burn.”
You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, laughing.
The courtroom is packed. Cameras outside. Reporters lining the halls. Jihoon sits between you and Jaehyun at the defense table, terrified.
The prosecution opens aggressively, painting Jihoon as a violent thief. You and Jaehyun exchange a glance—wordless but clear: we fight this together.
Jaehyun handles the forensic evidence: calm, razor-sharp, dismantling their timeline with surgical precision. You take the witnesses, connecting with the jury, humanizing Jihoon’s story. Slowly, piece by piece, the prosecution’s narrative starts to fray.
Midway through the cross of the key eyewitness, you stumble on a contradiction—tiny, but critical. Jaehyun catches it too. He slides a note across the table. You pivot your line of questioning, and together, you unravel the witness’s credibility in real time. It’s like watching two completely different instruments fall into harmony.
By closing arguments, it’s seamless. Jaehyun delivers the logical spine of the defense; you deliver the heart. When you finish, the courtroom is silent. Even the judge looks moved.
Hours later, the jury files back in. Everyone stands.
“We find the defendant… not guilty.”
Jihoon sobs. You exhale shakily. Jaehyun’s hand brushes yours—accidental, maybe—but neither of you pull away right away.
Outside, the media swarms. Cameras flash. Your boss beams. Jaehyun stands beside you, composed as ever, but his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“We did well,” he says.
“Yeah,” you reply. “We actually make a pretty good team.”
For a second, he looks at you—not like a rival, but like someone seeing you clearly for the first time. The air between you hums with something unspoken. Then Johnny calls your name from across the hall, breaking the spell.
Jaehyun steps back, straightening his cuffs. But the look lingers.
Close Quarters
The office is almost deserted. Only you, Jaehyun, and the hum of fluorescent lights filling the air.
You’re spread across the conference table, going over witness statements, files stacked like little paper skyscrapers. Jaehyun sits opposite, laser-focused, flipping through his own notes with surgical precision.
“You’re going way too fast,” you say, leaning forward. “If you skip over the nuances in the witness testimony, you’ll ruin your flow in court.”
“Nuances slow people down,” he counters evenly, looking up for just a second. “Efficiency wins cases, not chatter.”
You huff, exasperated. “Chatter? That’s my style, thank you very much.”
He smirks faintly, and the corner of your stomach tightens. You push back in your chair, tapping your pen on the table, refusing to look away.
“Style doesn’t win jury favor,” he mutters, voice low, controlled.
“Oh, please,” you retort. “You think you’re so perfect, don’t you?”
“I am,” he replies, deadpan.
“Arrogant,” you say with a grin, leaning a little closer across the table. “But… fine, I’ll let it slide.”
He leans forward just slightly, mirroring your movement, eyes glinting. “You will regret sliding that grin past me.”
“Or maybe you’ll like it,” you tease, heart thudding.
He freezes, jaw tightening. For a moment, the air between you thickens, electric, and you can feel his gaze like a physical weight.
You move to grab a folder, and your knee brushes his. Both of you flinch slightly. You glance up. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense, like he’s measuring every reaction, every breath.
“Careful,” he murmurs, almost too low for you to hear. “You’re… dangerously close.”
You tilt your head, playful. “Am I? Or is it just that you’re not used to someone standing their ground?”
He leans forward imperceptibly, the space between you shrinking until it’s almost unbearable. His voice drops to a near whisper.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters, voice rougher now, deeper.
“Well you love it,” you reply with a teasing smirk.
“Don’t,” he warns, low and serious. But his eyes betray him—there’s a flicker of desire, restraint, something almost desperate.
You shift slightly, drawn toward him despite the chaos in your head. His face is only inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of control in his fingers.
Time slows. You both hesitate, caught in the gravity of proximity. Then, without warning, he closes the last distance between you. His lips brush yours lightly at first, testing, asking.
Your chest lifts, fingers instinctively resting on his shoulders. The kiss deepens almost immediately—urgent, intimate, a perfect mix of playfulness and raw emotion.
It’s all the months of rivalry, tension, and mutual challenge packed into a single moment. His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady, while your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.
A loud click of heels on the tile outside the office. Another lawyer appears, retrieving files from the printer. Both of you scramble apart, hearts racing, faces flushed.
Jaehyun steps back first, adjusts his jacket, but before turning away, he leans close again and presses a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with unspoken tension.
Then he walks away, leaving you sitting there, stunned, your heart hammering, warmth lingering on your temple.
You sink back into your chair, realizing one undeniable truth: nothing about him is easy, and yet you can’t stop thinking about the moment, the way it made your chest ache with longing.
Confessions Behind Closed Doors
The car ride to Jaehyun’s house is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine. You can’t help sneaking glances at him. He sits rigidly, perfectly composed in his tailored suit, jaw tight, hands folded neatly on his lap. The memory of your kiss at the office temple lingers in your mind like a spark you can’t shake.
His house is… ludicrous. A modern palace of glass, steel, and marble. Every surface gleams, every piece of art meticulously chosen. Expensive doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“Try not to be distracted by the decor,” he says flatly, walking you through the entrance hall. “We have a lot of prep to do.”
“Distracted? Me?” you reply lightly, though your stomach tightens at the way his gaze sweeps over you. “I’m here for the case, not the chandeliers.”
“Good,” he says, voice low. “Keep your focus. I don’t need anyone losing it halfway through prep.”
You’re both in his library, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves looming like silent witnesses. The new case files are spread across a long glass table. You sit at one end, him at the other.
For hours, you work through evidence, witness statements, and case strategy. Yet, every time your hands brush, every time your eyes meet across the table, the air between you sparks. Neither of you speaks of the office kiss. You don’t bring it up. He doesn’t.
“You missed a discrepancy in the timeline,” he says abruptly, voice taut.
“I did not,” you snap, a little more sharply than intended.
“You did,” he counters, sliding a file across to you. “Pay attention.”
“And maybe you could ease up on your… ‘grumpy perfectionist’ act for two seconds?” you reply, leaning back slightly.
He freezes mid-motion. Then, without thinking, he stands and strides toward you.
“You’re impossible,” he growls, voice low, heated. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
You blink, startled. The tension you’ve been ignoring—the heat between you, the stolen glances, the touch of his hand on the table—crashes forward like a tidal wave.
“I… can’t pretend anymore,” he continues, voice trembling slightly despite his usual control. “I don’t care about logic or strategy right now. I can’t stop thinking about you. About that kiss. About you. I want you. I want this—us. I can’t… hold back.”
Your heart pounds. Relief, fear, exhilaration—all at once. You stand, closing the remaining distance between you.
“Jaehyun…” you whisper, unable to finish because you’re already leaning into him.
He presses a hand to your waist, pulling you close. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling. For a moment, the world falls away. All the rivalry, all the bickering, all the tension condenses into this one charged, unfiltered moment.
Then his lips are on yours again—this time slower, deeper, more deliberate than before. It’s no longer teasing or playful; it’s raw, emotional, and desperate. His hands frame your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you close as if he could anchor himself through the storm of his emotions.
You melt into him, pressing closer, responding with the same intensity. Everything unspoken—the office tension, the rivalry, the teasing, the longing—is in this kiss. It’s fierce, tender, consuming.
When you break apart for air, neither of you moves away. Foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, hearts pounding.
“You… drive me insane,” he admits, voice hoarse.
“You love it,” you reply softly, a teasing smile curving your lips despite the rapid pulse of your heart.
“Maybe,” he whispers smiling, then captures your lips again in a soft, lingering kiss that sends shivers through both of you.
He stands close, the low light highlighting the lines of his jaw and the warmth of his eyes. His hands find yours, holding them gently but firmly.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs, voice rough, low, intimate.
You nod, your heart pounding. “I am.”
He smiles faintly, a mixture of longing and relief, and guides you toward the bed. His hands linger on your waist, his touch feather-light but commanding.
Slowly, almost reverently, he helps you out of your jacket, letting the fabric slide down your shoulders. You do the same for him, brushing his chest lightly, feeling the warmth beneath your fingers. Every movement is deliberate, unhurried, filled with tension, teasing, and desire.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, his lips trailing down.
You shiver, leaning into him, hands exploring his shoulders, his neck, memorizing every line of his body. He settles behind you, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close. Your back curves into him, warmth radiating between your bodies.
His lips find yours in a kiss that is slow, deep, and consuming. It’s a kiss that speaks of months of rivalry, unspoken desire, and now, vulnerability. You respond fully, hands threading into his hair, holding him closer as he gently presses you back against the bed.
He kisses along your jaw, your neck, lingering with teasing, tender touches. You press into him instinctively, hearts pounding in sync, breaths mingling. Every inch of closeness feels electric.
He pulls you fully onto the bed, bodies entwined, careful yet passionate. Hands explore slowly, softly, holding, tracing, and caressing. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word is filled with longing, warmth, and connection.
“I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for so long,” he murmurs against your lips.
You shiver at the words, leaning into him, feeling every ounce of emotion in his embrace. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer as if to melt into him completely.
Hours pass with gentle kisses, soft touches, and tender intimacy. You share warmth, closeness, and desire—every motion filled with sensuality, care, and emotional connection. The night becomes yours, a cocoon of trust, longing, and quiet passion.
Finally, you rest against each other, hearts racing, bodies intertwined, feeling the electric intimacy of having crossed the line from rivalry into something far deeper—something utterly, beautifully yours.
Epilogue — Dinner at Home
The aroma of sizzling garlic and herbs filled the apartment. You and Jaehyun stood side by side in the kitchen, orchestrating a dinner that was only slightly chaotic. Jaehyun, normally meticulous, was now attempting to flip a steak while wearing an apron that read “World’s Grumpiest Chef”.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” you said, trying not to laugh. “The pan isn’t a sword, Jaehyun.”
“I am concentrating,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the sizzling steak like it had personally offended him.
Mark plopped down at the dining table with a smug grin, scrolling through his phone. “You two bicker in the kitchen like you’re still in court.”
Johnny leaned against the counter, sipping wine. “But at least the food smells amazing. I’d happily watch this chaos every night.”
You shot Jaehyun a glance, and his jaw tightened—but there was that faint smirk playing at his lips that made your chest warm.
“It’s supposed to be romantic,” you teased. “Not a courtroom drama.”
“Romantic?” he echoed, handing you a perfectly plated steak with a flourish. “This is intense passion, not romance.”
“Sure, intense passion. That’s one way to describe it,” you muttered, sitting down.
The four of you laughed, the clatter of cutlery and playful teasing filling the apartment. Jaehyun reached across the table, brushing his thumb against your hand under the table—a silent reminder that you were his.
Johnny raised his glass. “To the perfect chaos: Mr and Mrs Jeong and anyone brave enough to sit at this table with them.”
Everyone laughed, clinking glasses. Jaehyun leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
And for a moment, with the city lights twinkling outside, the laughter, the teasing, and the warmth of friendship and love, life felt simple, messy, and perfectly, beautifully theirs.
Trope: Strangers to Lovers | Library AU | Fluff Old-school romance, Gentle, slightly funny and awkward in parts.
Summary: She keeps finding his notes in library books. He keeps wondering how to tell her he’s fallen for her. Between laughter, rain-soaked walks, and their first kiss, a quiet, magical romance begins.
I'M BACK PPL😭‼
Chapter 1: The First Encounter.
The library was quiet in the way only old buildings could be — every whisper seemed to echo against high ceilings and rows of towering shelves, sunlight spilling in through arched windows like liquid gold. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, and somewhere, a clock ticked steadily, as if time itself had slowed down to match the hush.
You weren’t supposed to be here this late in the afternoon. The university library usually emptied out after the last class, but you’d lost track of time searching for a particular poetry collection — Letters to the Moon — rumored to have been out of print for years but still tucked somewhere within the library’s forgotten shelves.
As you rounded a corner, balancing a stack of worn novels against your chest, something — or rather, someone — emerged from the other side of the same narrow aisle.
You collided.
The books in your arms went flying like startled birds, pages fluttering mid-air before thudding to the ground. Your breath caught.
“I’m so sorry—!” you blurted, dropping to your knees to gather them.
A tall figure crouched beside you immediately. “No, no, that was definitely my fault,” a low, warm voice said. His hand reached for a book at the same time as yours. Your fingers brushed. Both of you froze.
He looked at you then — properly looked — and for a second, the world seemed to hush even more. His hair fell slightly into his eyes, dark and soft, and his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. A grey sweater clung loosely to his frame, sleeves pushed up, and his smile when it came was a little crooked, a little amused.
“Guess I should’ve watched where I was going,” he said.
Your brain scrambled for something clever, anything, and came up with:
“...Yeah. You really should’ve.”
He laughed — not offended, but genuinely entertained. “Noted.”
The two of you stacked the fallen books, and when you reached for the last one at the same time again, the tips of your fingers brushed once more. You both pulled back, almost in sync, laughing awkwardly this time.
“I’m Johnny,” he said as he handed you the final book.
You hesitated, then smiled. “Y/N.”
“Well, Y/N,” he said, standing up and dusting off his jeans, “either fate’s got a sense of humor, or this library has really tight corners.”
You tried not to smile too much, failing spectacularly. “Maybe both.”
He glanced at the poetry section behind you, then back. “Looking for something rare?”
