Summary : "Do you even still love me?" It was the desperate question that almost ended your marriage and the only one that could finally save it.
"Are we really going to do this again?" you asked.
You didn't turn around. You kept your hands in the soapy water, staring blankly at the kitchen window. Outside, it was pitch black. The clock on the microwave read 11:45 PM.
"Do what?" Bangchan replied. He was sitting at the dining table behind you. He didn't look up from his laptop.
"Fight about nothing until two in the morning," you said. You turned off the tap. The sudden silence in the kitchen was loud.
Bangchan stopped typing. He closed the laptop slowly. "I'm not fighting with you. I just asked why the car wasn't taken to the shop today. That is a normal question."
"And I told you I didn't have time. But you asked it three times in the last hour," you said, drying your hands on a towel. You finally turned to look at him. "You don't ask to get an answer, Chris. You ask to make me feel incompetent."
Bangchan sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. He looked incredibly tired, but right now, you couldn't find it in yourself to care. You were tired, too.
"You're overthinking it," he said, his voice flat. "I just wanted to know."
"Right." You threw the towel onto the counter. "I'm going to bed."
"Are you just going to walk away again?" Bangchan's voice rose slightly.
You stopped at the hallway. You looked back at him. "Yes. Because if I stay here, we will just go in circles. You will point out what I did wrong. I will point out what you did wrong. Neither of us will apologize. I have to wake up at six tomorrow to get Minjun ready for school. Goodnight."
You walked into your bedroom and closed the door. You didn't lock it, but it felt like a wall anyway.
Six years. You had been married for six years. When you first moved into this house, you two used to sit at that exact same dining table and talk until the sun came up. Now, you could barely be in the same room for ten minutes without someone getting annoyed.
You got into bed and pulled the blanket up to your chin. You lay on the far right side of the mattress, leaving a wide, empty gap in the middle. Half an hour later, the door opened. Bangchan walked in quietly. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and changed into his sleepwear. He got into bed on the far left side. He turned his back to you. You kept your back to him.
Neither of you said a word.
The next morning was the same routine.
You woke up at 6:00 AM. Bangchan was already in the shower. You went straight to Minjun’s room. Your five year old son was still fast asleep, clutching a small toy dinosaur. You sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair.
"Minjun, wake up. Time for school," you whispered.
Minjun groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Mommy, Five more minutes."
"No more five minutes, Come on."
By the time you got Minjun dressed and out to the kitchen, Bangchan was already dressed for work. He was standing by the coffee maker. He had poured himself a mug. There was a second mug sitting on the counter, filled with black coffee, just the way you liked it.
He didn't say he made it for you. He just left it there.
"Morning, Dad," Minjun said, climbing into his chair. He looked at Bangchan, then at you. Even at five years old, kids notice things. "Are you mad at Mommy?"
Bangchan froze with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. You stopped pouring cereal into Minjun’s bowl.
"No," Bangchan said quickly. "Why would you say that?"
"You didn't kiss her good morning," Minjun pointed out, stuffing a dry piece of cereal into his mouth. "You always kiss her."
"I did earlier," Bangchan lied. He cleared his throat and looked at his watch. "I have an early meeting. I need to go."
He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door. "Bye, Minjun. Have a good day at school."
"Bye, Dad."
Bangchan looked at you for a brief second. "I'll be home around seven."
"Okay," you said. You didn't look at him. You just kept pouring milk into the bowl.
The front door clicked shut. You let out a long breath you didn't realize you were holding. You looked at the second mug of coffee on the counter. You picked it up. It was warm. You took a sip, but it tasted bitter.
The weeks passed like this. You were living like two strangers sharing a house. You paid the bills, you cleaned the rooms, you took turns picking up Minjun from kindergarten, but you didn't really talk.
It was emotional exhaustion. You knew what it was. It wasn't that you hated each other. It was just that you expected too much and communicated too little. Bangchan wanted a perfectly managed home and a wife who understood his work stress without him having to explain it. You wanted a partner who helped without being asked and a husband who still looked at you like a woman, not just a housemate.
Neither of you said these things out loud. Instead, you just got angry when the other person failed to read your mind.
On a Friday evening, things finally hit a breaking point.
You were exhausted. You had a terrible day at work, your boss had yelled at you, and you got stuck in traffic for an hour in the rain. When you walked through the front door, all you wanted was to take off your shoes, take a hot shower, and sleep.
You walked into the living room. Minjun was sitting on the floor, watching cartoons. Toys were scattered everywhere. Bangchan was on the couch, typing on his phone.
"I'm home," you said, dropping your bag on the chair.
"Hey," Bangchan said, not looking up. "Did you pick up the dry cleaning?"
You stopped walking. You closed your eyes for a second. "No. I forgot."
Bangchan sighed. It was a short, sharp sigh, but it was enough to light a match in your chest.
"I have the company dinner tomorrow," he said, finally putting his phone down. "I told you yesterday I needed that suit."
"I said I forgot, Chris. I had a long day. Traffic was terrible. I just walked through the door."
"I had a long day too," he replied, standing up. "I'm just asking for one simple thing. It was on your way home."
"It's not on my way home, it's three blocks away in the opposite direction," you said, your voice getting louder. "If it's so important, why didn't you pick it up yourself?"
"Because I asked you to do it!" Bangchan raised his voice too.
"Mommy? Daddy?"
You both stopped. Minjun was looking at you from the floor. His eyes were wide and anxious. He had his hands clamped over his toy car.
You looked at your son, and suddenly, all the anger drained out of you. It was replaced by a heavy, suffocating sadness. You realized what you two were doing. You were ruining this house. You were ruining Minjun’s childhood.
"I'm sorry, baby," you said softly to Minjun. "Mommy and Daddy are just talking."
You looked back at Bangchan. He looked annoyed, his jaw clenched, still waiting for you to defend yourself. But you didn't want to fight anymore. You didn't want to win the argument. You just wanted it to end.
"I'll go get it right now," you said quietly. You picked up your bag and walked back to the front door.
"Look, the place closes in ten minutes, just forget it," Bangchan said, frustrated.
"I said I'll get it," you repeated, opening the door and walking out into the rain.
When you got back an hour later with the suit, the house was quiet. Minjun was already in bed. Bangchan was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water.
You hung the suit on the back of the dining chair. You didn't say anything. You walked to the fridge and poured yourself a glass of cold water. Your hands were shaking slightly.
"I put Minjun to bed," Bangchan said.
"Thank you."
Silence fell over the kitchen again. It was that heavy, suffocating silence you had gotten so used to.
"Look," Bangchan started, leaning against the counter. "I didn't mean to yell in front of him. But you have to admit, you've been really careless lately. It's like you don't even listen when I talk to you."
You put your glass down on the counter. The glass made a sharp clack against the marble. You gripped the edges of the counter, looking down at your hands.
"Is that what you think?" you asked quietly.
"What else am I supposed to think?" Bangchan crossed his arms. "You forget things. You're always in a bad mood. You don't talk to me unless it's about bills or Minjun. I'm just trying to keep things running around here."
You looked up. Your eyes were red, but you weren't crying. You were completely, utterly empty.
"I think we should get a divorce."
The words came out simply. They weren't yelled. They weren't dramatic. You said it the same way you would say you were out of milk.
Bangchan's arms slowly dropped to his sides. His face went blank. He stared at you for a long time, as if he didn't understand the English language.
"What?" he whispered.
"I can't do this anymore, Chris," you said. Your voice broke slightly, but you kept going. "I am so tired. You are so tired. All we do is argue. We are just two angry people living in the same house, trying to prove who is right and who is wrong."
"Please, stop." Bangchan took a step forward, panic flashing in his eyes.
"No, let me finish," you said, stepping back. "I saw Minjun's face today when we were yelling. He is five years old. He shouldn't be scared in his own home. He shouldn't have to guess if his parents are mad at each other every single day. It's not fair to him."
"We just had a fight. Normal couples fight," Bangchan said quickly. His voice was shaking now.
"Normal couples resolve things. We don't. We just bury it until the next day, and then we fight again. It's been like this for two years." You looked at him. You looked at his face, the face you used to love more than anything in the world. "I just want peace. I want you to be happy, and I want to be happy. And we are not happy together anymore."
Bangchan stared at you. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He opened his mouth to argue, to point out why you were wrong, to defend his actions. It was his instinct. He was a smart man, he always knew how to win an argument.
But then you asked one last question.
"Chris," you said, a single tear finally falling down your cheek. "Do you even still love me?"
Bangchan stopped breathing.
"Or are you just staying because of pride? Because you don't want a failed marriage?" you asked, your voice cracking. "Because if you don't love me anymore, just tell me. Please. Let me go."
The question hit him physically. It felt like someone had punched him in the chest. All the anger, the frustration, the stress from work, the annoyance about the dry cleaning, it all vanished.
He looked at you. Really looked at you. He saw the dark circles under your eyes. He saw how thin you had gotten. He saw how defeated you looked standing in your kitchen, begging him to let you go because you thought he didn't care about you.
What was he doing? What the hell was he doing?
He had spent the last two years fighting to be right, that he hadn't realized he was destroying the only thing he actually cared about. He was about to lose you. He was about to break his family apart over dry cleaning, unspoken chores, and his own stupid ego.
Winning didn't matter. None of it mattered if you weren't here.
Bangchan didn't say a word. He walked across the kitchen, closing the distance between you two. You flinched slightly, expecting him to yell.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest.
He held you tightly. His hand pressed against the back of your head, hiding your face in his shoulder. He closed his eyes and buried his face in your hair.
You froze. Your arms stayed stiff at your sides. You tried to pull away. "Chris, don't—"
"I love you," he said. His voice was thick and desperate. He tightened his grip, refusing to let you step back. "I love you. I never stopped loving you. Not for a single second."
You stopped struggling. Your breath hitched.
"I'm so sorry," Bangchan whispered against your hair. His own eyes were wet now. "I am so stupid. I am so sorry."
You slowly raised your hands and grabbed the fabric of his shirt. You didn't hug him back, you just held onto him to keep from falling. You started to cry. It wasn't a loud cry, but quiet, heavy sobs that shook your entire body.
Bangchan just held you. He rubbed your back slowly, letting you cry out all the exhaustion and sadness you had been holding in for months.
"I don't want a divorce," Bangchan said quietly. "Please don't say that again. Please."
You stood there in the kitchen for a long time. Eventually, your crying slowed down. You rested your forehead against his chest.
Bangchan slowly pulled back, just enough to look at your face. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
"I have been a terrible husband," he said honestly. "I let my stress turn me into a jerk. I stopped listening to you. I expected you to just do everything and I got mad when you couldn't. It wasn't fair."
You looked up at him. "I haven't been fair either. I shut you out. I stopped trying to talk to you because I assumed you wouldn't listen. I kept all my anger inside and just used it against you."
"We both messed up," Bangchan said. He took your hands in his. His hands were warm. "But listen, you are the only woman I have ever loved. You are the mother of my son. I don't want to win arguments anymore. I just want you."