You blinked. “How’d you know?”
He nodded toward Letters to the Moon in your stack. “That one’s like a treasure hunt. I’ve been trying to find it for weeks.”
Your fingers tightened around the book unconsciously. “...Oh. Well, I might’ve just beaten you to it.”
A spark of mock betrayal crossed his face. “I knew this library was a battlefield.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “You can borrow it after me. Deal?”
He grinned. “Deal.”
As you turned to leave, he called after you softly, “Hey, Y/N?”
You glanced over your shoulder.
“I’m usually here around this time,” he said casually, shoving his hands in his pockets. “In case you… knock over more shelves or something.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. “I’ll try to control my destructive tendencies.”
Chapter 2: The First Notes .
The library smelled of rain-soaked stone and old paper, comforting and familiar, as if the building itself encouraged secrets. You wandered back to the narrow aisle where poetry and quiet corners met, holding your single book—The Quiet Hours. You hadn’t planned to linger, but something pulled you toward that familiar window seat.
As you slid the book from the shelf, a small scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. Curious, you picked it up and unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, playful, with a curl on the letters that made it impossible not to smile:
“Hi. I think we met last week—well, collided, really. I’m the guy whose elbow you almost knocked out of orbit in the poetry aisle. Thought I’d apologize properly… in notes. —Johnny”
Your heart skipped. Of course. It had to be him. The memory of that first awkward collision, the brush of his hand, the way he’d smiled crookedly at you—it all came rushing back. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, soft and warm in the empty aisle.
You grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen, letting your fingers move almost on instinct:
“Ah, the notorious Johnny. I’ve been expecting you. Glad you survived our literary battle. —Y/N”
You tucked the note carefully between the pages, smirking at the thought of him discovering it later.
The next day—or maybe it was later that afternoon—you returned to the aisle, heart fluttering like a trapped bird. The Quiet Hours was there, waiting. You opened it, and there it was, another small slip of paper:
“Notorious, am I? I prefer ‘accidentally charming.’ I promise to be gentler this time… or at least try. —J”
You laughed aloud, making a nearby student glance at you curiously. Your reply came quickly:
“Accidentally charming suits you. But I won’t hold my breath. —Y/N”
And just like that, the conversation began.
Over the next few days, it became a game. Each note was brief, but full of personality:
“I see you again, by the window seat. That book is lucky to have your hands. —J”
“I’ll pass on luck to you next time I find a poem worth smiling at. —Y/N”
“You laugh at poetry out loud, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ve noticed. Slightly adorable. —J”
“You’re exaggerating. Or are you just hoping I’ll blush? —Y/N”
“Maybe both. Dangerous habit forming. —J”
The notes were short, teasing, but every single one made your chest flutter. You could imagine him leaning across the shelves, playful smirk tugging at his lips, watching you read and write. And although you never actually saw him during these visits, it felt like a private world had opened just for the two of you—a library aisle, a few scribbled notes, a connection that grew stronger with each exchange.
By the end of the week, you realized you were anticipating the notes almost as much as you were the books themselves. Each one made you feel seen, understood, and secretly, a little enchanted. And in a strange, thrilling way, you were already falling for the stranger who had bumped into you just enough to start this playful, handwritten conversation.
Chapter 3: Notes and Quiet Anticipation.
The library smelled faintly of rain and old paper, that comforting, quiet sort of smell that made the outside world seem impossibly far away. You moved toward your usual aisle, heart fluttering with that soft, delicious anticipation that had become your new normal. The Quiet Hours was tucked under your arm, and you already knew there’d be a note waiting.
As you slid the book from the shelf, a neatly folded slip of paper fell into your hand. The loops of his handwriting were unmistakable.
“So, here’s the thing… I keep turning up here, though I never see you when I arrive. I imagine you there anyway, perched by the window, lost in lines you love. It’s enough to make a quiet library feel like the best place in the world. —J”
Your chest tightened with a mix of warmth and nervous excitement. You pressed your lips together, imagining him somewhere across the library, quietly noticing, quietly thinking of you. You grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote back:
“You’ve imagined me well, then. I’ll admit it makes the quiet far less lonely knowing you’re… well, somewhere in the library too. —Y/N”
“I’m glad. Can’t help it, really. There’s something… magnetic about you. Even imagined, you’ve got a way of making everything feel lighter. —J”
You tucked the note carefully back into the book, a soft blush creeping across your cheeks.
The days passed like this, each note more intimate than the last. He wrote about how he pictured you tilting your head over pages, tracing the lines you loved, smiling at words only you could hear. You wrote back about how his words, even written on scraps of paper, made your chest ache in the nicest way, how the thought of him lingered in the corners of your mind like a song.
One afternoon, a note slipped inside a particularly dog-eared sonnet made your heart skip. It had two movie tickets attached to it..
“Right, so here it is. Slightly terrifying, definitely nerve-wracking, but… would you like to see a movie with me next week? Just us. Not the library, not poetry, just… you and me. I promise to mostly behave… though I can’t guarantee I won’t steal a popcorn or two, and maybe… a glance or three. —J”
You felt a fluttering in your chest, a nervous warmth spreading through you. The thought of him, his quiet charm threading through each word, the suggestion of closeness even in such a small gesture… it was utterly, impossibly romantic.
You grabbed a scrap of paper, writing back almost immediately:
“Mostly behave? I think I can handle that. And as for glances… I think I’ll allow a few. —Y/N”
Tucking the note back carefully, you leaned against the shelf, heart racing, imagining him reading it, possibly tugging at the collar of his jumper, nervously biting his lip. The library felt impossibly quiet, the golden light pooling around the shelves, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist.
Next week, the movie would be a first meeting beyond ink and paper. But for now, you had these notes, these quiet admissions, and the thrill of knowing that someone out there was thinking of you, as you thought of them. That soft, fluttering anticipation was almost too much to bear—and yet, entirely wonderful.
Chapter 4: Waiting for more.
The cinema lobby smelled of buttery popcorn and damp evening air. You had arrived early, the movie tickets clutched tightly in your hand, your heart hammering like a drum. You perched on a bench near the entrance, legs crossed, tugging at the edge of your sleeve, your mind replaying his notes over and over.
Every so often, you peeked toward the door, anticipation twisting your stomach into knots. What if he’s late? What if he’s nervous? What if… Your thoughts trailed off, cheeks warming at the sheer absurdity of imagining all the ways this evening could go perfectly—or terribly.
And then… the door swung open.
Johnny stepped in, slightly flustered, hair a little mussed, jacket collar turned up against the damp evening. In one hand he held a small bouquet of wildflowers, the colors soft and warm, the kind of flowers that looked like they’d been picked just this morning. In the other hand, his coat swung a little as he walked toward you, expression a mix of nerves and delight.
“Ah… hi,” he began, words tumbling over themselves. “Sorry I’m—well… a bit late. The bus was… you know, London timing, completely mad. And then I… I almost forgot the—”
He trailed off, noticing your eyes on the flowers, then on him, and his mouth curved into that shy, crooked grin that always made your chest squeeze.
“You brought flowers?” you whispered, face blooming with warmth, eyes shining.
“Yes, but… they’re probably not… I mean, I thought you might like them?” His voice was nervous. “And, er… I might be rambling. Sorry. I just… you look… you look incredible.”
Your heart skipped violently. Incredible? You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“You’re nervous,” you teased lightly, cheeks still warm.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. He leaned closer, lowering his voice, “Honestly, you’re far too pretty for me. I’ve been thinking about this all week… and now I can’t stop thinking that I should’ve written more notes to prepare myself for… you.”
You felt your face flower, warmth creeping up your neck and across your cheeks. Somehow, even after a week of flirting through notes, seeing him here, rambling, shy, with flowers in hand—it was like your chest would burst.
“You’re rambling too much,” you whispered, heart hammering, “but it’s… adorable.”
He grinned sheepishly, and together, you walked to the ticket counter, the bouquet lightly brushing against your arm. Every step, every brush of his sleeve, made your stomach flutter. The lobby seemed to shrink around you, the noise fading until it was just the two of you, hearts thudding in a quiet rhythm.
Inside the cinema, he held the door for you with a flourish, a small smile tugging at his lips. You found your seats, and as the lights dimmed, he offered you the popcorn, both of you reaching for it at the same time. Their hands collided—fingers brushing, palms almost touching. You leaned forward slightly to retrieve a kernel at the same moment he did, and your heads bumped together softly.
Both of you froze for a heartbeat, and then laughed.
Chapter 5: Rain, Running, and the First Confession.
The movie had ended, the credits rolling across the screen, leaving a quiet echo in your chest that neither of you wanted to break. You walked out into the evening together, the world suddenly brighter, sharper, yet somehow softer at the edges, like it had been filtered through anticipation and excitement.
The air was cool, the smell of popcorn still lingering faintly in the cinema lobby, mixing with the fresh scent of rain that had begun to fall. The first droplets were light, gentle, but they carried a thrill that made your stomach flip. You glanced up at Johnny, and his eyes were already searching for yours, catching the glow of the streetlights.
“Ah… lovely night, isn’t it?” he said, voice teasing, his accent thickening with nervous energy.
You laughed softly, shoulders brushing as you walked. “You’re a bit random tonight.”
“Maybe I am,” he admitted, sheepishly. “But only because… well, you’re here, and it's impossible not to be. You caught my attention more than that dumb movie.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly, and your lips curved into a shy, happy smile. “Stop teasing me,” you whispered, but your voice held laughter, soft and breathless.
The drizzle quickly became a playful downpour. Johnny looked around, eyebrows raised in mock panic, before he grabbed your hand. “Quick! Run!”
Before you could protest, he tugged you along, your fingers entwined, hearts pounding. Water splashed at your ankles, and your coat clung to you, wet and heavy, but neither of you cared.
The two of you ran down the sidewalk, laughing like idiots, hand in hand, slipping slightly, dodging puddles, and stealing glances at each other between bursts of laughter. Your hair plastered to your cheeks, rain dripping from your nose, and yet it felt perfect—thrilling, wild, intimate.
Finally, you reached a small bus stop shelter. Both of you leaned against the wall, drenched and panting, dripping onto the concrete, laughing at how ridiculous you must look. Johnny immediately draped his coat around your shoulders, the warmth and faint scent of him enveloping you.
“You know…” he began softly, leaning just slightly closer, eyes fixed on yours, “your eyes… they’re like coffee drops in milk. Warm, soft… impossible to forget.”
Your chest fluttered violently, and your cheeks bloomed like spring flowers. “Johnny…” you whispered, your voice trembling with happiness.
He stepped closer, hands resting gently on your waist, and you rose onto your tiptoes, meeting his lips in a tender, shy kiss. As soon as your balance wavered, he held you securely, arms wrapping around you, steady and firm, making sure you didn’t fall. The rain continued around you, but it felt like it existed just for this moment—quiet, private, intimate.
The kiss deepened gently, soft and sweet, full of the nervous longing that had been building over weeks of notes, glances, and stolen smiles. When you pulled back, foreheads resting together, your breaths mingling, he whispered teasingly,
“Well… that was convincing. Are you going to ask me something now?”
You laughed softly, heart pounding, eyes sparkling.
He kissed you again, tender, soft, and utterly swoony, hands still holding you close so you wouldn’t wobble. Pulling back slightly, he smirked against your lips. “Well then, consider it official. You’re stuck with me now.”
You giggled, pressing your forehead against his chest, the rain falling around you like a private symphony.
Every heartbeat, every laugh, every touch between you made the world shrink until it was just the two of you, utterly drenched, utterly happy, and utterly in love.
The End.
Ngl I'm not really proud of this one but I hope it made you smile :)
Pairing: Chef Single dad! Johnny x Chef bff! Reader
Themes: Friends to lovers, single dad Johnny, Slow Burn, Tension, Soft smut, Slight angst, mention of late wife.
Summary: After the heartbreaking loss of his wife during childbirth, Chef Johnny struggles to raise 4 year old Aera, alone. With the unwavering support of his 'best friend', they face grief, love and challenges together, blending their talents and hearts to open a family restaurant—a symbol of healing, love, and new beginnings.
___________________________________________
Chapter 1 — Heat in the Kitchen
The lunch rush had finally died down, but the kitchen still smelled like roasted garlic and fresh-baked bread. You were at your station, dusting powdered sugar over a cooling tray of lemon tarts, your fingers moving on instinct while your brain hummed in that peaceful, post-rush haze.
“You know that’s the third batch you’ve made today,” Johnny’s voice carried from across the kitchen, deep and amused. “You feeding customers or avoiding them?”
You didn’t look up — you just smirked.
“You’re just jealous because my desserts are prettier than your mains.”
“Prettier, sure,” he shot back, wiping his hands on a towel. “But can they keep a four-year-old full for more than ten minutes? Didn’t think so.”
At the mention of his daughter, your chest warmed. You’d been there since Aera was a tiny bundle in a hospital blanket, since Johnny had stumbled through those first months of single fatherhood with sleepless eyes and stubborn pride. Now she was a whirlwind of giggles and mismatched socks — and sometimes, she was your favorite part of the day.
The kitchen door swung open, and there she was, bouncing in with a crayon drawing clutched in her hands.
“Daddy! Auntie, look what I made!”