You looked at your intertwined hands. "I'm just so tired, Chris. I don't know how to fix this."
"We start over," he said firmly. He looked you directly in the eyes. There was no pride left in his face. No ego. Just a man begging for his marriage. "We throw away the last two years. We drop the pride. If you are tired, tell me. If I am stressed, I will talk to you instead of getting angry. We start from zero."
You hesitated. "Can we really do that? Just forget it?"
"We don't forget it. We learn from it," Bangchan said. "But we don't use it as ammunition anymore. I promise you, I will change. Give me a chance to be the husband you married six years ago. Please."
You looked at him. You saw the sincerity in his eyes. You remembered the man he used to be, the man who used to make you laugh until your stomach hurt, the man who held your hand during Minjun's birth. That man was still there, buried under layers of stress and pride.
You took a deep breath. "Okay."
Bangchan let out a shaky breath and smiled. A real, relieved smile. He pulled you into another hug, burying his face in your neck. "Thank you. I love you so much."
"I love you too," you whispered back.
The next morning, you woke up at 6:00 AM.
The bed was warm. You turned around. Bangchan was still in bed. He was lying on his side, watching you.
"Morning," he said softly.
"You're not up," you said, confused.
"It's Saturday. I don't have work," he said. He reached out and brushed a piece of hair out of your face. "I'll go wake up Minjun and make breakfast. You sleep a little more."
You looked at him. It was a small thing. Just making breakfast. But it was something he hadn't offered to do in a very long time.
"Are you sure?" you asked.
"Yes," Bangchan smiled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then, he kissed your lips gently. It felt a little awkward, a little new, like you were dating again. "Sleep."
He got out of bed and quietly left the room.
You lay in bed for a few minutes. You could hear the faint sound of Bangchan talking to Minjun in the hallway. You heard Minjun laugh. Then you heard the clinking of pans in the kitchen.
You turned over and closed your eyes. It wasn't a magic fix. You would probably still argue in the future. You still had a lot to work on.
But for the first time in six years, the house didn't feel heavy. It felt like home again.
part fourteen | 의식 // serial killer!Kim Seungmin/afab reader
WC: 9.9k
RATING: mature/mdni—contains: sex, hallucinations, therapy, my will to live, this song, and this song.
COMMENTS: I know these things take time, but DAMN. Sorry for the delay. Please know I have been writing as much as possible, but it's been rough the last few months. I'll be in Seoul again for the start of the world tour, so I'm hoping it helps with my block. This part has been shortened a bit because what comes after hasn't fully formed in my scrambled brain yet.
[MASTERLIST — DEITY MASTERLIST / TAGLIST / PLAYLIST]
WATTPAD— please check out the revised chapters here and vote for each part!
There is no ground beneath you, and no sky up above. No air to breathe in, and no breeze moving across your skin. He can't hear you from here.
A song plays somewhere in your head...a song you haven't heard in a very long time. Gramma played it when you were little. The voice coming from you sounds off, but it's yours.
Seungmin... you think it, but he doesn't move. His eyes remain fixed straight in front of him, and then gradually, like a watercolor blooming across paper, the world appears around you.
넌 무엇을 찾았니?
Whoever he's speaking to, you can't see them.
What did you bring, pup? 꽃들? 엄마를 위해? Mom will love flowers.
His carefree laugh runs warm through your body. Suddenly, this place feels real, and Haesung comes into view. He's walking slowly toward his father, wildflowers gripped too tightly in his fist. This has to be a dream, because your babies are still babies, nowhere close to standing on their own two feet.
The song keeps playing inside of you, but it's outside of you at the same time. He should hear it, too...it's coming from over the trees. It's a comfort in what should be terrifying, because you can't get stuck like this again. If you could stop dreaming altogether, that would be just fine.
Seungmin? He looks back as if he hears something. I'm right here. Where is Haneul?
There's no gentle, natural waking for you, and that's normal. A hungry scream pierces through you like an electric shock, but a warm hand is on you before you can open your eyes.
"I got it, don't get up."
You vaguely remember not wanting him to take on any tasks today...but why? The weak, cloud-filtered sunlight pours into the room, and a chill runs up your arms as the dream starts to fade, and reality returns. "Oh no, Min, let me. Get back to bed." You're relieved to be awake again.
"Why? You were just up changing them."
You sigh. The big plans you had for waking quietly and sneaking into the kitchen are a bust. "Today’s your day, darlin. Happy birthday." You prepped a few things for breakfast last night, and a special delivery will be here for him soon. He has taken on the majority of childcare and housework since you came home from the hospital, even though you've had nearly a month of recovery, and you need to show him how much you appreciate it.
Seungmin's sweet laugh takes you back to the dream. He lifts Haesung, still tiny, but growing quickly, into his arms. "My birthday isn't going to keep me from feeding time…darlin’.”
They've been formula fed for weeks, because your milk never returned. There's no need for you when he can just head to the kitchen and mix up the bottles as needed. "I know." There was a lake in the dream, a different forest...maybe the same forest. It reminded you of a spot you frequented as a kid when you skipped school. Late summer—September, just like now. Unseasonably warm, but overcast. Later, if you remember, you'll ask Seungmin if that lake is there somewhere. For now, you plan on making the day as easy and carefree as possible—that means no talk about dreams, or visions, or forests; nothing that could take him backwards in time, or anywhere else but here. "Can you guys hang out in here while I make breakfast? I'll get the bottles, and bring you some coffee."
"Yeah, I think we can handle that."
The faint sound of him reading makes cooking difficult. You catch words here and there, but his voice is soft and just for them, so you have to strain to listen. You think it might be one of his own books, as opposed to anything meant for babies. He just wants them to hear him, and watch him speak, so the book doesn't matter.
당신은 자신의 이름을 아나요?
He speaks slowly and clearly, and you can easily put together what he's saying.
"Do you know your name? Haaa... neul." Seungmin sings... "Haeee… sung."
He laughs, which makes you think they reacted in some way. A smile, a coo, a look. Maybe all three. Both boys are already catching up to their would-be timelines. They would be nearly three weeks old today, had they stayed put until you were nine months pregnant, but that wasn't the plan.
Boys, do you want another story? No? Maybe a song, and we can get some fresh air on the balcony. It's nice and warm out for my birthday.
A new sound wakes you up from your daydream. You assume it's Seungmin collecting the boys and opening the balcony door, but when the tap tap tap returns, it's coming from the opposite direction. Behind you. You stand motionless in front of the oven, watching your biscuits consider rising, but ignoring the sound doesn't work.
tap tap tap
...like a knock at the front door. Slowly, and quietly, you turn and start toward it, and it doesn't return in the time it takes to get there. When you look through the peephole, all you see is an empty, well-lit hallway. A slow count to ten, and you're back to the oven, straining to hear Seungmin's voice from the balcony.
tap tap tap
Clear as day. You can almost feel the fingernails tapping on your skull. This time you hurry to the door, but it makes no difference. Empty hallway. Go away, you say it in your head, and at the same time, look around the room for something to help...help what? You can't exactly paint the front door blue—well, not right now. You'll remember that for later. "Go away." This time it comes out in a whisper, and when the tap returns, your eye is against the door immediately. The hallway may still be empty, but you can't tell. Seungmin's brand new lighting has gone out, and all you see is darkness, and maybe something floating across your vision.
"What are you doing?"
Your heart rate triples, and when you turn to him, his smile drops. The shine of his eyes seems to dull as he gets closer.
"Tokki, what's wrong? You look like you're gonna be sick."
"I'm...I'm okay. Is the lobby door locked?"
He grabs your hand, and looks out into the hallway. "The lobby? It should be." The locks are quickly undone, and when he opens the door, you're greeted with the empty, well-lit hallway. "Did you hear someone out here?"
"Not sure. It could have been..." Could have been what? The tv is off, and so is your music. Something turned off the light, or covered the peephole. "...in my head."
"Maybe you should get some more sleep."
"No, I wanna finish breakfast." The French press sitting on the counter should have been strained five minutes ago. "I can remake this, it's probably gone bitter."
"I'm sure it's okay, let me—"
The tears start slowly, and trying to hide it just makes your voice shake even more. Your hand trembles as it pushes and filters the coffee. It smells okay; the cinnamon might save the taste. "You want it iced?" You listen as he digs around for two cups.
"Hot is fine. Please tell me what happened." Seungmin takes over and pours coffee into your milk filled mug. "Did you hear something, or see?"
A tap, a scratch...something asking to enter—or more likely, sending notice that they're coming whether you like it or not. But it's already here, isn't it? So why knock on the door? "Heard." Your voice is steady this time, but quiet. "Heard someone at the door. It was in my head."
Seungmin doesn't make any attempt to refute that, but he's clearly lost for words. Even after all this time, a response to your (and his) hallucinations is difficult to find. There is only understanding, and comfort, and the hopes that it doesn't return.
"Are the boys okay?"
"They liked story time, and didn't seem to care about the balcony. They ate well."
"I heard you in there. What were you reading to them?"
"Just some poetry. I'll read it for you later, if you want." His smile, no matter how small, gives you butterflies, and it grows when you smile back. The only thing that distracts him from you is the sound of one of the boys fussing, but he soothes himself back to sleep, and a few moments later, after he peeks into the bedroom, it's just the two of you again. "How do you feel?"
A finger slides across your cheek, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His eyes wander down your body, back up, across your chest, and then back to your face. Either you can truly read his thoughts, or he's just that transparent in his subtle actions. "I'll be okay." You grab his wrist to kiss it. His sweet scent mixes with the smell of breakfast cooking. "I am."
"You will tell me everything, no matter what...right?"
"I will." But still, the dream can wait. You'll ask about the lake later, because you can't stop thinking about it...not until he pulls you tight against him. "I will, Minnie. I promise."
He's a different sort of warmth in the fall heat; a pleasant one, the kind you need to dull your pain when nothing else will work. The wet of his lips moves along your neck and shoulder, pulling at your shirt, and very patiently waiting for permission to continue. It has been weeks...months, actually, since the last time the two of you have had sex. There has been plenty of kissing, and touching—satisfying each other in other ways, but Seungmin has been cautious. He doesn't have to tell you he's nervous about hurting you, especially after your long hospital stay, and after dying again. Not to mention, the difficult labor. You just know. He's taken that six weeks of recommended recovery time and doubled it. Of course, thoughts have plagued you, too, but you miss having all of him, and you miss Seungmin having all of you.
Permission is granted the moment you touch his waistband and pull. His hands cup your face, and after a few seconds of half-questioning eye contact, he kisses you as if he hasn't kissed you in weeks. It's messy, and he works harder when you fight back against his tongue. A moan squeaks out when you squeeze his hip, and it almost brings him to his knees.
"You gonna take me back to bed?" It comes out in a fast, slurred drawl and you wonder if he catches a single a word when he looks at you again. "Uh...you—"
"네... 가자."