Johnny crouched instantly, his smile lighting up the whole room.
“What’s this, Sweetheart? A picture of me?”
“No!” she giggled, shaking her head. “It’s you and Auntie cooking together.”
You crouched down beside them, and when she held it up, your breath caught. Two stick figures with giant chef hats, one tall with a wide grin, the other with long hair and a big smile — both standing at a stove together.
“I think this belongs on the fridge,” you said softly.
Johnny glanced at you then — and for a moment, you swore his eyes lingered. Not in the casual way best friends looked at each other, but in a way that felt heavier… warmer.
He broke it first, clearing his throat and ruffling Aera’s hair.
“Alright, partner. How about we make some ice cream after dinner? Auntie can help.”
“Yay!” Aera squealed, running off to find a spoon.
You stayed kneeling a second longer, your heart strangely tight, before standing and brushing flour from your apron.
And maybe it was the oven heat.
Or maybe it was just Johnny Suh.
Chapter 2 — Putting Out Fires (Not Literally… This Time)
The restaurant was winding down for the night, the low hum of the dining room filtering into the kitchen. You were restocking your pastry station when a sharp clang rang out, followed by a muttered curse.
You glanced up to see Mark, your junior sous chef, staring in horror at the charred pan in his hands.
“Uh… Chef Johnny?” Mark’s voice was sheepish.
“Don’t tell me that’s the halibut for table twelve,” Johnny said from the grill station, already walking over.
Mark winced.
“…Okay, I won’t tell you.”
You knew the look in Johnny’s eyes — sharp, jaw tight, the way he got when something threatened his standards. Table twelve was one of their most loyal VIP customers, someone Johnny took a lot of pride in cooking for.
“Mark, this isn’t a joke—” Johnny started, his voice rising.
You stepped in before the air turned sharp.
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, sliding the ruined pan away. “Mark, get me a fresh fillet from the cooler. Johnny, you’ve still got the beurre blanc ready?”
Johnny blinked at you, still tense, but gave a curt nod.
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts. We’ve got this.” You were already moving, preheating a clean pan, working in quiet, practiced motions. “Two minutes, Johnny. You handle the sauce, I’ll get the sear.”
For a moment, he just stood there — then exhaled slowly and stepped up beside you. The kitchen moved around you both in a quiet, efficient rhythm, Mark scrambling to plate sides while you flipped the fish with perfect timing.
When the halibut slid onto the plate, crisp and golden, Johnny added the sauce with his usual precision. You gave Mark a quick nod toward the dining room.
As soon as the plate was out, Johnny let out a breath, rolling his shoulders.
“I was about two seconds from losing it.”
You smiled faintly, wiping your hands on a towel.
“Yeah, I noticed. That’s why I jumped in.”
He gave a half-smile — the tired, grateful kind.
“What would I do without you?”
“Probably yell more,” you said lightly, and his laugh — warm and unguarded — made the kitchen feel just a little cozier.
Chapter 3 — After the Rush
By the time the last table left, the kitchen was a battlefield of dirty pans, sauce-splattered counters, and the faint aroma of burnt sugar from Mark’s earlier “experiment.”
You were stacking clean plates when Johnny came by with two small plates in hand.
“Peace offering,” he said, setting one in front of you.
It was a slice of chocolate torte — the one you’d made earlier for the specials menu.
“You didn’t even make this,” you said, smirking as you sat down on the counter.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t claim it as my own when I serve it,” he shot back, settling opposite you with his own plate.
You rolled your eyes but took a bite anyway.
“Fine. You’re forgiven for almost blowing a gasket at poor Mark.”
Johnny gave you a look over his fork.
“Poor Mark almost tanked a VIP order. You think I’m just supposed to smile and pat him on the back?”
“I think you could try not to scare him into dropping out of culinary school,” you teased, leaning back.
His lips twitched — like he didn’t want to smile, but couldn’t help it.
“You’re lucky you can talk to me like that. Anyone else and I’d—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’d roast them alive and serve them medium rare,” you said with a grin.
He chuckled quietly, shaking his head, and for a moment the kitchen felt softer, less like stainless steel and more like home.
You were halfway through your torte when his voice shifted — quieter, thoughtful.
“You know… my wife used to tell me the same thing.”
You stilled, fork halfway to your mouth. He wasn’t the type to talk about her much.
“About the yelling,” he continued, staring at his plate. “Said I scared the line cooks. She was… softer than me. Always made sure the kitchen laughed at least once before service started.”
There was a weight in his tone — not heavy enough to choke the moment, but deep enough to make you put your fork down.
“She sounds like she was… really good for you,” you said gently.
Johnny’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah. She was.”
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just… real. Then you broke it with a smirk.
“Guess that’s why you keep me around, huh? I’m your comic relief.”
He snorted.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” But there was no bite in his words — only warmth.
You stayed there a little longer, trading light barbs between bites of chocolate, until the world outside felt far away.
Chapter 4 — Girls’ Day
Johnny had been telling himself not to worry for the past three hours.
It hadn’t worked.
When he got home, the apartment felt unnervingly still — no tiny feet padding toward him, no little voice calling “Daddy!” from the hallway.
The silence hit first, then the way his stomach tightened.
Aera was always here after preschool, either curled up with her coloring books or “helping” the sitter make dinner.
He dropped his keys onto the counter and reached for his phone.
One unread message. From you.
You: Don’t panic. Stole Aera for a girls’ day.
You: Promise she’ll be home before bedtime. 💖
Johnny stared at it for a full five seconds before letting out a quiet breath.
Right. She was with you. Which meant she was safe.
But still — girls’ day?
He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or… vaguely worried for his wallet.
He didn’t have to wait long. The sound of the hallway door opening yanked him from his thoughts.
Aera came in first — cheeks flushed from the evening air, hair slightly messy, arms full of shopping bags almost bigger than her.
“Daddy!” she beamed, the word stretching like she’d been holding it in all day. “Look what we got!”
Behind her, you stepped inside, carrying just as many bags, your laughter spilling into the room like you owned the place.
“Okay, before you say anything—” you started, setting the bags down, “—in my defense, everything was necessary.”
Johnny took in the sight: glossy paper bags from boutiques he’d only seen from the outside, a pastel toy shop bag with a giant teddy bear nose poking out, and — yep — the sleek white box from the bakery that charged as much for a cupcake as some people did for rent.
He blinked.
“What did you do?”
“We had fun.” You smiled like it was the simplest answer in the world. “She needed new clothes. And she’s been eyeing that bear for weeks. And, okay, the cupcakes were my idea.”
Aera twirled in her new sparkly cardigan, nearly tripping over the shopping bags.
“And pink frosting, Daddy!”
He crouched down, smoothing her hair back.
“Wow, baby. You look… very fancy.”
She beamed, already darting toward her room to unload her treasures.
The second she disappeared, Johnny’s smile faltered.
He glanced at the bags again, that quiet ache creeping in. He wanted to be able to do this for her — splurge without thinking twice — but the truth was, every purchase in his life still came with mental math.
“You… paid for all this,” he said, low.
You didn’t even blink.
“Of course I did.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Johnny.” Your voice was gentle but firm. “You give her love, safety, and a home. I just bought her a few dresses. You’re already giving her the things money can’t.”
Something in his chest shifted at that, and he found himself looking at you longer than he meant to.
You didn’t say it with pity. You said it like it was a fact you respected.
Still, he shook his head.
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts.” You stepped closer, your smile softening. “You know what my dad taught me? Love isn’t measured in receipts. It’s in showing up. And you…” your eyes lingered on him for a second too long, “…you show up for her every single day.”
He swallowed, caught off guard by how much that landed.
You broke the moment with a little grin.
“Also, before you start sulking about the spending—” You dug into one of the bags, pulling out a neatly folded shirt. “—I got you something too.”
Johnny blinked.
“You… bought me a shirt?”
“Yeah.” You tossed it lightly at his chest. “Because your wardrobe screams ‘overworked chef who refuses to buy anything new unless the old one catches fire.’”
He caught it, chuckling despite himself.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, Aera thinks I’m the best thing ever,” you teased, heading for the kitchen. “Cupcakes are in the white box, by the way. Try not to eat them all before she gets one.”
Johnny stood there for a moment, shirt in hand, listening to you hum while unpacking cupcakes like it was the most natural thing in the world to be in his home.
And for the first time in a long while, he realized it didn’t feel strange at all.
Chapter 5 — The Night That Could Break Him
The kitchen felt too quiet.
And for Johnny, that was a bad sign.
Usually on the day of Winter Luxe, his restaurant’s biggest annual event, the air was thick with shouts, sizzling pans, the rapid thud of knives on cutting boards. But now, an hour before service, it was just… calm. Too calm.
He could see it in his staff’s faces.
The unspoken truth.
They didn’t have enough VIP reservations this year.
He adjusted his black suit jacket for what felt like the hundredth time, glancing out through the pass into the dining room. The white tablecloths looked crisp, the crystal glassware gleamed under warm lighting — but there were too many empty tables. The kind of empty that didn’t just hurt your pride — it bled into your bank account for months.
This night usually funded the slower winter months. Without it, he’d be cutting staff hours before January.
Mark slipped in beside him, adjusting his own tie nervously.
“Uh… table two confirmed, but table six canceled last minute.”
Johnny’s jaw flexed.
“Great.”
“It’s still early,” Mark tried. “People could—”
Johnny’s phone buzzed.
Another cancellation.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, the tightness in his chest growing.
At 6:58 p.m., he was already bracing for the embarrassment of a half-empty dining room when the first wave of guests arrived.
And they weren’t just any guests.
Two of the most well-known pastry chefs in the country walked in — the kind of people who could sell out a restaurant just by being spotted inside. Then came a Michelin-starred chef from Paris he’d admired since culinary school.
Within twenty minutes, the place was buzzing. Cameras flashed discreetly, waiters navigated around suits and gowns, and Johnny found himself shaking hands with people he’d only ever seen on magazine covers.
It was surreal.
It was overwhelming.
It didn’t make any sense.
By 7:30, the dining room was full. Overflow full — his manager was moving in extra tables.
Johnny caught Mark by the kitchen doorway, eyes wide.
“What the hell happened?”
Mark smirked faintly, leaning in like he was about to share a state secret.
“Uh… you didn’t hear it from me, but… pretty sure it was her.”
Johnny’s brows knit.
“Her?”
“Yeah.” Mark glanced toward the bar, where you were chatting with one of the pastry chefs like you’d known them for years. “She called her dad. And her dad called… well, apparently everyone. Guess it helps when your dad is one of the most famous chefs in Asia.”
Johnny stared at you for a long beat.
The soft dress, the easy laugh, the way you seemed perfectly at home among people who could make or break a chef’s career.
And you’d done this. For him.
The rest of the night blurred. The kitchen was alive again — orders flying in, plating moving like clockwork. Johnny moved between the pass and the floor, checking on guests, tasting sauces, fixing garnishes.
By 11:00, the last dessert went out. Applause broke out in the dining room. And for the first time all day, Johnny let himself breathe.
He found you outside on the balcony later, the winter air sharp against your skin, city lights stretching out in every direction.
“So,” he said quietly, stepping out beside you, “you called your dad.”
You looked up at him, unbothered.
“I did.”
“And he called… every big name in the industry?”
“More or less.” You shrugged, smiling faintly. “He owed me a favor.”
Johnny ran a hand over his jaw.
“Why?”
“Because your restaurant deserves to be full. Because you’re one of the best chefs I’ve ever met. And because—” you hesitated, your voice softening, “—you work so damn hard and you deserve to win sometimes.”
Something in him broke at that.
He’d spent the whole day trying to hold his head up, to pretend he wasn’t terrified of failing. And you’d been out here quietly moving mountains for him.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Johnny.” You stepped closer, your breath visible in the cold air. “I wanted to.”
For a second, neither of you moved. The night sounds of the city seemed far away. Your perfume lingered between you, warm against the chill.
There was no warning, no pause to think. He pulled you forward, his other hand gripping your waist — hard enough that you felt the strength in his fingers through the thin fabric of your dress.
You gasped as he lifted you just enough that your heels left the ground for a second, your body colliding with his chest. The cold balcony railing pressed lightly against your back, but all you could focus on was him — the scent of spice and cedar from his cologne, the warmth radiating through his suit.
His mouth found yours like he’d been starving for it all night.
It wasn’t neat, wasn’t rehearsed — his lips crashed against yours, a rush of heat and need. His palm splayed across your lower back, keeping you flush against him, while the hand still holding your wrist slid up your arm to cradle the side of your neck.
Your fingers curled into his lapel without thinking, anchoring yourself as his kiss deepened — his breath ragged, like every bit of tension from the night had finally snapped.
When he finally tore himself back just enough to look at you, his forehead rested against yours, his voice low and rough.
“You have no idea what you just did to me.”
Your lips were still tingling, breath unsteady.
“T-the kiss or the guest list?”
His mouth curved in the faintest, breathless smile.
“Both.”
The Morning After – Magazine Feature
The smell of fresh espresso and butter filled the kitchen, mingling with the sharper tang of vinegar from the poaching station. The brunch crowd was loud in the dining room, but Johnny’s focus was on the plate in front of him — paper-thin slices of smoked salmon, a swirl of crème fraîche, dill placed with tweezers like it was a crown jewel.
It was the kind of morning where he had no room for surprises.
Which was exactly why Mark barreling through the swing doors, waving a glossy magazine like a lunatic, immediately set his teeth on edge.
“Chef—CHEF—you need to drop that fish right now!”
Johnny didn’t even glance up.
“Mark, unless the place is on fire or you’re bleeding out, I’m not—”
“No, listen. It’s about you.”
Something in Mark’s voice made him finally look over. The kid was grinning so wide Johnny half-expected his face to split.
With a flourish, Mark slapped the magazine down on the prep counter, right next to Johnny’s cutting board. The cover glistened under the overhead lights — Gastronome Monthly, the kind of publication that sat on every VIP table and chef’s coffee table in the city.
And there it was.
“Rising Stars in Fine Dining: Why Johnny Suh’s ‘Orchard’ Could Be the Next Culinary Landmark.”
His name. His restaurant. On the cover.
The feature opened to a two-page spread of photographs — his dishes, the dining room, even one of him caught mid-laugh behind the pass. And in bold, elegant print beneath the headline was the line that made his chest go tight:
“His dishes have an honesty that’s rare. Flavors like this don’t just happen — they come from someone who loves his craft. You should watch him. The world will.” — Chef Dara Farrokhzad.
Johnny didn’t move for a moment.
Your father.
A man who could make or break a career with a single sentence. And that sentence… wasn’t just kind. It was personal.
He cleared his throat.
“When—how—?”
Mark’s grin widened.
“She didn’t even tell me she was gonna do it. Guess someone’s been pulling strings for you, huh?”
Johnny didn’t respond. He just stared down at the page, hearing the faint echo of your voice from last night, the way it had trembled and steadied all at once when you told him to trust you.
Hours later, after the rush had thinned and the kitchen smelled faintly of lemon oil from cleanup, he found you.
You were at your usual spot in the corner of the dining room — a little two-seater table by the window — with a notebook open, pen tapping idly against the rim of a coffee cup. Your hair caught the light in a way that made it impossible for him to look away too quickly.
He walked over and slid the magazine across the table toward you.
“You didn’t tell me you talked to him.”
You glanced at the cover, then up at him, the corner of your mouth curving like you’d been caught.
“I didn’t think I had to.”
“This is—” he sat down across from you, voice low, “—this is huge. You know how many chefs would kill for a quote like this from him?”
“Probably a few,” you said lightly, flipping a page in your notebook. “But you deserve it, Johnny. And if my dad can help people see that, why wouldn’t I ask him?”
He leaned back in his chair, studying your face.
“I can’t… pay you back for this.”
You met his gaze, steady and sure.
“You’re not supposed to. When you care about someone, you don’t keep score.”
It landed in his chest like a stone in still water — ripples spreading, reaching places he hadn’t let himself touch in years.
You slid a box across the table, neatly wrapped in crisp paper.
“Also… this is for you.”
He raised an eyebrow but opened it, revealing a perfectly tailored black dress shirt, the kind that would make any suit look expensive.
“So now you’re dressing me?” he asked, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
“Someone has to. You’re hopeless without me.”
He chuckled, low and warm, but didn’t say what he was thinking — that it had been a long time since anyone had looked out for him like this. That maybe he liked it more than he should.
The magazine lay between you on the table, the headline catching the sunlight, and he knew — whether he said it or not — this moment was going to stay with him.
Chapter 6 — A Quiet Celebration
Johnny’s steps were heavy but steady as he crossed the threshold of his apartment. The long day, the stress of the restaurant, the pressure to prove himself—it all seemed to weigh less now. Tonight, Orchard had finally been recognized. The flood of guests, the praise from critics, the warmth in the eyes of those who mattered—it was real.
You waited for him near the kitchen archway, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your silhouette. In your hand, a bottle of wine—an unspoken promise of celebration for the two of you.
Aera was safe with his parents, the apartment quiet except for the soft hum of city life beyond the windows.
Johnny sank onto the couch, loosening his tie, his broad shoulders hunched as if trying to shed the last of the day’s weight. His eyes glistened, and you could see the edges of a tear threatening to fall.
You moved beside him, fingers tracing a gentle line from his jaw to his temple, your touch soft and steady. His eyes caught yours—full of gratitude and something raw and vulnerable.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “People are finally seeing the man I’ve known all along.”
Johnny swallowed, voice cracking slightly as he answered, “I couldn’t have done it without you… your strength, your faith.”
Before he could say more, you leaned in, capturing his lips in a slow, tender kiss. When you pulled back just enough to breathe, you didn’t stop.
Soft kisses rained down over his face—along his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his neck. Your lips traced a path that made his breath hitch, your fingers weaving into the thick waves of his hair.
“I love you,” you murmured, your smile deepening as your dimples appeared, making his heart clench with how perfect you were to him.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his powerful frame. “I love you too. More than I ever thought possible.”
The Slow Burn
Johnny’s hands were firm and sure as they slid up your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed flush. You felt the heat radiating from his broad chest, every muscle beneath his shirt taut and alive. His arms, thick and powerful, wrapped around you like a shield, holding you steady and safe.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, fingertips grazing the smooth skin of his neck before tracing lower, over the ridges of his defined collarbones. The fabric slipped off his shoulders with ease, and your breath hitched at the sight of his bare skin — the planes of his sculpted chest and the sharp lines of his abs, taut and rippling beneath the warm glow of the room.
Johnny’s skin was warm and slightly slick with the remnants of the day’s heat, a tantalizing contrast to the soft silk of your dress. His strong arms flexed gently as he cradled you, fingers grazing the curve of your back, sending shivers down your spine.
He leaned in, lips brushing along your jaw, slow and teasing. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation — the heat of his breath, the softness of his mouth, the way his fingers traced lazy, worshipful patterns along your sides.
Your hands moved to his chest, pressing into the hard planes, fingertips tracing the outline of his muscles, memorizing the feel of him. Johnny groaned softly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding over your lips with a gentle urgency.
He lifted you slightly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, his broad chest pressing against you, heart beating fiercely under your touch. You could feel every line of his strong arms as they held you close — solid, dependable, and utterly intoxicating.
His mouth trailed down your neck, leaving a path of fire that made you gasp softly, your hands clutching at the fabric of his pants. The contrast between his masculine strength and the tenderness in his touch made your body hum with desire.
Johnny’s fingers found the hem of your dress, pulling it up slowly, deliberately, revealing the curve of your hip, the softness of your skin. His hands worshipped every inch, his touch reverent and adoring.
Your breath caught when his lips found your collarbone, his teeth nipping gently, sending waves of pleasure through you. The way he looked at you — as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever held — made your heart swell.
Every touch was a promise, every kiss a declaration. Johnny’s strong hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your dimples, making you smile against his mouth despite the heat pooling low in your belly.
The size difference between you made every movement intimate and electrifying — his powerful frame enveloping your smaller one, every muscle working to keep you close, every breath shared between you a secret language of love and longing.
As his hands roamed lower, tracing the lines of your waist and hips, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The world outside ceased to exist — there was only the two of you, lost in the slow, delicious ache of desire and tenderness.
Johnny’s lips found your neck, leaving a trail of fire as he worshipped the sensitive skin there. Your breath hitched, the sensation electric. He paused to brush his nose against your cheek, catching your dimple with a soft, lingering kiss.
“I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin.
You smiled, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “I know."
Tender Afterglow
Finally, you settled against his chest, heart racing but calm in the safety of his arms. Johnny’s fingers continued their soft worship, tracing lazy patterns along your back as you both caught your breath.
“I never want to let you go,” he murmured, voice low and steady.
You smiled into his chest, your dimples deepening with the happiness that filled you. “You don’t have to.”
The city lights flickered outside, but inside, all that mattered was the warmth between you—a quiet, fierce love that had finally found its home.
Epilogue — A New Beginning
The soft hum of morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the new restaurant, casting golden hues across gleaming countertops and polished wooden tables.
It was theirs — a dream born from countless late nights, shared struggles, and unwavering love.
You stood side by side with Johnny, fingers intertwined as you surveyed the space.
Across the room, Aera's laughter echoed as she skipped between the tables, her tiny hands gripping a chef’s hat that was still a little too big for her head.
Johnny’s strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. His eyes shone with pride and something softer — a deep gratitude for the family you’d built together.
“We did it,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion.
You smiled, your dimples deepening as you leaned your head against his shoulder. “We did.”
Aera ran up, throwing her arms around both of you, a bright, infectious smile lighting up her face.
“Mom, Dad, this is going to be the best restaurant ever!” she declared, her excitement contagious.
Johnny chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “With our little chef here, how could it be anything less?”
As the first guests began to arrive, the three of you shared a look — a silent promise that no matter what came next, this family, this love, was the foundation of everything.
Together, you stepped into the future, ready to build a legacy — one plate, one moment at a time.
Hello! If I may ask, if you don't mind. Why almost all of your works are jaehyun being a CEO? Or like he's a single dad? You know, those kind of vibes, just curious hehe. Coz I've read all your works and THEY'RE ALL SO WELL WRITTEN!😫😫💞💞
Hiiiii lovely! I don't mind feedback at all dw. Lol I think jaehyun just gives off those vibes??I mean man looks too fine in a suit😩🤚. I'll try to incorporate more genres tho lol and thx for enjoying my work, i appreciate it a lot! 😘❤
Pairing: Ceo! Single dad Jaehyun x Artist! BFF Reader
Themes: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Slowburn, Single dad Jaehyun, Small time artist reader, Friends to Lovers. Other members featured, Slight humour, 4 year old daughter..
Summary: A widowed CEO and his bossy little girl meet the messy, spirited artist who shakes up their quiet world. Between paint spills and stolen glances, he finds himself falling—again—whether he’s ready or not.
__________________________________________
Chapter 1: Late Nights and Dinosaur Pajamas
It’s 11:46 PM when your phone buzzes.
You nearly ignore it, curled up on your futon surrounded by open sketchbooks and a half-eaten grilled cheese. You’d been trying to finish a commission for a tiny café in Itaewon, your fingers still smudged in dry blue acrylic when the screen lights up again.
Jaehyun.
Your heart does the stupid little flip it always does.
You swipe without thinking.
“Hey, everything okay?”
He sounds tired. Not just tired—worn.
“Can you come over?”
Your brows knit. “Is Hana—?”
“She’s got a fever. I’ve tried everything. Cold compress, warm bath. She won’t stop crying. I think she just wants you.”
That last part stabs straight through your ribs.
You’re already throwing on your hoodie and stuffing your sketchbook under the couch. “I’m on my way.”
By the time you get to his apartment—spacious, minimalist, all soft neutrals and clean lines—he’s standing at the door in sweatpants and a black tee, barefoot, his eyes shadowed and hair slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night.
“Hi,” you breathe, stepping in.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low. You catch a flicker of something in his gaze—relief. Or guilt. Or both.
“She wouldn’t go to sleep?”
He shakes his head, shutting the door behind you. “Kept asking for you.”
The hallway is quiet except for soft whimpers from the bedroom. Your steps are familiar here now—four years of being the emergency contact, the midnight call, the best friend who never left.
You enter Hana’s room and your heart tugs. She’s curled up in her bed, cheeks flushed, wearing her favorite green dinosaur pajamas.
You kneel beside her, brushing the damp hair from her forehead.
“Hey, baby,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
Her eyes flutter open at your voice, tired and glassy. “You came…”
You kiss her temple. “Always, little bean.”
She falls asleep within twenty minutes. Her tiny hand clutches your sleeve like a lifeline.
When you finally slip out of her room, you find Jaehyun in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of tea. The clock reads 12:38 AM.
“You’re magic,” he says simply, sliding a mug toward you.
You smile faintly. “No. Just good with feverish dinosaurs.”
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I should’ve called you earlier. She asked for you at like eight.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He hesitates, his jaw tensing.
“Didn’t want to… depend on you. Again.”
You go quiet. He’s always done this—shouldered everything, like grief and fatherhood were punishments he deserved to carry alone.
“I’m not a burden, Jae,” you say gently. “I’m her godmother. Your best friend. You’re allowed to lean.”
He meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. I just… forget how to do that.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You sip the tea. “This is horrible, by the way.”
He actually laughs—a quiet, low one that makes your chest warm. “Didn’t have honey.”
You end up staying the night. Of course.
You sleep on the couch, half-covered in a blanket you keep here anyway. He checks on you once around 2 AM—doesn’t say anything, just looks down at you with that unreadable expression, like you’re something fragile he never expected to need.
You pretend to be asleep.
The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth with Hana’s spare pink toothbrush when someone knocks.
You open the door mid-brush, expecting a courier.
Instead, it’s Mark Lee holding two coffees, Haechan beside him with a grocery bag and an obnoxiously loud, “UNCLE HYUCK IS HERE!”
“Whoa,” Mark says, blinking at you in your hoodie. “You live here now?”
You glare, foam still in your mouth. “I—nuh.”
“You do look suspiciously comfortable,” Haechan says with a grin, leaning around to peer into the apartment. “Wait. Did you two finally—”
“NO.” you and Jaehyun yell in unison from different rooms.
Later, when Hana is curled up on your lap eating rice porridge, you catch Jaehyun watching you from the kitchen.