The last few months have been rough, with the ups and down of hormones, sleep, your weight, and your energy. Right now, at the smallest you think you've been since your teens, you still feel a weakness much like the one you woke up from. No matter how much you sleep, and no matter how much you eat, nothing changes. Thankfully, the way Seungmin looks at you and lifts you into his arms doesn't change, either. He has changed. The body your arms are wrapped around is more solid now than it was a month ago, because he told you he would take better care of himself, and he followed through.
He carries you to the kitchen, turns off the oven and the burner, because now is not the time for interruptions you can control. If you're lucky (and quiet), the boys will sleep soundly for a little longer. Seungmin knows that, and he's careful when he lowers you onto the unmade bed. The spicy-sweet smell of your apples floats in from the kitchen as he pulls off his clothes—the shirt...he peeks towards the cots as he shakes his hair back into place, but his attention returns to you. "Smells good, whatever you're making." He smiles and crawls onto the bed. Small talk isn't usually his preference during foreplay, but this time... "southern food, yeah?" He playfully pulls at your shorts, being mindful to slowly run his palms against your thighs on the way back up.
"Yeah...kinda."
"Oh," he cocks an eyebrow and thinks, "sorry," and you can see him mouthing out the word before he says it. "A-puh...latch-uh. I remember." Before you can respond, he's gone between your thighs, kissing and nibbling where he knows makes you shake with laughter, but he moves up quickly. Your hip, and your stomach as he lifts your shirt up and out of his way, back to your neck as his fingers work between your legs. "Have I told you..." he pecks at your lips with each pause, "how much...I love you?" He readjusts and pulls your thighs up, and the tip of his cock teases. "Today?"
"No." The words haven't left his lips in a while, but it doesn't matter. Hearing it is nice, but it's not needed when you can feel it radiating from him. "Not today."
A blush blooms across his cheeks. "I love you." He leans forward, moving slowly as he pushes himself in, carefully and purposefully. He wants to feel every inch of you.
"I...ooh...I love you. I love you, too."
"We can switch, since you like being on top."
You do, but you don't have the energy. "No, this is good. I trust you." Still, he thinks about it before gently coaxing you on your right side. You can see the cloudy sky in the balcony window—the curtain is still pulled open, and the air blowing in is warm and thick. It's pretty, but you close your eyes and focus on every sound and touch as he sings against the skin he's kissing. The song is quiet, and it's Korean, so it will have to remain a mystery for now. He slides in again, and the tight stretch around him is a relief, because you've been terrified of things not returning to normal after giving birth; worried that sex with him would be different than it was before. It seems silly, even though it somehow feels better, to think he'd settle for you not feeling everything, not brimming with pleasure and coming for him.
It feels natural to roll onto your stomach, so he adjusts again, lifting your hips and sliding a pillow beneath them. None of it seems to faze him, and you think he might like the slow pace as he slides in a third time.
"How's that, hm?" He breathes in your ear. "Feels good back here."
"Perfect."
He laughs when you clench the sheets and move against him.
"Right there...oh fuck..."
His fists clench the sheets next to yours as he steadies himself, keeps the same pace, and gets you closer and closer with every pump, but he regrets not keeping you on your back. He wants to watch you, and he wants you looking at him when you come. But he won't change a thing until he gets this first one.
Minnie...Minnie...
“네, 여보?”
“더 해줘”
You want more?
Seungmin almost loses himself in the moment. He nearly puts his whole body into his next thrust, until he remembers how fragile you feel beneath him, and the boys sleeping soundly a few feet away.
But he doesn't stop. His hips move softly against you, and he gives you what you want—more, remaining in the moment, holding your body against his as he pumps faster and deeper. Each breathless moan and slick thrust tells him what he needs to know...the air still heavy with humidity, and now the sharp scent of sex. Seungmin loves it. "Turn...lemme see you."
You turn to face him, panting and sweating, and a satisfied smile stretches across his face. "Sorry, that was fast."
"Fast and...nice?" He's between your thighs again, too impatient for a response he knows the answer to.
"I'm not coming again until you do, get up here."
A sound comes from the cots, and both of you go silent as you listen for more. Both boys have gotten more vocal over the last few weeks—just oohs and ahhs, grunts, and sometimes a tiny hiccup, and it's the sweetest sound you can imagine. This one is more of a sneeze, and it's followed quickly by a familiar tired sigh.
"They're okay, still sleepy." You reassure him, but he's still distracted. "You can check if you want."
He shakes his head, but still watches for a few more seconds. A squeeze to his wrist brings him back, and he gives you his full, undivided attention. Seungmin can't seem to get close enough, or kiss deeply enough to satisfy his need for you, but he softens his touch when you moan for him. "Right there?”
"Yes, 너무 좋아..." You laugh under your breath, not knowing if your words are quite right for the moment, but Seungmin smirks, and a slow, shaky moan comes from his chest. "너무 좋아.”
His legs begin to shake as his orgasm grows. It's been so long, and there is no comparison to the grip you have on him; not with this eye contact, and your cute, timid Korean. But he has to pull out. He has to concentrate. When he thinks the moment is right, one more thrust...two more. It's intense, and he can barely hold himself up as he empties onto your stomach. The look on your face tells him you weren't prepared for it, but it doesn't keep you from enjoying the moment and watching the mess he makes all over you.
"You didn't have to pull out."
"I don't want to take any chances yet."
The roles seem to have reversed; your reluctance, and his anticipation. You don't want to get pregnant again so soon, but you wouldn't stop it if the universe pushed things in that direction. "Okay, as long as that was good for you.
He moves down and settles between your open thighs, plants his lips firmly against your clit, and you come almost immediately. Seungmin keeps going, taking the gentle buck of your hips as a sign that your body won't stop handing them out, but eventually, it becomes too much, and you have no problem grabbing his hair and pulling him away. "Good. Yeah, very good." He pants and smiles on his way back up to you. "Nice start to the day."
"Happy Birthday." You kiss him before wiggling free, and despite his lazy protest, you slide off the bed and into your robe. "I'm gonna finish your breakfast." But first, the twins. You give into your urge to wake Hanuel and hold him close, and he seems to want it just as much. He coos against your neck and grabs the fabric of your robe. Pulls at it, and touches the bare skin of your chest. Another urge comes over you—the urge to pull the robe aside and give him what you think he wants, but there's no use in making him work for nothing. "Hungry again? No, I think you just wanna snuggle...we can do that." Holding both of them becomes more difficult with every ounce they gain, so you take Haesung's hand until it's his turn.
Seungmin sneaks up behind you and returns the kiss, then looks at you with a sympathetic smile. "After breakfast, I have to go."
"Go? Go where?" Your mind jumps to the most obvious answer, but it doesn't seem right. Everything has been calm lately, and he's been happy. The strange knock at the front door was an anomaly, and only dug up some memories. Nothing happened, and nothing is here. Or it doesn't feel like it's here, at least. Not at the moment.
"Dr. Mun wants to see me."
"Not to change anything, I hope. Your dose has been working fine."
"I'll tell her that. I think she just wants to talk. I haven't seen her in a while."
Breakfast doesn't happen the way you envisioned it. Seungmin eats happily, seeming to enjoy the apple butter covered biscuits more than you expected, but the pitstop in the bedroom was the unexpected highlight. You plan on repeating that before the day ends. He showers quickly, unusual for him, and after a lengthy goodbye to all three of you, he's gone. It's you and the boys, alone, for the first time since your coma.
"Okay guys...you wanna watch me finish one of daddy's gifts?"
Every time he sits in the Supra, he remembers how impractical it is with two babies. He can either drive to Daegu to switch them out again, or he can find something newer and safer instead. Thinking long about major purchases isn't really his thing, mainly because he rarely makes them, but he wonders if you would appreciate having a say in things first. "Probably." He yawns and connects his phone to the cassette adapter, and he's relieved when his music starts playing smoothly. "My money is your money now." The music echoes through the parking garage for a few moments, and he yawns again. And theirs, he thinks. Maybe this is a conversation for another day.
Seungmin pulls out and heads toward the doctor's office, but takes his time. His appointment is in forty minutes, and the drive should take him twenty-five, but he likes driving, and sometimes forgets what it's like to be alone...
"So, we have a lot to discuss." Dr. Mun types quickly, glancing at him every time he shifts in his seat. "Last time we spoke was right before your boys were born."
"Has it been four months?"
She nods slowly, and a small smile pulls at her lips. "How are they? And how is...uh, does she prefer Tokki as much as you do?"
Seungmin smiles back as he thinks of you. "I think she prefers Tokki now, but she doesn't mind her real name. She's getting better." Only two months stands in the way of your first year together, and it passed so quickly. "The boys are doing well, getting bigger, and stronger."
"Good. So fatherhood hasn't been the challenge you were afraid of?"
Was he afraid? He can't remember now, because too much has happened between then and now, and too many things required him to act quickly, and not dwell in his head. The last few months have faded a little, at least until he goes back to his camera roll to remember. Seungmin was afraid. Four months ago he feared losing patience, being unable to keep up with the demands of two fragile, dependent babies, and anger finding new ways to escape him because of it. His real father was stoic and kind, and every night Seungmin prayed to something that he still had that inside of him. "It has its moments."
Dr. Mun smiles again, and Seungmin notices the subtle lines surrounding her eyes. "But you're enjoying it?"
"Yes, they're perfect. I'm sure that's what everyone thinks about their own children, but they really are. I wish I had the connection they seem to have with their mom. The three of them can read each other's minds, I swear."
"You feel left out sometimes?"
"It's in my head. I'm never really left out, and we share the responsibilities...but mine have been more since she's been recovering. I don't mind." He shifts awkwardly, throwing up his defenses just in case. "I enjoy the time I get with them, and I've always had a strange sleep schedule, so it's easy."
"Caring for twins...easy? That might be the first I've ever heard that."
"Maybe not easy, but having that purpose brings me joy, so it feels easy."
She nods, understanding. "If that left-out feeling returns, don't ignore it. If you sense any sort of detachment from her or them, get closer, talk about it, let her let you in. She doesn't want you to feel that way."
Seungmin feels silly feeling that way, considering how deeply you've embedded yourself into his mind. The two of you couldn't be closer.
"Have you been keeping in touch with your old friend?"
His mind freezes, then rewinds. Heecheol, he thinks...where is he? The last time they spoke was strange, and irritating, so Heecheol hasn't crossed his mind at all. He's back in Uljin, no doubt, because he couldn't possibly keep his mother waiting up for him this long. A nurses salary and whatever his mother receives monthly won't keep up with that hotel bill. "Not much. I should probably check in on him."
"You're much more talkative than usual today. Have you been consistent with your medication?”
"Yes, I haven't missed a dose in weeks...months. My mind has been quiet, and I've been eating better."
She stops to type something into her laptop. "Good. We'll stick with that dose and schedule, and I'll put in new prescriptions for everything. Anything else you'd like to talk about?"
Seungmin can hear you as he unlocks the deadbolt. At first, when he's between here and the elevator, he thinks you might be talking excitedly to the boys, but things become clearer with each step. You don't sound happy, so you're not talking to them, and eventually he realizes it's a one-sided conversation. He's quiet when he walks in, sets down his bags, and then he watches you pace slowly from the kitchen to the bedroom where Hanuel and Haesung are. A few seconds later, you finally notice him, and your face brightens.
"I have to go. We can talk later."
On the dining room table sits a brand new vase of flowers—tall, purple irises, at least a dozen of them, and next to it is a perfectly wrapped box.
"Everything okay?" Seungmin asks as he moves closer. He wants to get a better look at the irises, and he wants to smell them. It's strange seeing a different purple flower in the house. It's also strange hearing you speak with so much emotion after being quiet for so many weeks.
You smile again, thankful he came and interrupted when he did. "Yeah, all good. Do you like them?"
"The irises? Yeah, they're beautiful. Is this for me?" He points shyly to the gift wrapped in gold paper before reaching to touch it. He knows it's for him, but it's still a strange feeling.
"Yeah, that's for you. There's also a card that came."
Seungmin he immediately recognizes the handwriting of his name and address. A small yellow envelope, return address; Kim Eun-ji and Kim Ji-woo, Ulsan. It usually gets here a few days late, but today he has two things to open.
~
They watch from the doorway as he looks around the bare room. There was never a need for the space, so they quickly furnished after they were asked to take him in. A small dresser, a chest, a bookshelf, and a yo. The walls are white, and the hard floor is, too. A blank slate.
"You can decorate however you like. And if you need anything..."
Seungmin turns to face his aunts, cheeks still red from crying, and nods. The first thing he does is empty is backpack—Daengmo is stuffed in there, and he gives him a quick fluff before reaching in for his notebook, his thrifted Walkman, and a half empty box of cookies. He eats one, and just as he wonders when they'll have dinner, there's a soft knock on the door.
"If you're hungry, we'll head out whenever you've unpacked."
He squeaks out an okay before pulling out the last thing he squeezed in there—his baseball cap. Tackling the suitcase to his left feels daunting, but he's learned that procrastinating makes everything worse. Seungmin doesn't have much; he never did, and his possessions have only lessened since he moved away from Uljin. Material things don't bring him the joy that he sees in his classmates, and not having much to weigh him down makes him happier. He wrote that in an essay for his composition class, and his teacher left him a note next to that paragraph telling him how insightful it was...
~
"You okay, Minnie?"
Your voice registers, but he's still rereading the first few sentences to himself.
"Is that from your aunts? Uh...gomo?"
Now he looks at you with a smile. "It is. They wrote a letter... it says..."
Seungminnie, we hope you're well on your birthday, and you are spending it with someone you love. It seems as if a visit might be in order soon, but only if you and your new wife are agreeable. Hearing your voice every few months is a treat, so seeing you again would be such a gift. Please call more often, and send a photo with your next letter. You must have grown so much since we saw you last.
It’s signed with two hearts, one for each of them.
"Seungminnie...they sound sweet, I would love to meet them."
Seungmin nods and holds up the photo they included—a Polaroid of their two cats. Beneath that is another photo, a much older one. On the back is the date it was taken, July 2nd, 2001. The Seungmin in the photo is almost a year old, and the man holding him, his father, doesn't know he only has a few months left to live. They both beam happily at the camera, possibly held my his mother, or more likely, one of his aunts. The few memories he created come back to him; his scent, and the sound of his voice. "Sorry." He looks at you, patiently watching him, waiting for a response. "You would like them, I think." He hands over the photo of him and his dad, and laughs when you light up.
"They really do look just like you."
One of the boys wakes and starts to cry, as if they could feel your thoughts of them forming, and for the first time in their lives, you don't immediately run to soothe them. Seungmin doesn't move, either. He watches you just as patiently, but know he's thinking...
"Do you think his death hurt me, too? I mean...in the same way umma's did? I wasn't there, and I was so young."
"How did he die?"
"Car accident. She never told me much about it, and I didn't ask. I was afraid to know, but the last few years, I've wondered."
Two traumatic deaths. And you do think his dad's death hurt him, too—it found a way in as time passed. "You should talk to your aunts. Send an invitation, and we can fix up the apartment next door for them. I'm sure they'd like to meet the boys."
"I should. They don't even know they have...hmm..." He screws up his face as he thinks. "I forget the english word for it."
"Nephews? Grandnephews, I guess. You gonna tell them, or give them a surprise?"
"Surprise. Otherwise they'll come with more gifts than we have space for." Seungmin looks to his neatly wrapped box again, and he can't hold back a smile. It drops when he hears another soft cry from the bedroom. "Let's bring them out before I open it."
Haneul is red-faced and screaming when Seungmin reaches him, and picking him up barely soothes whatever is bothering him. Wet, more than likely, or worse. He gets a soft pat on the butt, and you and Haesung lead the way back to the kitchen table. "I have something else for you, too. After you open this one."
"Two gifts? Wow."
"Sort of. Does he need changed?"
"I don't think so. Probably just needed some attention...right, buddy? Do you want to help me unwrap this?" Seungmin turns him gently, but it's still too soon for them to hold their heavy heads up without a little help, or keep from wiggling back and forth as they reach for something. He sets his back against his chest and pulls the box a little closer. "It's heavy." One corner comes loose, and when he can't do it neatly, he decides to rip it until the matte black box underneath is revealed. Seungmin looks at it curiously, like it's familiar somehow.
The top is lifted away, revealing a sleek, silver-gray record player with a vinyl already placed and ready to play. Your heart pounds a little as his silence persists. "The one on the bookshelf is broken, and you have so many records..."
He nods and smiles sweetly before biting down on his lip. "I do. And you got me a new one! Is this one special, the song the needle is sitting on?"
That song made its way into your dream last night, and you somehow forgot until right this moment that the record, your record, was waiting here all week to be unwrapped. You had to ask your sister to find it in one of your boxes of things left behind, hope it was still around after the last move you weren't around for, but it wasn't there. She had it with her, and it took some convincing to part with it.
"It's mine. I appreciate you keeping it safe all this time, but I want it back."
"It was gramma's, and why do you want it sent all that way anyway? Can't you find a new one? It's gonna get lost or snap in half!" Her accent is thicker, and much more pronounced than yours. She never tried to hide it.
It forces yours out, like it has to compete. "Gramma gave it to me, and you know it. I want that one."
You don't usually argue with your sister, but you know she's still angry at you for leaving. As gentle as you tried to be, her attitude made it difficult.
"Mom came back and said you got married. Why didn't you tell me? I guess that means you're never coming home."
That was how you learned your mother left without saying goodbye, and it hurt a little bit.
"Why don't you come visit me? I can get you a ticket..."
"You know I don't like flying. I'll send your damn record...do you want anything else?"
"How's mom?"
"Weird. Weirder than usual. What happened over there?"
"I'll set it up after lunch, and we can listen...Tokki?"
It's Haesung's grip and tug on your hair that wakes you from your daydream, but you catch the confused look on Seungmin's face. He's smiling, but he knows your mind is somewhere else, and you need it to be on him. This is the first birthday you've spent together. "Sorry."
"무슨 일이야? What are you thinking about?"
"My mom called. I shouldn't have picked up, but I'm always a little too hopeful, even after everything."
Seungmin nods, understanding without much explanation. Your mother left two weeks ago without a word, and he only knows because of the email he received when she checked out of her hotel. "Not a good conversation, I guess." He watches you shake your head and squeeze Haesung a little closer. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
No, he knows you don't. You shake your head again and smile at him. "Maybe later. Let me get your other gift."
Both boys end up in his arms as you head for the kitchen, and he thinks he might know what his other gift is. The last time he had a real birthday cake was when he turned eighteen, made by his aunt Ji-woo. Thinking back to how little he appreciated it gives him a twinge of remorse that he's still not used to feeling, but they never seemed to hold his attitude or anger over him, and they never used it against him.
"I wasn't sure which flavors you'd like best, so I made two...this one has the candle, though."
If it were a little neater, he'd guess it came from a bakery. "That's homemade? When did you make it?" But this is much better.
"Everything was ready last night, it just needed baked, so I finished while you were out. It's, uh...I hope it's okay. It's just chocolate cake, and chestnut and coffee cream."
"Wow, chestnut and coffee cream. Are we eating it right now? I guess I should blow out my candle and make a wish first."
The warm light of the match bounces off their faces, and Seungmin's round, happy cheeks makes the three of them look identical. "Yes, the ritual comes first." Seungmin laughs at that, and you smirk back so he knows you mean it. The candle comes to life, and the boys can't take their eyes off of it.
"Ritual?"
"Light a candle, make a wish, blow it out. That's magic." You shake away the flame of the match and watch him as he thinks.
What could he wish for? Right now, everything is perfect, or seems like it. The four of you are together, happy and healthy...so what if a wish jinxes that, and messes everything up? He sits with the thought as he watches the wax melt and drip, realizing it's his 강박장애 coming through. His compulsive thoughts are under control, but not completely gone. "Magic." He says it under his breath. Please keep them safe. The flame goes out easily, and the smoke twirls up and away toward the ceiling. Luckily the window is open, so the breeze will eventually send it on its way—out and up to the sky where wishes are supposed to go, he guesses. Who knows. You're smiling, and that's all the matters. "Now we can eat."
The smell of mint and chocolate still hangs in the air the next morning—Seungmin's second birthday cake, in case he didn't like the first one, baked at midnight when his post-sex cravings hit. His new-found ferocious appetite still surprises you.
You've slept in too late, you can tell without looking at the time, but it's the quiet room that really makes you get out from under the covers. Quiet and empty. Not your favorite way to wake up. Seungmin almost always sleeps later than you, so you let a little bit of panic settle in your chest. It's silly, and you know that, but it's going to sit there anyway. You call out for him, but he either doesn't hear you, or he's not here.
"Seungmin?" You pull the door wide open and scan the room.
No Seungmin, but his chestnut cake is sitting on the table with another big piece missing. That calms your nerves. If he sat down to eat, he must be in a normal headspace, right? Healthy Seungmin eats, he doesn't wander off while you sleep...not again. But where could he possibly go with both babies, alone? Your run back to bed and find your phone tucked under the pillow, and you finally unclench your jaw when you see his messages.
Gym
That's the first one. The second is a little more detailed...
With the boys...sleep as long as you need to
He sent that over two hours ago, and that seems like an awfully long time to workout, but this is also new for him. Until this moment, you forgot the building even had a gym.
The elevator takes you straight down to the lobby, no stops, but when the doors slide open, you're face to face with a tenant—a woman you've never seen before. She's pretty, almost as tall as Seungmin, and doesn't say a word as you sneak by. She does keep her eyes on you, though, and when you glance back before the doors close, she's still watching. You make a mental note to ask about her as you walk down the long hallway, but turning the corner and catching sight of him erases any trace of her from your head.