Not just watching. Staring.
Like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t want.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
But that night, when you go home, there’s a wildflower in your hoodie pocket. One Hana picked. Or maybe not. You don’t ask.
Chapter 2: Paint-Stained Promises
The wind howled down the narrow streets of Seongsu, and your studio windows rattled in their frames like old bones. Rain was coming—you could feel it in the pressure building behind your eyes, in the stubborn creak of the cracked glass you still hadn’t fixed.
You cursed softly under your breath, tossing another useless strip of masking tape onto the floor. The old window had been threatening to cave for weeks. But now, with the sky brooding and wind leaking through the crack, you knew it wouldn’t survive another night.
And of course, your toolbox was missing half its contents.
You stared at your phone, thumb hovering.
He’d offer. You knew he would. That was the problem.
Still, you typed:
You: Window’s cracking worse. Rain’s about to hit. You busy?
Three dots appeared. Then:
Jaehyun: Be there in 15.
You sighed, heart tugging in a way that felt both inconvenient and inevitable.
By the time Jaehyun arrived, the first sprinkles had already started pattering against the studio roof. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, a low rumble of thunder rolling behind him.
“Should’ve known you’d wait until the storm to deal with it,” he said, stepping in and surveying the disaster zone. His voice was calm, warm. Familiar in a way that made your stomach ache.
“I was waiting for inspiration,” you shrugged, half-kidding.
His blazer was dark and dry, but his hair had started to curl faintly at the edges. He looked crisp as ever in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly, top button undone from the day’s work. There was a calm purpose in his presence—the kind that made the chaos of your studio feel a little less sharp.
“You brought your real tools,” you noted as he set a black case down beside the window.
“You mean the ones that actually work,” he said, glancing at your sad excuse for a toolkit. “Seriously… are you using a butter knife as a screwdriver?”
“It’s called innovation, Mr. Architect.”
He shook his head, crouching beside the window. “God help you.”
For the next fifteen minutes, the room was filled with the sound of clinking metal, the occasional curse under his breath, and rain starting to hit harder. You moved around quietly, cleaning up the scattered brushes and shifting your canvas-in-progress to avoid stray droplets.
“You know,” you said, trying not to watch the way his sleeves hugged his forearms, “most people don’t come running to fix broken things for someone else this late at night.”
Jaehyun paused briefly, tightening the screw on the new hinge. His voice was low when he replied.
“I’m not most people.”
You swallowed, fingers curling around a rag instinctively.
“You don’t have to keep showing up like this, Jae.”
His eyes met yours then—briefly, but enough to make the breath catch in your throat.
“I know,” he said softly. “But I want to.”
Thunder cracked outside like the sky had something to say about that.
The last screw clicked into place, and Jaehyun stood, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. You didn’t realize how close you’d moved to him until he turned.
Too fast.
His elbow knocked your paint bucket clean off the table.
You both watched in horror as it wobbled, danced on the edge—then tipped over with a dramatic splatter.
Right onto his shirt.
You gasped, eyes going wide.
Hot pink. Everywhere. A full, unapologetic explosion across his chest, dripping down in streaks like chaotic abstract art.
“Oh my god—Jaehyun!”
He stood perfectly still, staring down at himself.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then—
“Is this acrylic?” he asked flatly.
You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop from laughing. “I—yes. But we can—oh my god, your shirt!”
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course it’s pink.”
“I swear it was balanced before you barged in all… heroic.”
He looked up at you, finally—really looked—and the two of you burst out laughing at the same time.
“Stay still,” you said between giggles, grabbing a nearby cloth.
He watched as you reached forward, gently blotting at the mess on his chest. You tried not to notice the heat radiating off him, or how the thin cotton of his shirt had started to cling faintly to his skin from the paint and humidity.
But then—your fingers brushed lower, trying to catch a drip before it hit his belt, and your hand landed right over his sternum.
Flat palm. Over his chest.
He stilled.
You froze too.
The laughter died instantly.
His heart was pounding. Hard. You felt it before you could stop yourself.
Your eyes met his. Something shifted.
You dropped the cloth. “Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back, wiping your hands on your jeans like they were burning.
“It’s fine,” he said, but his voice was lower now. Less composed.
The storm outside cracked again.
You were still facing each other, still too close.
But neither of you moved.
Later, alone in your studio, after he left wearing his ruined shirt and half a smile, you found the cloth you’d used still on the table.
Bright pink. Warm.
And somehow, your fingers still felt the thrum of his heartbeat against your palm.
Chapter 3: Did the Make-Up Go Outta Hand?
By the time Jaehyun unlocked the apartment door, the rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows. The elevator ride up had been silent except for the soft plap of still-damp paint clinging to his shirt and the pounding in his chest he couldn’t quite explain.
He exhaled through his nose and stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him. Hana’s tiny, sweet voice filtered from the living room—something about a stegosaurus and sparkly stickers. And then—
“Hyung?” Jungwoo’s head popped up from the couch, followed by an unmistakable double-take.
Jaehyun froze mid-step.
Jungwoo squinted.
“…Is that…” he stood, walking over with narrowed eyes like a fashion detective. “Is that pink paint on your shirt?”
Jaehyun glanced down like it was the first time he was seeing it. The big splotches across the chest had dried into bright abstract chaos, stretching down his stomach in perfect, embarrassing streams. His once-white collar had a smear of magenta near the top button.
Jungwoo gaped.
“Hyung.” A grin started creeping across his face. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I fixed a window,” Jaehyun said plainly, stepping out of his shoes.
“With your chest?”
He ignored that.
“I was at her studio.”
Jungwoo’s brows shot up even higher. “Ohhhh. Her studio. Right. And what exactly were you two fixing?” he asked, voice laced with fake innocence as he followed Jaehyun into the kitchen.
Jaehyun rolled his eyes, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “The window frame. It was cracked.”
“Must’ve gotten really emotional,” Jungwoo teased, flopping onto a stool. “You sure it wasn’t make-up sex?”
Jaehyun choked on the water. “What?!”
“I’m just saying!” Jungwoo held up his hands in mock defense, barely containing his laughter. “You show up at midnight, looking like a Jackson Pollock painting, saying you were fixing things—and you expect me not to connect the dots?”
“There are no dots to connect.”
“Right. So your shirt just accidentally got seduced by a paint bucket.”
Jaehyun set the bottle down a little too hard. “I knocked it over. She tried to help clean it. That’s it.”
But Jungwoo didn’t back down. He leaned in slightly, more serious now—but still soft.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His voice gentled. “Jaehyun… is something happening with her?”
Jaehyun paused at that.
The image came back uninvited: your hand pressed to his chest, warm, paint-streaked, still.
He didn’t answer.
Jungwoo tilted his head, eyes curious but not pushy.
“You know we wouldn’t be surprised, right? I mean, everyone sees how she is with you. With Hana. She’s already part of this family.”
Jaehyun glanced toward the hallway. Hana’s giggle echoed faintly, followed by her calling out: “Dino Daddy!”
A smile tugged at his lips. Small. Quiet.
But then his gaze dropped back to his stained shirt—and the smile faded just as quickly.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
Jungwoo blinked. “Can’t… what?”
“I can’t cross that line. Not with her.”
“Why not?”
“She was there when everything fell apart. She saw me at my worst. She held Hana when I couldn’t even look at my own kid without seeing her mother.” He rubbed his temple. “She’s seen too much of me. I can’t drag her through more.”
Jungwoo went quiet, letting the weight of it settle.
And then, gently:
“Maybe she doesn’t feel dragged. Maybe she feels home.”
Jaehyun didn’t reply.
But he didn’t change shirts either.
Later that night, as he tucked Hana into bed, she mumbled drowsily, “You smell like paint… like her…”
Jaehyun smoothed her hair back, heart aching and full at once.
“Do you like when she’s around?” he asked softly.
Hana nodded, eyes already fluttering shut. “She makes everything soft.”
Jaehyun stared at his daughter.
And wondered if maybe—just maybe—he was the only one still fighting something that didn’t need to be fought.
Chapter 4: Gluesticks, Dinosaurs, and Something Like Home
You weren’t supposed to take over Hana’s dinosaur painting project.
But somewhere between cutting out tiny green scales and sketching a volcano in the background, your hand just… kept going.
“I’m just helping, I swear,” you said, glancing guiltily at Jaehyun as you added orange-red glitter to what was supposed to be Hana’s lava. “She said she wanted sparkles.”
He looked up from the kitchen counter, lips twitching. “You mean you wanted sparkles.”
You gasped, faux-offended. “Excuse you—this is a collaborative piece.”
Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. “It has shadowing.”
“Hana likes realism.”
“It has brush technique.”
“She’s very advanced.”
“Right. My daughter, the four-year-old prodigy.”
Hana, oblivious to the accusations, sat between you both on the carpet, proudly holding her gluestick upside down and humming the Jurassic Park theme. Her shirt had streaks of yellow paint, and a googly eye was stuck to her cheek.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
By 9:42 PM, the living room floor was a warzone of stickers, cut-outs, crayon wrappers, and half-eaten gummy bears. But the masterpiece—“Hana’s Dinosaur Island”—was done.
Or, as Hana dramatically declared before flopping onto the carpet: “It’s finished, my work is done, I’m sleepy now…”
She crawled into the space between you and Jaehyun, curling up with her cheek against your arm and letting out a deep sigh, already halfway to dreamland.
Jaehyun chuckled softly, lying down beside her. “She runs on chaos and collapses.”
You grinned, adjusting the blanket over her back. “I feel that.”
Eventually, your own body gave in, sinking into the soft rug. The storm outside had passed, and now the apartment was filled with the quiet hum of the heater and the soft sound of Hana’s sleepy breaths.
You didn’t realize your eyes had slipped shut until everything fell quiet.
When Jaehyun turned his head, it was instinct—just to check if you were still awake. To see if you were going to get up and head home soon.
But you weren’t.
You were lying on your stomach, one hand still near a crayon, your cheek resting on your arm. Your hair was messy, your face peaceful.
Hana was curled between the two of you, mouth slightly open, one socked foot touching your side like she didn’t want to let you drift too far even in sleep.
And Jaehyun just… stared.
He hadn’t noticed before—not fully—not like this.
How quiet the apartment felt when you were here. Not empty. Not echoing. Not heavy with loss.
But safe.
Warm.
Like something had finally started healing without him realizing.
You shifted slightly in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent as your fingers curled into the fabric of the carpet. Jaehyun swallowed hard.
He leaned forward before he could stop himself.
Pressed a soft, almost weightless kiss to your temple.
You didn’t stir.
But his heart did.
He stood slowly, carefully, then leaned down and scooped you into his arms—gently, like he was afraid you might shatter.
You didn’t wake, but your head tucked instinctively against his chest like it belonged there.
He stared at you a second longer.
Then carried you down the hallway and into the guest room.
He laid you on the bed and paused.
Everything about you was still—your hands, your lashes, your breathing. But there was something threaded in that stillness that made his chest ache.
Something terrifying and beautiful.
He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
“Goodnight,” he whispered, too quietly for even the walls to hear.
And then he turned off the light.
Chapter 5: “Don’t Forget to Return His Shirt”
The house was unusually quiet that morning — warm, almost golden in the soft sunlight pouring through the living room windows. Hana had been up early, full of energy from her painting project the night before, but now she was napping again on the couch, exhausted after the burst of creativity.
Jaehyun was sitting at the kitchen island, black loose shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves pushed up, cradling a mug of coffee.
Johnny leaned back against the counter across from him, sipping from his own.
“She made that whole castle scene herself?” Johnny asked, glancing toward the colorful mess of crayons, glitter glue, and paper scraps.
Jaehyun chuckled. “She had help. Mostly smudged clouds and hearts. But she was happy.”
“You look—” Johnny tilted his head, eyeing him. “Peaceful. You slept well?”
Jaehyun didn’t answer right away, but his lips curled faintly, unknowingly. “I carried her to the guest room.”
“Hana?”
“No.” Jaehyun looked down at his coffee. “Her.”
Johnny blinked. “Oh.”
That was when you walked in.
Barefoot. Hair messily tucked behind one ear. Wearing Jaehyun’s oversized white shirt buttoned over your small tee from last night — sleeves swallowing your hands, hem brushing mid-thigh. Your eyes were still a little sleepy, your voice barely above a murmur.
“Is Hana awake?”
Both men turned. Jaehyun’s eyes lifted to you immediately, lingering just a moment too long.
But Johnny? Johnny’s jaw dropped a little in comedic shock.
“Well damn,” he said, lips curving slow. “You’re becoming a usual sight in this house.”
You blinked, still too sleepy to process until you realized what shirt you were wearing. Your cheeks flared instantly as you looked down.
“Oh my god—this isn’t—He just—” You started rambling, hands waving, trying to tug the collar up.
Jaehyun just sipped his coffee again like nothing was wrong, while Johnny leaned against the doorway dramatically.
“Relax,” Johnny said, amused. “Looks better on you anyway.”
You sent him a playful glare and crossed your arms over the shirt. “Don’t you have a schedule?”
“I do,” Johnny said, smirking as he grabbed the small bag of snacks from the counter and headed toward the front door. “Just came to drop off these for the princess. That convenience store near my place still had her bear jellies.”