From a distance, in this brand new setting, he could almost be a stranger...the shorts riding up his thighs with each small movement, the thin shirt showing every working muscle and the shimmer of sweat on his arms; it doesn't matter that the same body was beneath you last night. That was a different version of him, a soft, submissive Seungmin. And he doesn't know you're watching. Maybe he feels a pair of eyes on him, but you think he might be too focused on the burn of his muscles as he lifts, and even more on the boys a few feet away.
The keypad is loud, and you know he hears it when he slowly stops what he's doing, but he doesn't look back. Seungmin waits, and as you pass him, his eyes follow, and the soft, passive version of him returns. Maybe he's shy about his new hobby. The only real exercise you've seen him do is in bed, but now you're wondering how often he's been coming down here. He's filled out from eating better, yes, but it's more than that.
"Morning." He says, almost a whisper. "I'm almost done."
"I get to catch the end? Good, what's left?" His laugh comes out light and easy. You've learned over the few disasters how important is to savor every little moment, and you remember that as you listen to him. This could be gone tomorrow.
He thinks, remembers what he's already done so far. "This one." Seungmin points to the piece of equipment directly in front of him. "It won't take long."
"No rush. Is it back day? Shoulders?
This time he looks you in the eye as he laughs and brushes his damp hair away from his forehead. "Both."
Like usual, it stays exactly where he pushes it, and in his scar shines in the harsh light. The hospital did better on his stitches than you originally thought, and you've done what you can to help fade the mark, but he's still self-conscious. It must be a constant reminder of his last bad episode, but he doesn't talk about it, so you have to guess what he's thinking.
He sits, checks the weight, but leaves it as it is. You wonder how many tenants take advantage of the gym, because nearly everyone you've run into has been at least sixty or older. Except for that girl you passed on the elevator.
"I'm new to this...these machines. If I would have kept pitching, I'd know a little more. Maybe I wouldn't be so skinny." His first pull is a test, because he adjusts his grip before the next one.
"Well, no matter how skinny or buff you are, you're perfect and I love you. How many sets and reps are you doing?"
It seems like he holds back a laugh as he pulls and counts each rep, and you let him finish. Twelve reps. "Sounds like you know as much as me. Do you sneak down here between yoga and qigong?"
"No, I haven’t touched one of these machines since high school. My boyfriend was a wrestler, so I spent some time in them."
Seungmin stops mid set and looks at you. "You had a high school boyfriend?"
And he starts again before you have a chance to answer. The way he asks isn't surprised, but he seems genuinely curious. And he should be. Questions don't get passed between the two of you as often as they should, and any new revelations are revealed gradually, accidentally, and at just the right time. "Senior year, yeah."
He finishes the second set and rests, breathes deeply. You take in every part of him as he prepares for his third, and possibly last, set of lat pulls. If he can read your mind right now, he'd pull off his shirt and give you a better look at his progress.
"When I wasn't having symptoms, I'd feel a little bit normal and wonder what it would be like to have a girlfriend like all my classmates had. It seemed like everyone was a couple." He pulls at his shirt, but it stays on for now. "I guess if I had kept playing baseball, I would have had some friends."
Your stomach knots up at the thought of him all on his own, navigating a world he couldn't quite understand. "Maybe. Everything you did, all the decisions you made...helped me find you, remember?"
Watching his shirt slide up and get tossed aside reconfirms the mind reading. Twelve more reps, a perfect view of the delicate movements across his back, and he rests again. He doesn't jump or move when you set your palm against his hot skin, but he groans when it slides up to the back of his neck.
"This must be why you've been sleeping so well lately." You squeeze, and he groans again. "Are you sore?"
"Sleeping, and probably eating too much. I'm okay now, but I'll feel it later."
"You're eating what your body needs. And cake is a great pre-workout, I'm sure." He leans back against your touch, so you rub a little more, a little harder, until you hear him groan with relief. "Speaking of that, what are you hungry for?"
Seungmin is rarely picky about his meals, but he has his favorites. "I've been craving the sweet potatoes down the street, and some ramyeon. I haven't had cheap ramyeon in weeks...months."
"You shower, I'll get dressed...we'll get ramyeon."
There's something odd about the convenience store that's less than a hundred steps from the lobby of the apartment building. Odd, and strangely comforting. It's always there; the light is always on, and the door always slides open for you.
"Hannie and I came here a few nights ago, when he couldn't sleep."
The four of you stand by the doorway, that familiar spot just out of the midday sun, and watch as a few people exit. It's not busy right now, after lunchtime on a weekday.
"You did? Just the two of you?"
You sense some worry in his voice. "Yeah, you two were sound asleep, but he was very cranky, so we came out for some air." Haesung is slung tight to you this time, eyes wide, hanging onto every word you say. Hanuel is squirmy and fussy for Seungmin, and the next check-up can't come soon enough. "It helped. But...we won't go out alone again, if it worries you."
Seungmin laughs and playfully tugs at your braid until you look at him again. "I always worry, but I know Yonggang is safe."
He says that as if he isn't responsible for any mysterious disappearances, or deaths, but the smirk you give him seems to remind him. The door slides open and you lead the way in.
"I try not to work in my own neighborhood."
"I believe you, but you were right here when you followed me home...watching." You grab an ice cup and turn to him. "Waiting."
"Just taking a smoke break, thinking about my next move. And if I remember correctly, you tricked me into following you home."
You didn't forget about that. How could you?
"이번에는 네 분 모두..."
The familiar voice is quiet, but strong. It's partly curious, but there's a sense of relief there as well. Yes, all four of us together this time. You don't have to find the speaker to know who it is, but a moment later, she appears near the counter with a bundle of cash in hand. The register dings, and she stuffs it inside without another look in your direction.
Seungmin replies first. "만나서 반가워요."
She laughs and claps her hand together. "I am glad to see you, also. "May I see him...this one?" The old woman points to Seungmin's chest, and Haneul's fingers poke out from his sling. "잠시 동안."
"Ah...um..." He looks to you for an answer. Aside from the hospital staff, your mother, and Heecheol, nobody has touched them.
You nod, but you're not sure why—there's no reason to distrust the old woman, or trust her. Something about her feels safe, though. Seungmin lifts him from his sling and holds him a few inches from his face, places a kiss on his forehead, and hands him over. The reluctance in his face is obvious to you, and maybe to her, but he manages a smile. Haneul, you hear him say, and she smiles twice as wide at his sleepy, cranky face.
She speaks softly to him, and you can't hear her well enough to decipher any of the words, but Seungmin listens carefully. Haneul watches as if he understands, and that wouldn't surprise you.
"He still wonders where you were all that time...when you went away." The woman looks at you, and her soft stare twists your stomach. "He missed you very much."
You look to Seungmin for an answer, because you have to assume he mentioned your long hospital stay to her at some point. All you get is a confused shrug.
"But you're home now. His chest hurts, though, and he can't sleep well. Haneul likes when you stay awake with him at night."
Tears start to well up in your eyes, but you hold them back as you reach for him. Seungmin lifts Haesung away to lighten your load. "How could you know that?" As if she hasn't already shown her strange gifts more than once before. Nothing is really strange anymore. "What's wrong with him?"
"What do you think she meant...his chest hurts? Literally, or..." You look to him, but he keeps his eyes on Haneul. He came out of his check-up with a clean bill of health, and so did Haesung, but the worry has hardly left your mind.
He flashes a confused smile. "Not literal? Maybe she meant he missed you, and his heart ached. Her English is good, but not perfect, so it could be—"
"She should have spoken to you, then."
It comes across much shorter than intended, but Seungmin doesn't seem bothered. He can tell you're tired from two sleepless nights. "I'll talk to her if I see her again."
A few hours later, he leaves, but he's only gone for about five minutes. "Not working." He shrugs and tosses you something from his bag. "I'll try again after midnight."
"I was thinking, if it is something physical the doctor missed, mmm..." Thinking it is hard enough, but he waits patiently. Half of his cake is gone before he mutters a yeah? "Maybe getting out of the city for a while would help."
He nods as he considers it.
"The beach might be nice, the salty air."
"Oh, like...Uljin?"
"I'm sure we have plenty of beaches to choose from." The next thing spills out of you without warning, but the dream comes back so suddenly, it feels like you could fall right back into it. "Is there a lake near your old house? No, never mind, it's not important—"
Seungmin answers anyway, shaking his head after a few beats, but his focus shifts, and he seems to dissociate for the briefest moment. "I don't think so, not that I ever saw. The beach wasn't far, but we didn't go very much...I can't swim, so I guess it didn't matter."
"Beach is nice, even if you can't swim."
"Can you?" He smiles awkwardly when you nod. "Are you a good swimmer?"
"Yeah, had to learn after my cousins kept throwing me in the Ohio river."
His face brightens with your laugh, and again when both boys start to wake from their after-dinner nap. "There's a cave that wasn't far from home, Seongnyugul Cave. I went there once, and I thought I'd be afraid." That memory has started to fade, but it's still there. "It was a strange place, but it felt safe, so I always wanted to go back." Seungmin leans in. "There's a lake there, by the cave...a river, I guess. Rivers, they all meet right there."
Seungmin sounds like you again. It's strange hearing it, considering how much you hide your accent when you remember to, but he catches everything. "You wanna learn how to swim?" And a confluence of rivers meeting somewhere you felt safe...just another thing the two of you have in common.
He shakes his head without thinking. "No, not really. But you can teach them when they're a little older."
"You wanna go see that cave again?"
"Are you hungry?" He's already out and opening the back door to check on the boys, but the question is obviously directed toward you. "We should get something anyway, we're only halfway there."
Before you answer, you're out and surveying the area. As much as you enjoyed the view, the last fifteen or so minutes were spent sound asleep. "Did we end up in West Virginia?"
"Huh?" Haneul isn't happy to be disturbed, and he lets Seungmin know. "Sorry, bud, time for a break from this car seat." He watches you take in the sights, which are minimal.
"It looks like home. I see a minivan on its rims down this way, and right there's a steeple with a big old cross! Where are we?"
He doesn't bother hiding his chuckle. "A big old cross?" He bites his lip when you fake a scowl. "Um, according to the map we are in Sillim-myeon, in Wonju."
"Well, it all looks real familiar. "
Inside the GS25 is immediate relief from the autumn heat. It's unsurprisingly empty, sitting here in the middle of nowhere, but even the clerk is nowhere to be found. The aisles are claustrophobic as you navigate them with Haesung in your arms, and Seungmin and Hanuel disappear down the last one. The silence is interrupted by soft music overhead, and every few moments, a wave of static runs through it as if the speakers were connected to an old antenna radio.
"Let me know if you see any samgak over there." It's far too quiet as you toss a few things into your basket, and there's still no clerk stirring behind the counter. "Min?" You listen to the song change, but you must be hearing things. Static. The bright voice of John Denver is easy to catch every time it comes through, but hearing this song seems unlikely in the middle of Korea, right at this exact moment. Honestly, nothing should you surprise you anymore, but... "Seungmin?" Everything does. Static. Sweet, sweet surrender. "Minnie!" Haesung's ears get covered for this shout, and finally...