He opened the door — then turned back one last time, a little smirk tugging on his lips as his eyes flicked to the shirt again.
“Oh, and…” he added casually, “don’t forget to return his shirt.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stood frozen, face burning.
Jaehyun finally looked up at you fully. His eyes scanned you softly. Quiet. Thoughtful.
You swallowed and mumbled, “Sorry, I can change—”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re fine.”
A pause.
Then a tiny smile.
“You look comfortable.”
Chapter 6: “Brushstrokes of Quiet Devotion”
She hadn’t slept in almost two days. Paint streaked her forearms, her fingers stained with hues of burnt sienna and cerulean blue as she stood in the center of the gallery, eyeing the crooked alignment of one canvas.
"Too low," she muttered, climbing the step stool again for the third time.
The art gallery was modest, tucked between a flower shop and an indie bookstore downtown, but to her, it felt like the Louvre. Her first solo exhibition. Her work. Her name on the flyers. And yet—doubt clawed at her chest.
What if no one showed up? What if no one bought anything? What if—
“Are you eating at all?” Johnny’s voice cut through the quiet like a sigh of relief. He appeared at the gallery’s entrance, holding a cup of iced coffee and a sandwich. “You’re going to collapse before anyone even sees your genius.”
She smiled tiredly, taking the cup with a grateful nod. “Thanks. I just... I want it to be good.”
“It is good,” he said, nodding toward the abstract oil painting behind her. “You’re incredible. Don’t make me frame you on the wall too.”
—
The evening of the exhibit bloomed like a dream. The lights dimmed perfectly, a soft melody drifted through the air, and guests trickled in — more than she expected. Gallery owners, critics, even well-known collectors she'd only ever seen quoted in articles.
And somehow — somehow — every painting had a red dot sticker beside it before the night was over.
“All of them?” she whispered in disbelief, blinking rapidly.
The gallery assistant nodded. “Yes. Your collection was bought out entirely by a private firm. In full.”
She nearly staggered. Her knees felt weak. She blinked again.
She had made it.
But what she didn’t see, as she greeted guests with misty eyes and a trembling smile, was the quiet man in a black suit standing near the far corner of the gallery — unnoticed, arms crossed, his gaze fixed solely on her.
Jaehyun.
He hadn’t approached her yet. Not while she was surrounded. Not while her eyes gleamed like that — filled with joy, pride, accomplishment.
He didn't need the credit. He never did.
It had taken one phone call to his friend’s acquisition firm. One private meeting. One silent request: Make sure her work doesn’t go unseen.
When Johnny came up beside him, wine glass in hand, he said nothing for a moment before murmuring, “She doesn’t know, does she?”
Jaehyun shook his head.
“She thinks it’s her talent.”
“It is her talent,” Jaehyun said firmly. “I just made sure people saw it.”
And when she looked up — scanning the crowd instinctively, eyes searching for someone she hadn’t realized she missed until now — her gaze caught his across the room.
His expression didn’t change. Just a small smile. A nod.
And her heart clenched, the way it always did when he looked at her like that.
Chapter 7: “Quiet Declarations”
She twirled her fork in the creamy pasta, still trying to process the day. The soft clink of cutlery, the mellow jazz humming in the background, and Jaehyun seated across from her — this wasn’t just dinner. It felt like something else. Something they hadn’t dared name.
“You really made this?” she asked, stabbing a mushroom and smiling. “It’s actually... amazing.”
He smirked, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Don’t sound so shocked. I can cook.”
“Since when?”
“Since Mark bullied me on FaceTime for over an hour.”
She giggled, eyes sparkling, then sighed and leaned back.
“I can’t believe all 17 paintings sold... opening night.”
Jaehyun simply nodded. “They were beautiful.”
“Still,” she murmured. “All gone so fast? Even the one I thought no one would touch.”
He hesitated. “I mean... I might’ve said something. To Minhyuk’s firm.”
She blinked. “Minhyuk?”
He cleared his throat. “I just told them to check it out. That’s it.”
She stared at him. “You told your partner’s investment firm to check out my show?”
“They support a lot of local artists—”
“Jaehyun.”
“I didn’t make them do anything,” he said. “I just made sure they saw you. That’s all I wanted.”
Her lips parted, heart thudding a little faster. “You went behind my back.”
He met her eyes, unwavering. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it because I couldn’t sit still and watch you be overlooked again.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, she stood and crossed the room, coming to kneel beside him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“You shouldn’t care this much,” she whispered.
“I tried not to,” he said just as quietly. “But I do.”
Her breath caught.
She leaned in and kissed him — slow, cautious at first, but that changed quickly. He responded instantly, rising from his chair as he kissed her back, deepening it as his hand slid along her jaw, guiding her closer, his other arm winding firmly around her waist.
She broke the kiss to gasp softly as he lifted her slightly, sitting her on the edge of the dining table, plates clinking gently aside. Their bodies aligned with a kind of instinctual gravity they’d tried to ignore for years.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, arms over his shoulders as his lips trailed down her jaw, along her neck — slow, warm, breathless.
“Still think I shouldn’t care?” he murmured against her skin.
She shivered. “No. I think you care exactly the right amount.”
They kissed again, mouths opening now, deeper, hands roaming with a familiar reverence. His palms slid beneath the hem of her top, fingertips grazing her waist like he was memorizing every inch.
And she let him.
He carried her to the couch, careful not to disturb Hana’s room across the hall. The way he laid her down was tender — her back hitting the cushions, his lips never leaving hers.
They undressed each other slowly, like this moment wasn’t new, just long overdue.
Her soft moan escaped as he kissed his way down her chest, pausing to breathe her in, to watch her.
“You’re sure?” he whispered.
She nodded, pulling him down by the nape of his neck.
“I’ve never been more sure.”
Their bodies fit together like they always had — with familiarity, heat, and reverence. He moved inside her slowly, gently, every thrust a quiet confession of everything he hadn’t said. Their hands stayed locked. Their foreheads pressed close. Kisses between each movement.
“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice barely a rasp.
She arched beneath him, legs tight around his waist, gasping his name into his ear.
The room was dim. Their breaths the only sound. And when she came — soft, trembling, clinging to him — he followed seconds after, burying his face in her neck.
They didn’t move for a long time.
He stayed inside her, arms wrapped around her body as she traced soft shapes along his spine.
“I would’ve been happy with just dinner,” she whispered.
He kissed her shoulder. “I would’ve been happy with just you.”
Epilogue: The Morning of Us
The morning sun filtered gently through the white curtains, casting warm golds over the peaceful chaos of their home. The clatter of cereal bowls, soft music playing from the kitchen speaker, and Hana’s little giggles formed the soundtrack to another beautiful morning.
She stood in front of Jaehyun, hands carefully adjusting the navy tie around his crisp white shirt collar. He was unusually fidgety.
“Stop moving,” she whispered, eyes narrowing as she focused on tying the knot just right. “You’ll mess it up again.”
“I’m nervous,” he mumbled under his breath. “It’s a big interview. First time they’ll be broadcasting it live.”
She glanced up, expression softening as she took in the slight furrow in his brows.
“You’re going to do amazing,” she said, voice low and certain. “You always do. Just talk like you always talk—with that low ‘I’m definitely the smartest person in this room’ tone.”
He huffed a small laugh, hands finding her waist and resting there.
“I like when you hype me up like this.”
“I’m your wife. It’s in the job description.” She winked.
From the kitchen, a small thump followed by an “Oops!” made them both turn.
“Mom! I dropped the milk!” Hana’s little voice rang out.
“I’ll get it,” Jaehyun said quickly, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You go. I’ll finish this.”
He turned back and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before stepping into the kitchen.
Moments later, she joined him and Hana at the table. Jaehyun was on his knees with paper towels, Hana helping with exaggerated care, both of them laughing.
Later, as he grabbed his coat and briefcase by the door, he looked back—at the kitchen still warm with breakfast smells, at Hana now coloring at the table, and at her, barefoot and smiling in his white tee from last night.
“Wish me luck?” he said, holding the doorknob.
She stepped up to him, fixed the collar of his coat, and whispered, “You don’t need it. But for formality’s sake—good luck, CEO Jung.”
He kissed her once, deeply and slowly, and Hana’s voice broke them apart.
“Ewww, not in the morning!”
He laughed as he walked out, heart impossibly full.
And just inside their hallway, above the shoe cabinet, was a new photo frame—the three of them at the beach from last weekend. Hana laughing between them as she hugged both their heads. A picture-perfect moment.
oh my god you are back??? I missed you sooooo much hope you had a wonderful trip
HIII! I had a great time, thanks for asking. And I'm so happy to be back lol. I'm working on this Johnny fic rn which I'll upload soon hopefully*fingers cross*. Hope you're having a great time as well <3❤
Themes: Crumbling marriage, Lots of angst, fluff at end, Smut, Mark feature at end.
Summary: Jaehyun and his wife’s marriage is strained, filled with unspoken anger and growing distance. Forced to take a family trip to keep up appearances for their young son, they confront their complicated feelings in quiet, unexpected moments. As they navigate tension, tenderness, and the fragile hope of what might still be, they begin to wonder — can this trip change everything?
Shattered Walls
The penthouse was suffocating, but neither of you dared to break the silence.
Jaejun played quietly with his blocks, oblivious to the battle raging around him.
You stood near the kitchen counter, jaw clenched, heart pounding. Jaehyun sat across from you at the dining table, eyes cold, unreadable.
Then it exploded.
“You’re late." Your voice cracked, sharper than you intended but impossible to hold back.
“Traffic.” His voice was clipped, dismissive.
You slammed your palm down on the table. “Traffic? For three days straight? Are you kidding me? Or is that just your convenient excuse for avoiding this house?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m avoiding you?”
“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? You barely speak to me anymore. We’re living like strangers. And you want to pretend everything’s fine?”
He slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t put this all on me!”
“I’m not!” Your voice rose, shaking with anger and hurt. “You haven’t been here — not really — for months. And I’m supposed to just accept that?”
“Maybe if you weren’t so damn controlling—”
You cut him off, voice raw, “Controlling? I’m trying to hold this family together while you treat me like an inconvenient obligation!”
His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood up, eyes blazing.
“You want to talk about obligations? You think I enjoy this? The coldness, the silence, the goddamn distance?”
You took a step forward, fists clenched. “Then what? You’re just going to throw in the towel? Sign the papers like it’s a business deal and walk away from your son?”
He ripped the stack of divorce papers from the table and flung them onto the floor at your feet with a loud thud.
“Maybe I am!” he shouted, voice breaking. “Because I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired, damn it. Tired of fighting for a marriage that’s already dead!”
You stared down at the crumpled papers, your breath hitching.
“Is this what you want? To just erase everything we had?” Your voice trembled with disbelief.
He slammed a hand against the wall, turning away, voice low and bitter. “I want peace. Maybe that means being apart.”
You swallowed hard, tears burning your eyes. “Peace?”
“Yeah. Peace.”
The words hung in the air, hollow and final.
Family Trip – Forced Smiles and Hidden Cracks
Two days later, you found yourselves in the car, driving to Jaehyun’s parents’ countryside villa.
Jaejun sat between you, blissfully unaware of the tension wrapping the adults like chains.
“Pretend,” you said, eyes on the road. “For him. For your parents.”
Jaehyun nodded stiffly, jaw clenched.
The villa was warm and bright — a stark contrast to the storm simmering beneath the surface of your forced smiles.
Dinner was a performance.
Polite laughter, subtle digs masked as jokes, strained conversations.
Jaehyun’s parents were oblivious to the truth but wary of the cold undercurrents.
You caught Jaehyun’s gaze across the table — eyes full of exhaustion and something almost like regret.
Late Night on the Porch
The night air was crisp as you and Jaehyun sat on the porch, separated by inches but miles apart emotionally.
Neither spoke.
The stars blinked quietly overhead as you searched for the words that might mend the rift.
Finally, he sighed. “We’re breaking apart.”
You nodded, voice barely audible. “Maybe we’re already broken.”
COUNTRYSIDE VILLA — DINNER SCENE
The villa was drenched in golden warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness that clung to you and Jaehyun like frost on skin.
You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his mother laugh as she stirred the soup, Jaehyun’s father setting the wine glasses at the table with steady hands. For a few brief moments, it almost felt like a real home. A real family.
You helped set the table while Jaejun ran excitedly between you and his grandmother, holding spoons and napkins like trophies.
By the time everyone sat down, the table was full—steamed dumplings, soy-glazed fish, seaweed soup. The kind of meal that warmed bones, even as your chest stayed hollow.
Jaehyun’s mother raised her glass, beaming. “Look at you two. Still beautiful after all these years. And now with this perfect little boy—” she reached over to ruffle Jaejun’s hair—“you really built something.”
Jaehyun didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth lifted like it wanted to smile and didn’t quite remember how.
His father chuckled, lifting his own glass. “You know, son, sometimes I forget how lucky you are. To have the company, the house... and a wife this beautiful.” He looked at you with fatherly warmth. “She hasn’t aged a day. You’re blessed, Jaehyun.”
You didn’t know where to look. The compliment stung—because for a moment, you wished it were true. That you were lucky. That he was proud. That you were still his.
Jaehyun’s voice was low. “Yeah. I know.”
You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.
Dinner carried on with laughter and reminiscing, Jaejun proudly showing off his drawings, Jaehyun’s mother insisting he looked just like him. You nodded. But in your chest, the cracks deepened.
LANTERN NIGHT — THE FIRST LOOK AGAIN
Later that evening, his mother suggested they take Jaejun to the annual lantern walk through the hill trails behind the villa.
You hadn’t done this in years.
Not since before the silence grew too loud to bear.
The three of you stood under an awning at the top of the trail, surrounded by families releasing soft glowing lanterns into the warm night sky. The air smelled of firewood, dew, and sweet rice cakes from nearby stalls.
You crouched down next to Jaejun, helping him write on the blank lantern handed out by the volunteers. The marker bled a little on the rice paper, but your voice was soft as you guided him.
“Write a wish for Dad,” you whispered to him.
Jaehyun stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed, watching with unreadable eyes.
He hadn’t expected to feel anything. But then he saw you like this—hair down, cheeks flushed from the cold, your lips curled in a smile he hadn’t seen in months. You were crouched barefoot in the grass, laughing gently as Jaejun smeared the marker on your cheek.
You looked beautiful.
Warmer.
Not the cold, tired woman from across the penthouse halls.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
You looked... alive.
And he realized with a sudden, sinking heaviness: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly looked at you.
Your voice reached him, soft and fond.
“Jaehyun, come here,” you called, turning your face toward him.
And for the first time in so long, he moved before thinking. He knelt beside the two of you, one knee brushing yours, and took the lantern from Jaejun’s small hands.
“What should I write?” he asked quietly.
Jaejun beamed. “Wish that we stay forever!”
You froze. So did Jaehyun.
He didn’t look at you. But his fingers trembled just slightly as he wrote down his son’s wish, letter by careful letter.
You looked up. And for a fleeting moment, your eyes met.
Something passed between you that didn’t have a name.
Not forgiveness.
Not love.
But a flicker of something that once had both.
Together, the three of you released the lantern into the night sky.
And when you glanced sideways, Jaehyun was still watching you.
Like he was seeing a stranger.
Or maybe a version of you he forgot he once loved.
LATE NIGHT – VILLA BEDROOMS
It was almost 3 a.m.
The house had gone silent hours ago, save for the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves outside the windows.
Jaehyun stirred in bed, shifting under the heavy quilt, when he felt a little tug at his sleeve.
“Daddy..” came a weak, sleepy voice.
Jaejun stood by his bedside, flushed and sniffling, his cheeks too red and eyes too glassy.
Jaehyun’s heart raced. He touched his son’s forehead—burning.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, trying not to panic. He didn’t know what to do but all he could think was you’d know.
He stood up, carefully scooping Jaejun into his arms, and walked quickly to the hallway.
When he reached your bedroom door, he hesitated.
Then knocked—harder than necessary.
You opened it in seconds, already rubbing your eyes, your robe falling loosely over your shoulders.
“Jaehyun?” Your voice was sleepy but sharp.
“He’s burning up. I—I didn’t know what to do. He just woke up and—”
You were already pulling Jaejun from his arms before he finished.
INSIDE – QUIET PANIC, FAMILIAR CARE
You set Jaejun down on your bed, flipping the sheets back, checking his temperature the way you always did—back of your hand to his chest, your cheek to his forehead.
Jaehyun stood awkwardly near the door, hands clenched, watching you work.
You moved fast—wet cloth, cold water, soft whispers. You held your son like muscle memory, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead.
“He needs to be cooled down first,” you murmured. “Get me the medicine from my bag. Blue pouch. It’s in the side pocket.”
He obeyed instantly, finding the pouch and returning to your side, kneeling next to you.
You coaxed Jaejun to drink some water and the medicine, wiping his face gently, humming a tune he used to love.
Jaehyun couldn’t look away.
You weren’t just beautiful—you were steady. You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You just... knew.
And something cracked open in him, slow and deep.
It hit him—not in some grand epiphany, not with music swelling or tears falling—but with a quiet ache:
She’s the only one who’s ever made this house a home.
And maybe… I was the one who left it empty.
When Jaejun finally drifted back to sleep, you smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead, and looked up.
“He’ll be okay,” you whispered. “Just a fever spike. Might’ve been the mountain air.”
You started to stand, but Jaehyun was already there—close behind you.
Your breath caught when you turned and nearly bumped into him.
He stopped inches away.
And slowly—his hand reached out, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. Then he curled them upward gently, palm resting flat against your waist like a question.
Your breath caught.
You tilted your face up instinctively.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jaehyun leaned in slowly…
…and kissed your forehead.
Not rushed.
Not guilty.
Just... soft.
Lingering.
Like he was trying to remember what it felt like to love you gently.
You blinked up at him, startled. But he didn’t pull away immediately. His gaze searched yours for something he couldn’t name.
“I forgot,” he said quietly. “How good you are at being someone’s home.”
You didn’t speak. Your throat felt too full.
Then, like the moment had never happened, he stepped back.
“I’ll stay with him tonight,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You nodded. Silently. Because you knew if you spoke, you’d cry.
You walked back to your empty room.
And Jaehyun stayed curled beside Jaejun, holding the boy’s tiny hand, heart heavier than it had been in years.
But somewhere inside that heaviness…
A thread of something else stirred.
Something that felt a lot like regret.
And maybe, just maybe—hope.
EVENING – HIS ROOM, LOW LIGHT
Jaehyun stood before the mirror, bathed in the pale gold glow of the bedside lamp, tie draped loosely around his neck like it belonged to someone else.
He had done this a hundred times.
Boardrooms. Galas. Announcements. Presentations.
But tonight?
His fingers trembled — just barely.
He stared at his reflection.
Then, quietly, made his way to your room.
HER ROOM – A KNOCK
You looked up just as he pushed the door open.
He didn’t speak right away.
His eyes dragged over you — slow, unreadable — from the soft curls in your hair to the slope of your red dress, elegant and understated, cut just enough to show the glow of your collarbones.
But it was your eyes that held him in place.
Dark. Luminous. Soft as coffee drops.
Not black. Not brown.
But a color that curled into warmth if you looked long enough. Like something familiar. Something you drank in winter to feel full again.
“…Can you help with this?” he asked, lifting the tie like it weighed more than it should.
You didn’t tease him this time.
You just stepped closer.
Your hands were steady, looping the silk around his collar, your breath soft. Neither of you spoke. You both knew what this moment meant — how small it was, how heavy it felt.
Your fingers brushed his throat as you adjusted the knot, and something inside him snapped quietly into place.
He looked down at you.
You weren’t trying.
And you still looked like everything he ever wanted to remember.
“Still impossible without you,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
But your dimple showed.
DINNER – BEACH, UNDER STRUNG LIGHTS
The night unfolded beneath lanterns that swayed in the ocean breeze.
Candlelight flickered. Silver clinked gently. Someone was playing jazz faintly from a speaker.
Jaejun sat in the middle — between two versions of a family that had almost let go.
And yet… somehow still held on.
His parents smiled more than usual. Even laughed. Jaehyun watched them, silent, his hand occasionally adjusting Jaejun’s plate or wiping his chin without realizing it.
And then there was you.
The way your eyes caught the firelight.
The way you leaned close to whisper something in Jaejun’s ear that made him giggle, nose scrunching like yours.
Jaehyun glanced at you then.
You were smiling — eyes like warm coffee and night stars, skin aglow in amber candlelight, lips curved into something soft and faraway.
He had loved you once so loudly.
But tonight, it returned like a whisper.
And for the first time in years…
He wanted to learn you all over again.
NIGHT — HER ROOM → KITCHEN
The hallway was quiet.
The house lay in shadows, save for the faint pool of amber light from her bedroom. A steady hush, like the whole world was holding its breath.
She leaned down, tucking the blanket gently under Jaejun’s chin.
His cheeks were still a little flushed from the fever, lashes resting soft against skin the color of early morning. One of his hands clutched the stuffed elephant loosely.
She smiled faintly.
Then reached out, pushing back the damp fringe stuck to his forehead with a touch she didn’t even realize trembled. He stirred just a little, lip parting with a tiny whimper, brows furrowing like something in his dreams tugged at him.
She pressed a kiss to his temple.
And then she left.
Barefoot steps over cool tile. Her cotton nightdress whispering against her skin.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water — the silence stretching, humming. She sipped slow. The moonlight slanted through the windows, silver against her cheekbone, her throat.
That’s when she felt him.
A shift in the air behind her.
She turned slowly.
Jaehyun stood there.
His shirt hung loose, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. Eyes dark and unreadable.
But not cold.
No — never cold tonight.
He looked at her like he hadn’t stopped.
Like his heart had been stuttering ever since she left the room.
“I was coming to check on him,” he said quietly, but the words hung oddly — like they weren’t what he meant to say.
She just nodded. Swallowed.
“He’s okay,” she murmured. “Still warm, but he’s sleeping now.”
Their eyes held.
And then, Jaehyun stepped closer.
Her heart jumped — not in fear, but in recognition. Her grip tightened faintly on the glass.
“You always…” His voice trailed. He reached up — slowly — brushing a strand of hair from her face, fingertips ghosting down her jaw.
“You always smell like home” he whispered. “And something sweet. Like berries and dusk.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink as his palm flattened against her waist, gently tugging her toward him.
Not urgent.
But sure.
Their bodies met in a slow hush — soft cotton against rough linen. Her breath hitched.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“I tried,” he said lowly. “I tried to hate you. I thought if I buried everything deep enough, I’d forget what this felt like.”
She parted her lips — maybe to speak, maybe not.
But he kissed her.
And the glass slipped from her fingers, caught just in time against the counter with a soft clink. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt, holding him like her body remembered things her mind had buried.
Jaehyun kissed her like worship.
Mouth slow. Gentle. Certain.
He tasted like longing — like every unspoken thing. His hands traced her waist, then lower, gripping her thighs as he gently lifted her to sit on the cool marble countertop.
She gasped softly against his mouth, legs instinctively curling around his hips.
“Still mine?” he asked — hushed, urgent.
“Yeah” she breathed.
And that was it.
Something in him shattered.
His mouth moved over her jaw, her neck — slow, reverent kisses that made her spine arch and her thighs tremble against his sides. She tilted her head back for him, baring her throat as his hands moved beneath her nightdress.
Fingers gentle on her thighs. Kisses open and breathless against her collarbone.
“You're… every version of home I ever knew,” he whispered, tracing the dip between her breasts with his nose before kissing lower. “And I forgot what it felt like to breathe you.”
She tugged at his shirt, pulling it off clumsily, breath catching at the sight of him — golden under the soft kitchen light. Shoulders she used to kiss every morning. A chest she once cried against.
“Jaehyun…”
“I got you,” he murmured.
And he did.
With every slow, worshipping touch — with every whispered “I missed you” breathed against her skin — he pieced her back together.
He touched her like he was learning her all over again.
Like every inch was familiar but new.
His hand slid between her thighs, gentle but confident, stroking her through the thin fabric until her breath stuttered. She gripped his shoulders, forehead pressed to his, the kitchen quiet except for their soft gasps.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t need to.
He moved like he had all night — like this moment was something he’d waited years to earn again.
And when he finally sank into her, their bodies joined in a slow rhythm that made her gasp his name — clutching him, breathless — he kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t.
Her thighs locked around him, her back arching as he rocked into her gently, steadily, each thrust deeper than the last, sending slow waves through her spine.
She sobbed softly against his shoulder, mouth open against his skin.
Overwhelmed.
Overcome.
Over him.
And when her walls clenched around him, pulse wild, head tipped back in desperate release — he held her through it, kissing her through the noise, whispering—
“That’s it. I’ve got you. Always.”
When he came, he buried his face in her neck, trembling, mouthing her name like a vow.
And they stayed there.
Bodies pressed.
Hearts bare.
Hands tangled.
Like all the missing years folded in on themselves and finally found the quiet.
EPILOGUE
The soft glow of the nursery nightlight painted gentle shadows on the walls as Jaehyun cradled their newborn daughter in his arms. Her tiny fingers curled around his thumb, delicate and perfect.
Beside him, she sat quietly on the rocking chair, her eyes warm and tired but full of love.
Jaejun peeked inside the room, eyes wide with wonder. “She’s so small.”
She smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “That’s your baby sister, Jaejun.”
Just then, the door creaked open wider and in came Uncle Mark, balancing a tray with toys and clothes.
“Thought you could use some backup,” Mark said with a grin.
Jaehyun laughed quietly, looking down at the baby again. “We always do.”
Mark crouched down beside Jaejun, ruffling his hair gently. “Ready to be the best big brother?”
Jaejun nodded solemnly, then turned to the baby. “Hi, little one. We love you.”
The room filled with quiet laughter and soft coos, a family wrapped in new beginnings.
The end.
Hope you guys enjoyed it, I'm so happy to be back. It's been too long honestly 😭
Hey I miss your ficsss where are you :( I miss the angst you are writing, the genre. I need more. I hope you're doing good tho🩵
Hey lovely..I'm currently on vacation lol but ill start writing again next week, I promise. Definitely gonna spoil you guys with a bunch of fics. Lots of love <3💗
HI HIIIII OMG i love your writing style soooo much like sooo much i've never been so invested on an account like i legit read almost all of your storiesss, i'm also kinda of wondering if maybe in the future you could make a story about other members of 127 like mark,jungwoo, etc, :D??? if so i would love to read it!