He turns the corner, eyes wide. "What's the matter?" Three samgak drop into your basket.
"Did you hear me call for you before?"
"No, just when you shouted. Isn't this that record we listened to the other night?" He looks up at the ceiling, but it's hard to tell where the music is coming from. "It's not your song, but I remember."
"Your song."
"My song?" He thinks back, remembering the words. You didn't tell him that when he finally turned it on that night, after the sex, and before the next round of cake. The lyrics escape him now, and he's embarrassed to admit it, seeing as how it was special to you. Why didn't he listen more carefully? "Can we listen to it again, in the car?"
"Sure. Guess we gotta get outta here first, and I haven't seen anyone working."
Look a little harder, dear.
That voice rings in your brain like a bell, but it can't be her—she can't possibly be here. Wonju is more than an hour away from Mapo, and besides that, the old woman is no younger than seventy, so why would she travel so far for an extra shift? "Seungmin, did you hear that?" He shakes his head absently and examines the row of chips in front of him. Haneul reaches when he hears the crinkle of the bags. "The old woman." You're relieved he's been in a good mood for most of the drive, only cranky from the heat. "I heard her."
A bang from behind the reach-in coolers makes both of you jump. It happens a second time, but this one is followed by a deep shout—something in Korean, and then in unmistakable English...
"BASTARD!"
Seungmin laughs, "There he is. Sounds like he's having a bad day."
The cooler door creaks open and closes with another bang, and before the man comes flying up the aisle, Seungmin reaches and pulls you out of his path. "I'll get this stuff, you two go back outside."
"Alright, grab me a drink."
The heat hits even harder after the short time in the AC, but Haesung is unbothered. He yawns long and wide, squeezing his eyes and crinkling his nose before he braces himself for a sneeze. "Oh, bless you. Feel better?"
You catch his yawn as you circle the car and take in the familiar scenery again, and when the sun catches the steeple with the big silver cross, you can't help but investigate a little further. Just a few steps towards the road, and a few steps east—there's no need to be cautious, though, you could walk straight down the middle of this road and not worry about a car coming through. You can see the blue and white sign ahead, but can't quite make out the words. A few more steps, and then you squint. "Methodist, wow...they got 'em here, too." The red door catches your eye, and when something scurries behind the parched bush next to it, you begin to take another step closer.
Seungmin whistles sharply, and his palms are cupped over Haneul's ears to dampen the sound. "Don't wander away." He shrugs one shoulder, as if he's second guessing the landing of that comment.
"Uh, that's...um..." You start toward him, but stop to pick up a ₩500 coin nestled in the gravel. "That's your job."
"I guess I had that coming. I got you orange juice, and some water. Oh, and an ice cream so eat that before it melts."
You can feel his stare as you rip open the wrapper and pop it in your mouth, but his thoughts seem to be locked up at the moment.
"What did you hear in there?" He asks.
The old woman, she's been on your mind, that's all—not to mention the heat, and your exhaustion. You hate admitting to anyone, even Seungmin, that you're tired. The coma took something out of you that hasn't returned yet. "It was nothing."
His eyes speak for him—tell me everything, no matter what. "I know you're still worried about Haneul, and we'll see her again when we get back. He slept better last night, didn't he?
You nod, push the sling aside, and place a kiss on Haneul's silky, untamed hair. "I heard her voice, but I know it's in my head. She's not in there."
"She's pretty strange, who knows. Maybe she can travel like you did."
"Yeah, maybe. We should go before it starts getting dark."
Seungmin holds his hand out to take yours. "Yes. I don't want to drive through the woods in the dark."
"Woods? We're staying at the hanok?"
He nods, but there's a look on his face that's wondering if it's too late to change that, and if planning things that way without telling you was stupid. "I can find us a room somewhere, if you want. We can visit the greenhouse in the morning."
"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I wasn't even thinking about the greenhouse. The boys haven't been there yet."
His smile has a hint of sadness behind it. "A short visit, if you're comfortable going." Seungmin hasn't forgotten what happened the last time the two of you spent the night. "To say hi, and get some flowers."
⟢ ┆ stray kids x reader. ot8. established relationship.
⟢ author’s note: helloo! this was requested twice lol so i guess it’s a popular trend going around and i finally brought myself to write it after the odyssey my life went through last month. i had lots of fun with it and i hope you all enjoy it<3
setting: The city is quiet past midnight, your shared apartment dim except for the faint glow slipping from under Chan’s studio door. Hours ago, you fell asleep wrapped in him—warm, safe, and completely unaware that sleep would abandon him the moment it found you.
⸻
You don’t remember when your eyes opened—only that something felt… off.
The bed was still warm, sheets tangled around your legs, but the space beside you was empty.
“Chan…?” Your voice comes out soft, barely there, like it might break if you try harder.
No answer.
You sit up slowly, blinking against the dark, your body still heavy with sleep. For a second, you consider just waiting—he’ll come back, he always does—but the quiet stretches too long, too unfamiliar.
So you slip out of bed.
The floor is cold under your feet, and you don’t bother fixing your appearance—just a loose tank top and panties, hair messy, eyes half-lidded. You don’t even think about it. You just… miss him.
The faint light from his office pulls you down the hallway.
You push the door open gently.
Chan’s there, exactly where you expected—curled slightly forward in his chair, headphones pushed halfway off, one hand resting against his temple as the other hovers over the keyboard. The screen casts a pale glow over his face, highlighting the exhaustion he tries to hide.
He doesn’t notice you at first.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him for a moment, the soft clack of keys filling the room.
“…Chan.”
That does it.
He turns instantly, like your voice is something he’s wired to respond to, and the moment his eyes land on you, something in his expression shifts—softens, melts, completely undone.
You don’t even realize how you look.
But he does.
And to him, it’s everything.
“Hey… baby,” he murmurs, pulling off his headphones, voice low and warm despite the fatigue. “Why’re you up?”
You rub your eyes, stepping closer, your voice small and sleepy. “Woke up… you weren’t there.”
He exhales softly, guilt flickering across his face. “Couldn’t sleep again. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
You stop in front of him, swaying just slightly, and he instinctively reaches out—hands settling on your hips to steady you.
“Come back to bed,” you mumble, barely coherent, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Please.”
There’s a pause.
Not because he’s unsure.
Because he’s completely, utterly gone for you in that moment.
You—half-asleep, careless, soft in every possible way—asking for him like he’s the only thing that makes sense.
“Yeah,” he breathes, almost like he forgot how to speak for a second. “Yeah, okay. I’m coming.”
He doesn’t even save his work.
Just slips his hand into yours, guiding you gently back down the hallway.
You don’t let go.
Not even when you crawl back under the covers, tugging him with you, wrapping yourself around him like it’s instinct.
He settles behind you, arms circling your waist, pulling you close—closer than before.
You sigh, already drifting again.
And for the first time that night…
Chan feels like he might actually sleep.
Because you’re here.
Because you asked for him.
And because nothing—not the music, not the silence, not even his restless mind—matters more than this.
group || stray kids
pairing || seungmin x afab!reader
rating || general
word count II 946
content warnings || established relationship, pregnancy, domestic fluff, coming home, soft!seungmin
summary || When Seungmin left for tour, your pregnancy bump was still small enough to hide in his arms. Now he’s finally home—and the sight of you in your third trimester stops him in the doorway. True to form, Seungmin doesn’t panic. He doesn’t spiral. He just quietly slips into caretaker mode—fixing your pillows, bringing you water, reading baby books like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. But later that night, when you’re fast asleep and the world is quiet, the reality finally hits him.
The key turning in the lock was the sweetest sound you’d heard in months. You were settled on the couch, feet propped up on a mountain of pillows, a book resting unread on the curve of your belly. You heard the soft thud of his suitcase in the entryway, the familiar shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, and then his voice, hesitant and soft.
“Jagi? I’m home.”
“I’m in here,” you called back, a smile already spreading across your face.
Seungmin appeared in the doorway of the living room, and for a moment, he just stood there, his eyes wide. The last time he’d seen you, you were just beginning to show, a small, sweet bump that he could still easily wrap his arms around. Now, in your third trimester, you were undeniably, beautifully pregnant. His gaze swept over you, taking in the full, round belly, the softer curve of your hips, the way you were nestled into the cushions. The shock on his face quickly melted into something else—a look of pure, unadulterated wonder.
“Wow,” he breathed, a small smile touching his lips. He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. He didn’t touch you at first, just looked, his eyes tracing the landscape of your changed body. “You’re… you’re so beautiful.”
You reached out, cupping his cheek. “Hi, stranger.”
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again. “Hi.” He finally placed a hand on your stomach, right over the spot where his child was growing, and his expression softened even further. “I missed you so much.”
And just like that, the quiet, steady caretaker mode you knew and loved so well clicked into place. He didn’t panic. He didn’t ask a hundred frantic questions. He simply observed, assessed, and acted.
“You look tired,” he noted, his thumb stroking gently over your belly. “Are you sleeping okay? Is your back hurting? Let me get you some water.”
Before you could answer, he was up and moving, his efficiency a comforting balm. He returned with a tall glass of ice water, placed it on the coaster within your reach, and then meticulously rearranged your pillows, fluffing them and tucking them behind your back until you let out a contented sigh.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much,” you sighed, leaning into the plush support.
He spent the next hour like that—a whirlwind of quiet, purposeful activity. He unpacked his suitcase without a second thought, his focus entirely on you. He made you a snack, cutting up an apple with the precision of a surgeon. He noticed the baby books on the side table and picked one up, flipping through it with a serious expression, as if cramming for a final exam.
“Have you been walking? The doctor said light exercise is good,” he murmured, his mind already cataloging a new routine.
“Seungmin, breathe,” you said, laughing softly as you took his hand. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is under control.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your stomach, and the intense focus in his eyes softened. “I know. I just… I have a lot of lost time to make up for.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. “I’m home now. Let me take care of you.”
And he did. For the rest of the evening, he was the picture of quiet strength. He drew you a bath with Epsom salts for your aching back, he cooked dinner, and he sat with you on the couch, his hand a constant, warm presence on your belly, talking softly about his tour and listening intently to every detail he’d missed.
Later that night, you were fast asleep, your breathing deep and even. The moon cast a soft glow across the room, illuminating the peaceful curve of your profile. Seungmin lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, just watching you. He’d been awake for hours, just soaking in the sight of you, so full and round with his child.
He reached out, his hand hovering over your stomach before gently resting his palm against it. The baby stirred under his touch, a faint flutter against his skin, and his breath caught in his throat.
This was real. This was happening. In just a few short weeks, he would be a father. The weight of it, the sheer, terrifying, magnificent responsibility of it all, finally settled over him. The calm, capable facade he’d worn all evening crumbled in the privacy of the dark.
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching your side. “I’m scared,” he whispered, the confession so quiet it was barely a sound, meant only for the night and for the tiny life listening within. “I’m scared I won’t be enough. That I won’t know what to do.”
He felt another flutter, a gentle kick, as if in response. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and onto the pillowcase.
He took a shaky breath, his resolve hardening. He pressed his lips to your stomach in a solemn, silent vow. “But I promise,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise I will spend every single day of my life trying. I’ll be someone you can always rely on. Both of you. I’ll be your rock. Always.”
He stayed like that for a long time, his hand resting on your stomach, his promise hanging in the quiet air. He was scared, yes, but underneath it all was a love so profound, so fierce, that he knew it would be enough. It had to be.
Minho walks away once things return to normal, leaving behind a quiet you can’t get used to. But when he shows up again, something feels different—like whatever was left unsaid before is finally ready to surface.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🐰❫･━━━━━━ ❜
It started with a long, breathless silence that seemed to stretch forever.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
You stood frozen by the bedroom door, still gripping the pillow like it was the only thing keeping you grounded in a world that had suddenly tilted sideways. Your heart hammered against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it.
Minho stayed exactly where he was on the bed, wrapped tightly in your blanket, shoulders tense and rigid, his sharp eyes fixed on you with unwavering intensity. He looked like he was bracing for the possibility that any sudden movement from him might make you disappear entirely.
Or worse, make you scream again.
“Say something,” he muttered eventually, his voice quieter now, careful and low as if he were handling fragile glass.
You blinked slowly, like you had genuinely forgotten how words worked.
“…I don’t know what to say.”
Fair.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face in clear exhaustion. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”
The silence settled again.
But this time, it wasn’t as sharp or suffocating as before.
Just heavy.
Thick with processing, with the weight of everything that had been said and everything that still hung unspoken between you.
You took one hesitant step forward.
Then stopped.
Then took another. Slow. Cautious.
Like you were approaching something that could be either incredibly fragile or dangerously unpredictable.
Minho didn’t move an inch.
Didn’t dare shift even a fraction under the blanket.
Your eyes scanned him again—properly this time, taking in every detail you had been too panicked to notice earlier.
The familiar sharp shape of his eyes.
The way he held himself even now—tense and guarded, with that slight undercurrent of annoyance that felt strangely, impossibly familiar.
It clicked.
Not fully.
But enough to make your chest tighten.
“You look at me the same way,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Minho frowned slightly, tilting his head. “What?”
“Like you’re judging me.”
A beat passed.
“I am judging you.”
Your lips parted in surprise.
Then, a small, disbelieving laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
You covered your mouth immediately afterward, eyes widening like you weren’t sure if you were even allowed to react that way.
Minho blinked, caught off guard.
“You’re laughing?”
“I don’t know what else to do!” you shot back, a little breathless, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“There’s a—there’s a man in my room telling me he’s my dog, what am I supposed to do?!”
“First of all,” he said flatly, though his tone carried a hint of dry humor, “you didn’t even name me properly.”
You stared at him, incredulous.
“That’s what you’re focusing on right now?!”
“It bothered me.”
That did it.
Another laugh slipped out of you—shakier this time, but undeniably real, bubbling up from somewhere deep and overwhelmed.
And something in Minho’s chest eased.
Just a little.
The rigid line of his shoulders softened by a fraction.
The tension didn’t vanish.
It never could, not after something like this.
But it became… manageable.
Bearable.
You rubbed your arms slowly, glancing away for a moment to gather yourself before looking back at him.
“So… you’re really… him?”
Minho hesitated for only a second.
Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.
You swallowed hard, throat tight.
“And you were just… living here? With me?”
“You brought me here,” he corrected gently, a faint trace of his old tsundere stubbornness creeping in.
“Right. Yeah. I did.”
Another pause stretched between you, thick with disbelief and dawning understanding.
“And you… understood everything I said?”
“Unfortunately.”
Your face burned with sudden heat as memories of every late-night ramble, every vulnerable confession, every silly complaint flooded back.
“Oh my god.”
Minho almost smirked.
Almost.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he held it back.
You sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.
Not too close.
But not as far away as before.
A careful, tentative distance while you tried to figure out where the new line between you now stood.
“This is insane,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly.
“Yeah.”
“You were a dog.”
“Yes.”
“You slept next to me.”
Minho froze for a moment, the reminder hitting him with quiet intensity.
“…Yes.”
You covered your face with both hands, a soft groan escaping.
“I’m going to lose my mind.”
“You’re handling it better than I expected,” he admitted, voice softer now.
You peeked at him through your fingers, curiosity mixing with lingering shock. “What was your expectation?”
“Screaming. Crying. Possibly hitting me with that pillow.”
“I did scream.”
“That’s fair.”
Another silence fell.
But this one felt softer.
Warmer.
Weirdly… familiar, like the quiet evenings when he had simply sat beside you as a puppy, listening without judgment.
Minho shifted slightly on the bed.
The blanket slipped again just enough to remind him of his current state.
He grabbed it quickly, tightening it around himself with an awkward huff.
“Do you have clothes?”
You blinked, the practical reality crashing back in.
Then your eyes widened as it fully registered.
“Oh—right. Right, yeah—um—”
You stood up quickly, turning away like that single action could somehow erase the entire situation. “Don’t move.”
“I literally can’t,” he deadpanned, the dryness in his tone almost comforting in its familiarity.
You ignored him, rushing to your closet and grabbing the first things you could find—an oversized shirt and some loose sweatpants—before tossing them toward him without daring to turn around.
“There—!”
The clothes hit him squarely in the face.
“You could’ve handed them to me.”
“I am not looking—!”
“You’ve seen me as a dog for days.”
“THAT’S DIFFERENT!”
Minho rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he quickly maneuvered into the clothes while still mostly hidden under the blanket.
“Humans are exhausting.”
“I HEARD THAT.”
“Good.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A few minutes later, after some rustling and a couple of quiet curses, his voice came again, calmer this time.
“You can turn around.”
You hesitated, nerves still buzzing under your skin.
Then slowly, you did.
And there he was.
Fully dressed now in your borrowed clothes, the oversized shirt hanging slightly loose on his lean frame, the sweatpants sitting low on his hips.
Still the same person who had once been your tiny, judgmental puppy.
Still completely unfamiliar in so many ways.
And yet—
Not entirely a stranger.
Your chest tightened with a complicated rush of emotions.
“Oh.”
Minho shifted awkwardly under your steady gaze, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, looking away as heat crept up your cheeks. “You just—”
You stopped yourself mid-sentence.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting. “I just what?”
“You look… normal.”
He snorted softly, the sound carrying a hint of dry amusement. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”
“I don’t know either.”
The conversation didn’t end there.
It stretched on for hours—slow, messy, filled with questions you didn’t quite know how to ask and answers he didn’t quite know how to give without sounding completely ridiculous.
You learned about the curse in fuller detail.
About the old man on the street and the exact words he had spoken.
About the condition that had bound everything together.
And when Minho finally said, voice quiet and almost reluctant—
“It only breaks when I fall in love with my owner.”
You went very still, the words landing heavily in the space between you.
“Oh.”
Minho didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor instead.
“Yeah.”
Neither of you said anything more after that, the weight of the confession settling like a quiet promise neither of you was ready to name yet.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The next few days, everything changed.
And yet, somehow, it didn’t.
Minho left.
Not immediately. But too soon.
Because he had a real life waiting for him outside the walls of your small apartment.
Friends who had been worried sick.
Responsibilities that couldn’t wait any longer.
A world that existed far beyond late-night talks and shared blankets.
“I’ll… come back,” he said one afternoon, standing awkwardly by your door with his hands shoved into the pockets of the borrowed sweatpants, like he didn’t quite know what those words truly meant yet.
You nodded, throat tight.
“Okay.”
You wanted to say more. Wanted to ask him to stay longer. But you didn’t.
Couldn’t.
He hesitated at the threshold for a long moment, eyes lingering on you like he was memorizing the sight.
Then he left.
The apartment felt too quiet after he was gone.
Too big.
Too empty in a way it never had before.
You didn’t realize how much space something so small had quietly filled.
Until it was suddenly gone.
No soft paws padding across the floor.
No steady presence waiting by the door when you came home.
No quiet, warm weight curled beside you at night.
You found yourself pausing every evening the moment you stepped inside, keys still in hand, instinctively waiting.
One quiet evening, you sat on the couch, staring at the empty spot beside you where he used to sit with perfect, dignified posture.
Your hand rested there absentmindedly, fingers brushing over the cool fabric.
Cold.
Empty.
“This is stupid,” you murmured to the quiet room, voice barely carrying.
But your chest ached anyway, a dull, persistent pull that refused to fade.
Because somewhere along the way — without noticing and without ever meaning to — you had gotten used to him.
Not just the dog. Not just the comforting presence.
But him—Minho.
And now, he was gone.
Back to a world you weren’t part of. Surrounded people who didn’t know about the tiny puppy who had once guarded your heart so fiercely.
You pulled your knees to your chest, exhaling slowly into the empty space.
“You didn’t even say goodbye properly.”
Your voice was quiet.
Barely above a whisper.
And the silence that followed didn’t answer back.
It simply waited with you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You didn’t expect the knock.
Not really.
Not at this hour.
Not when you’d already convinced yourself that the quiet was something you just had to get used to.
It had been… days. Not a lot.
But enough.
Enough for the routine to settle into something empty and hollow. Enough for you to stop pausing at the door when you got home, keys still dangling from your fingers. Enough for the silence to start feeling permanent, like the little cream-colored shadow that once waited for you had never existed at all.
So when the knock came— soft, careful.
Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t even sure they should be there.
You froze.
Your head lifted slowly from where you were curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, staring blankly at the television that had been playing nothing but background noise for hours.
Another knock.
You stared at the door. Your heart started beating faster, a nervous flutter rising in your chest.
“Who is it?” you called out, voice slightly strained, trying to sound steadier than you felt.
“It’s me.”
Your breath caught sharply in your throat.
You didn’t move at first.
Couldn’t.
Because that voice—you knew that voice now.
Even if you hadn’t known it long.
Even if you weren’t supposed to miss it this much.
You stood up too quickly.
Almost stumbled over the edge of the coffee table.
Then made your way to the door, fingers hesitating on the handle for just a second—trembling slightly—before you finally opened it.
Minho stood there.
Same as before.
But… not.
He looked a little more put together now—dressed in his own clothes that fit him properly, his posture more composed and confident, hair fixed like he’d made a deliberate effort to look like the Lee Minho who belonged in his real world of stages and spotlights.
Like he belonged somewhere far brighter than your small, quiet apartment.
But his eyes—the moment they met yours—something softened in them.
Something warm and familiar that made your stomach twist in the best and worst ways.
“…Hi.”
You stared at him, words failing you completely for a long moment.
“…Hi.”
Brilliant.
Great conversation.
Silence stretched. Awkward.