HIIII!!! OMG Thank you so muchhhhh <3. Means a lot that you're rummaging through my stories lol💗💗
I would love to write stories on the other members too! One day for sure!
Themes: Spy!Johnny Suh x Spy!Reader | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Masquerade Ball | Spy AU | Smut
Preview: They were trained by rival agencies. He calls you reckless. You call him predictable. Every op you’ve ever shared ends in blood, banter, and a body count. Until this one. One night. One ball. One job that forces you to pretend to be lovers in front of the most powerful arms dealer in Europe. But beneath the glittering masks and rehearsed smiles... your act starts to crack.
___________________________________________
Part 1 – “Pretend With Me”
Paris Safehouse — 6:18 p.m.
The silk dress was too tight.
Or maybe your skin was just crawling.
You adjusted the bodice in the mirror for the third time, catching his reflection behind you — Johnny, seated at the edge of the window in a half-buttoned dress shirt and cufflinks he hadn’t bothered to fasten yet. A gun on the table, a black masquerade mask resting beside it.
The room smelled like gun oil and the cologne he always wore on foreign soil: cedar and something cold.
“You’re staring again,” you said, smoothing down the side slit of your gown.
He didn't look away. “So are you.”
You turned.
He leaned back slowly, spreading his arms across the window bench, suit jacket abandoned somewhere behind him. The bandage on his left bicep was fresh — courtesy of you patching him up after a narrow escape last night.
“Sure you can walk in those heels?” he asked, eyes trailing unapologetically down your legs.
“Sure you can lie with that limp?”
He smirked. “I’ve faked worse.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your gloves from the chair. “Remind me why you’re my date again?”
“Because your real one’s in a Russian prison. And I look better in black.”
You stepped closer, cocking your head. “Try not to flirt too convincingly tonight. I’d hate to break character and stab you in front of a crowd.”
“Please do,” he murmured, standing and taking your gloved hand. “We’ve always danced better with knives drawn.”
9:04 p.m. — Le Palais Sanglant
You walked into the ballroom on his arm, a vision in blood-red silk and smoke-lined eyes. His mask glinted obsidian. Yours shimmered gold — goddess and ghost, side by side.
The chandeliers above spilled light like fire across mirrors and masks, shadows whispering between ballgowns and tuxedos. The target — Veyron — stood at the far end, watching. Waiting.
And Johnny… Johnny never stopped touching you. Hand at your hip. Palm at your spine. A whisper too warm against your temple.
"Keep smiling," he said through his teeth. “He’s watching.”
“I am smiling,” you replied with poisoned honey. “Because I’ve never hated anyone more.”
He chuckled low. “You sure? You tremble when I touch your waist.”
You leaned in, lips almost brushing his cheek. “You should know by now — I only shake when I’m about to kill someone.”
The Waltz
The dance floor shimmered like a dream.
He spun you into the first movement, fluid and precise — just like training, just like instinct. But there was something different in the way he held you tonight.
Tighter. Softer. Meaner.
"You clean up well," you said coolly.
He twirled you effortlessly. "You break hearts better than codes."
"I don't do hearts."
He leaned close, voice in your ear. “You did once.”
Your chest tightened.
He dipped you so low you saw the crystal ceiling — then pulled you back up, closer than ever.
“Keep pretending, Nightingale,” he murmured. “But I know what your silence means.”
You smiled.
“I’m not pretending,” you whispered.
And Johnny... blinked once — just long enough for his grip to falter. Just enough for you to know:
You’d won that round.
Part 2 – “Where It Hurts”
Paris — 10:42 p.m.
The shot came just as you turned your head.
Crack.
Glass rained from the chandelier. Screams tore through the ballroom.
You moved fast—dragged Johnny down with you as chaos exploded behind the velvet curtains.
“Sniper, southeast corner,” you hissed into your comm. “Suh’s compromised. I'm with him.”
You felt his hand tighten around yours as you pulled him behind the marble bar.
Close. Too close.
Blood was already sliding down his temple.
“You okay?” you asked.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize something in case it was the last time.
“Johnny—”
“I’m fine,” he said, standing. “Come on.”
Escape Alley – 11:12 p.m.
Rain slicked the cobblestones as the two of you ran.
You clutched your side, dress soaked and ripped, and he staggered slightly as he turned back to check behind you.
“Keep moving,” he muttered.
“Don’t tell me what—”
“Just keep moving.”
He caught your arm and shoved you into a stone arch just as another bullet slammed into the brick behind you.
Your chest hit his. His hand cradled your head, keeping you pressed to him as he waited for silence.
Your pulse was a thunderstorm.
So was his.
Safehouse – 1:03 a.m.
You locked the door behind you, fingers trembling from the adrenaline comedown.
Johnny kicked off his boots, collapsed onto the old sofa, and exhaled slowly. There was blood on his sleeve.
You crossed the room before you realized you were even moving.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine.”
“Take the shirt off.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”
You knelt in front of him, rolling your eyes. “I should’ve left you bleeding in that alley.”
But your hands were gentle. Familiar. Slower than necessary.
You peeled his shirt down carefully, exposing his ribs — the shallow cut still oozing red near his side. Another bruise was blossoming across his chest. You pressed a cloth to it without a word.
His breath caught.
“Since when do you care?” he murmured.
You didn't answer right away. Just kept cleaning the blood, not meeting his eyes.
“I don’t care,” you lied.
“Right.”
You finally looked up. “You could’ve died tonight.”
“So could you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Your fingers stilled on his skin.
You swallowed. “The point is I didn’t want you to.”
The Shift
Silence stretched between you — full of static, heat, something that used to be hatred but now resembled gravity.
He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear.
“You’ve never touched me like this,” he said quietly.
“You’ve never bled for me before.”
His lips parted like he wanted to say something sharp. Something safe. But nothing came out.
You leaned in.
And he didn’t stop you.
The kiss was slow. Careful. Like two people who never learned how to do soft things with each other. His hands came to your waist. Yours slid behind his neck, anchoring.
He didn’t push. You didn’t pull.
You just stayed there.
Mouths brushing in a rhythm softer than breath, slower than war.
When you pulled back, his eyes were heavy, lips parted. You stayed forehead to forehead, hands still clutching each other like bruises.
Then — quiet as a secret — he tilted his head, leaned in…
…and kissed the side of your neck.
Once.
Slow.
Warm.
Like he meant to write a message there.
You closed your eyes.
And for the first time in your whole damn rivalry, you let yourself lean into him. Not as an enemy. Not as a spy.
Just as you.
Part 3 – “Burn Marks”
Paris Safehouse — Later That Night
He kissed you again once the bandages were wrapped.
This time, slower.
His touch was patient. Careful. As if his body knew what his mouth wouldn’t say.
You straddled his lap, arms curled around his shoulders. His hands moved reverently, as though discovering you piece by piece. The way his thumb circled your hipbone. The way his nose brushed against your cheek. The pause before he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t.
You said his name like a secret — and that was enough.
He laid you down gently on the old couch. Mouthed along your collarbone, then lower. His lips barely touched you at first — slow as breath, warm as silk.
When he finally entered you, he held your face like you’d shatter. Foreheads pressed, lashes brushing, no urgency. Just that unbearable stillness.
Like the world had ended and started all over in the same heartbeat.
He moved inside you like he was memorizing it.
And you let him.
Let him kiss every part of you like it was fragile. Let his hands shake a little when you whispered, “You’re not my enemy anymore.”
He pressed his lips to your neck again and said, “You never were.”
Part 4 – “Extraction Denied”
Bogotá, Colombia — 02:11 a.m.
Cartel Compound – Inside the Red Zone
“Five minutes,” your voice crackled over the comm. “I can clear the vault and be topside—”
“Negative,” came Doyoung’s clipped reply. “Target Bravo’s rerouted the patrol. Johnny, confirm visual.”
You were crouched in the shadows, blade slick with blood, heart drumming like war in your ears. Gunfire echoed above. The operation was falling apart.
“Johnny?” you whispered, adjusting the pack on your back. “Where the hell are you?”
“East stairwell,” he answered. “Coming to you. Hold tight.”
The Hall of Smoke
The compound was chaos — flickering lights, bullets snapping into concrete walls, shouting in Spanish. You moved like instinct, like art through war. Three guards down. One more behind the vault door. You gritted your teeth and kicked it in.
Files. Cocaine. Two servers lit like shrines.
You ripped the hard drives out and stuffed them into your gear just as the alarms blared louder. A metallic grind. A siren shrieking.
Then—radio silence.
“Johnny?” you hissed. “Do not go dark on me—”
His voice came through, hoarse. “We’ve got two men down. Main exit is compromised. They’re locking the compound from the outside.”
Your hands went cold.
“I’ll make it to the roof,” you said.
“Not in time.”
“I will.”
“You’re three stories under concrete and boxed in.”
“I’ve seen worse odds—”
“I haven’t.”
You paused.
His voice softened—just enough to punch you in the gut.
“If you don’t make it,” he said, “I won’t either.”
You started sprinting, vaulting over crates toward the backup shaft.
But the explosion hit before you reached it.
A deafening boom shook the floor — your ears rang, the ground tilted, the hallway vanished in smoke.
Command Vehicle – 03:07 a.m.
The helicopter was spinning its blades. The surviving team was already on board. Blood. Shouting. Burned gear and ruined plans.
Johnny stood on the tarmac, comm to his ear, refusing to move.
“She’s alive. She’s still inside,” he said to the ops commander.
“There’s no signal,” she replied. “There’s no time.”
“Then give me five more minutes.”
“Johnny—”
“I SAID FIVE.”
But the team was pulling him back.
His eyes scanned the flames erupting from the side of the building.
And then—
The structure began to collapse inward.
Steel and smoke and fire swallowed the red-lit hallway where you were last seen.
Johnny dropped to his knees.
Later — Safehouse, Panama
He was silent for hours.
Didn’t speak on the flight. Didn’t clean the blood from his hands.
He sat in the safehouse bathroom, still in full gear, knuckles scraped raw.
In front of him, on the table, was your necklace — the thin one you always wore beneath your tactical shirt.
It was warm in his palm.
He closed his eyes.
And finally—he wept.
Not broken.
Just silent.
Shaking.
Like a man whose war had finally outrun him.
Part 5 – “The Ghost Walks In”
3 months later.
Rome – 10:58 p.m.
Post-Mission Safehouse, Trastevere
The laughter was the loudest it had been in months.
The team had earned it — a successful operation in Naples, no casualties, clean extraction. A miracle, really. Mark was recounting how he'd pickpocketed a guard using only a cappuccino and a distraction named Jaehyun.
Johnny was leaned against the wall, drink in hand, only half-listening.
He didn’t laugh anymore. Not fully.
His smile stopped just short of his eyes.
Then the door creaked.
No knock. No sound. Just the groan of old wood.
No one looked up.
The rain had just started outside — soft, rhythmic — and the warm bar lights cast golden halos across the floor. The scent of herbs, smoke, and red wine clung to the air.
You stepped inside without ceremony.
Wet from the storm. Hair tucked behind one ear. That same scar now faded across your temple like punctuation. You didn’t say a word.
You just walked in, poured yourself a glass of water at the counter, turned—
And sat down at the empty seat at the head of the table.
The one that used to be yours.
Mark froze mid-sentence.
Jaehyun’s beer stopped halfway to his mouth.
Doyoung choked on his own breath.
But it was Johnny who looked last.
And when he did—
He didn’t drop his glass.
He didn’t say your name.
He didn’t move.
He just stared at you like time had slowed. Like the wine-dark room was a dream and you were the first real thing in it.
You took a sip of water. Set the glass down.
Then smiled — soft, not smug. Just tired and alive and finally home.
“Is this seat taken?” you asked.
No one spoke.
Then Johnny did.
He moved across the room like in a film — slow, silent — until he was standing in front of you.
So close, your knees nearly brushed.
His hand lifted.
Not to touch.
Just to look at you better.
“Say something,” you whispered.
He stared for another beat. Then:
“I thought I buried you.”
You blinked once. “You almost did.”
“I waited.”
“I know.”
“You died.”
“I didn’t.”
“I did.”
The silence cracked.
And then—he reached for you.
Both hands, all of him, gathering you like you were made of breath and breaking and everything he thought he’d lost in that fire. His mouth hovered over yours.
You tilted your chin up just slightly.
“I came back,” you whispered.
And he kissed you like he didn’t believe you yet.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t angry.
It was long — slow, searching — like he needed to memorize the shape of you again. Like he needed to rewrite the months he spent grieving you into a single point of contact: lips, breath, hands trembling.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
You whispered, “Took you long enough.”
He smiled for the first time in weeks. It was small.
But real.
“You’re staying?” he asked.
“As long as you’ll have me.”
Mark groaned from the table. “Someone sedate me, I’m crying.”
Jaehyun raised a toast. “To the dead rising.”
Doyoung whispered under his breath, “I knew she’d walk in like a movie scene.”
You didn’t look at them.
You looked at Johnny.
And he looked at you like you were the only person who existed.
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