Too many things unsaid sitting heavily between you, filling the space until it felt almost suffocating.
Minho shifted slightly on his feet, glancing past you into the familiar apartment before his gaze returned to your face.
“Can I come in?”
You blinked, snapping out of the daze.
“Oh. Yeah—yeah, sorry.”
You stepped aside quickly, holding the door open wider than necessary.
He walked in.
And the moment he did, something changed.
Subtle.
But immediate.
Like the space itself recognized him.
Like the walls, the furniture, the very air had been quietly waiting for this exact return.
Minho looked around slowly.
Taking everything in again with that same quiet intensity.
The couch where he used to sit like he paid rent.
The blanket still draped over the armrest.
The familiar layout that hadn’t changed at all.
His gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary on the spot beside you on the couch.
Before he cleared his throat, breaking the moment.
“It’s the same.”
“…Yeah,” you said quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I didn’t… change anything.”
A beat passed.
“…Right.”
More silence.
God, this was painful.
You turned to face him fully, arms wrapping around yourself for some kind of anchor. “So… why are you here?”
Straight to the point.
Good.
Because if you let yourself hesitate even a little, you might say something else.
Something you weren’t ready to say out loud yet.
Minho didn’t answer immediately.
He looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was trying to figure something out deep inside himself. Or maybe to confirm something he had been carrying since he left.
“It was quiet,” he said finally, voice low and honest.
You frowned slightly, tilting your head. “What?”
“My place,” he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar awkward way. “It was… too quiet.”
Your chest tightened with a rush of warmth you tried to push down.
You looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze.
“Okay.”
“And annoying.”
You blinked, surprised. “Annoying?”
“I kept expecting something,” he admitted, almost reluctantly, like the words were being pulled out of him. “Noise. Movement. Something following me around. Someone checking if I ate.”
Your throat went dry.
“…Oh.”
Minho exhaled slowly, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair and messing it up again.
“And I realized something.”
You didn’t ask.
You were too busy bracing yourself for whatever came next, heart pounding in your ears.
He stepped closer. Not too close. But closer than before.
Enough that the safe distance you had been clinging to started to dissolve.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Don’t like what?”
“Not being here.”
Your breath hitched, the words landing like a gentle but firm push against your ribs.
Minho held your gaze. Steady and certain.
“I don’t like not seeing you when I wake up,” he continued, voice growing quieter and more intimate. “Or not hearing you talk about things that don’t matter to anyone else but me.”
Your chest ached with a sweet, painful longing.
“I don’t like eating alone,” he added, a faint hint of his old tsundere tone slipping in. “…It’s worse than that food you gave me the first day.”
You let out a weak breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the tension cracking just a little.
“Hey.”
“It was bad.”
“You still ate it.”
“I was starving.”
A small pause settled between you, softer now.
“But I liked it when you were there.”
That one—that one hit differently.
Deeper.
Warmer.
You swallowed hard.
“…Minho…”
He didn’t let you finish.
“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, frustration coloring his tone as he searched for the right words. “And I don’t—” he exhaled sharply, “—I don’t like not understanding things.”
“You always looked like you did,” you murmured, remembering the puppy who sat with perfect, knowing posture.
“I was pretending.”
That made you look at him. Really look at him. And for the first time, he didn’t look completely in control.
There was a raw vulnerability in his eyes that made your heart stutter.
“The curse is gone,” he said quietly.
Your heart dropped like a stone.
“…Oh.”
Of course. That’s why he was here.
Closure.
A proper goodbye.
You nodded slowly, forcing the words out. “That’s… good.”
It should be.
It is good.
So why did it feel like a quiet kind of heartbreak?
Minho’s gaze sharpened slightly, reading the shift in your expression.
“That’s it?”
You forced a small, fragile smile. “What do you mean?”
“You’re just going to say ‘that’s good’?”
“…What else am I supposed to say?” your voice came out softer than you intended.
Fragile.
You hated how vulnerable it sounded.
Silence fell again. But this time, it felt heavier.
More dangerous.
Like everything was balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
Minho stepped closer.
Enough that you could feel the shift in the air.
That familiar presence you had gotten so used to—warm and solid and real.
“You asked me before,” he said quietly.
Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“If I was jealous.”
Your breath caught sharply in your throat. You remembered. Too clearly.
The night the other man had visited. The way the tiny puppy had barked and growled and pressed against your leg like he couldn’t bear the distance.
“I didn’t answer,” he continued, voice steady.
“You didn’t have to,” you said quickly, trying to brush it off.
“I was.”
You froze.
Minho held your gaze. Unflinching.
“I didn’t like him being near you,” he said. “I didn’t like you looking at him.”
Your heart started pounding harder, a wild rhythm you couldn’t control.
“Minho—”
“And I don’t like it now either,” he added, voice dropping lower, more certain. “If someone else shows up here, I still won’t like it.”
Your breath hitched again, the air between you growing thick with tension.
“…Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer and desperate for it at the same time.
Minho didn’t hesitate this time. Not even for a second.
“Because I fell in love with you.”
Silence.
Complete.
Total.
Your world stopped spinning for a long, dizzying moment.
“What?”
Your voice sounded small. Like it didn’t quite belong to you anymore.
Minho didn’t look away. Didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the words.
“That’s how the curse broke, remember?” he said simply.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because it meant it was real.
Not a choice at first.
Something forced by magic. Something inevitable.
Your chest tightened painfully, a sharp sting behind your eyes.
“So what,” you said, voice shaking slightly, “—you just came back because of that?”
Because of a curse?
Because you were the condition?
Because you were convenient?
Minho frowned, stepping even closer until there was almost no space left.
“No.”
“Then why?”
You finally looked at him again.
Minho’s expression shifted. Softer. More certain. More open than you had ever seen it.
“Because even after it broke,” he said quietly, “I still felt the same.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I left,” he continued. “I went back to my life. Everything was normal again.”
A pause, heavy with meaning.
“Except it wasn’t.”
He stepped closer until you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the same quiet comfort you had missed so badly.
“…Because you weren’t there.”
Your eyes burned with unshed tears.
“I didn’t come back because of the curse,” he said.
“I came back because I wanted to.”
A beat.
“And I don’t plan on leaving again.”
Your vision blurred with tears you couldn’t hold back anymore.
“You’re really—” You let out a shaky breath, the words catching. “You’re really serious right now.”
“I wouldn’t come all the way back here if I wasn’t.”
Silence. But this time, it wasn’t empty.
It was full. Too full.
Overflowing with everything that had been building between you for weeks.
“You’re still annoying,” you whispered, a watery smile breaking through.
Minho huffed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “You’re still dramatic.”
“You’re the one who showed up out of nowhere.”
“You let me in.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
A small pause lingered, charged and tender.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” you added quietly, voice thick with emotion.
Minho’s expression softened even further, regret flickering in his eyes.
“I know.”
“That was mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t like it either.”
You looked at him. And this time, you didn’t see a stranger.
Not completely.
You saw the puppy who had guarded you so fiercely.
The man who had chosen to come back.
“You can stay,” you said finally. “But only if you stop insulting my cooking.”
Minho almost smiled, the corners of his lips curving up in that signature tsundere way.
“No promises.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face grew.
“Then you can cook.”
“Fine.”
A beat passed, the air between you humming with quiet relief and something deeper.
“Also,” he added, glancing at the couch with playful possessiveness, “that spot is mine.”
You blinked, a laugh bubbling up. “…Excuse me?”
“I slept there first.”
“You were a dog.”
“Still mine.”
You stared at him for a second longer.
Then laughed.
Really laughed this time—light, relieved, full of the warmth you had been missing.
And Minho—for the first time since coming back—let himself relax completely.
He closed the remaining distance in one smooth step and pulled you into his arms.
You melted against him instantly, burying your face in his chest as his arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rested firmly at your waist. He held you like he had been waiting to do exactly this for far too long—solid, warm, real.
You clung to him just as fiercely, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, breathing in the scent that was now unmistakably his.
Minho pressed his lips to the top of your head first, soft and lingering.
Then tilted your chin up gently with his fingers.
When he kissed you, it was slow and deep—full of all the unspoken things he had carried as a puppy and all the feelings he had finally named as a man.
His lips moved against yours with quiet certainty, one hand cupping your cheek while the other kept you pressed close against him. You kissed him back just as earnestly, pouring every late-night confession, every jealous little growl, every quiet moment of comfort into the touch.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Minho’s voice was barely above a whisper, warm against your skin.
“I’m home.”
You smiled, eyes still shining with happy tears, arms tightening around him.
And this time, neither of you planned on letting go.
He kisses you, then pulls away like it meant nothing. When he comes back, desperate to fix it, you’re the one who shuts him out—leaving him chasing a moment he ruined himself.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🦙❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The studio always feels different after midnight.
You’re used to it. Used to the dim lights, the hum of equipment, the glow of the monitor reflecting off tired eyes. Used to the way creativity comes easier when the world outside finally shuts up.
What you’re not used to—what you’ll probably never get used to—is him.
Hyunjin sits across from you, one leg bouncing lightly, headphones hanging around his neck instead of on his ears. He’s supposed to be listening back to the demo you just finished tweaking, but he hasn’t pressed play in the last five minutes.
Instead, he’s watching you.
“You’re staring,” you mutter, not even looking up from your screen.
“I’m thinking,” he replies.
“That’s not what thinking looks like.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “It is when it’s about you.”
That makes you glance up.
Big mistake.
He’s leaning forward now, elbow on his knee, chin resting against his knuckles—eyes sharp, unreadable, but not in the distant way he usually gets when he’s lost in music.
This is something else. Something too focused. Too intentional.
You try to ignore the way your chest tightens.
“Focus,” you say, gesturing toward the screen. “We still need to fix the second verse. Your pronunciation is off.”
“My pronunciation is fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
You sigh, turning your chair to face him fully.
“Hyunjin.”
He straightens slightly, like he’s bracing for a lecture—but there’s a flicker of amusement in his expression.
“Sing it again,” you insist.
He doesn’t move.
“Hyunjin.”
Still nothing.
Instead, he studies you again—slower this time. Like he’s memorizing something he’s about to lose.
“…What?” you ask, quieter now.
He exhales, almost like a laugh—but there’s no humor in it.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m just… work.”
Your brows knit together. “Because we are working.”
“Yeah,” he says, closing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps. “That’s the problem.”
Your breath catches, but you hold your ground.
“Hyunjin—”
“I keep telling myself it’s just that,” he continues, voice low, almost to himself. “Just late nights. Just songs. Just you correcting me and me pretending I don’t like it.”
He stops right in front of you.
Too close.
“You don’t like it…” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
He tilts his head slightly. “No?”
Your pulse is loud now—too loud.
“Then why do you always stay?” you counter.
Silence. A dangerous kind.
His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second—and that’s all the warning you get.
Because the next thing you know, he’s kissing you.
It’s not hesitant.
Not soft.
It’s sudden, overwhelming—like something that’s been held back for too long finally snapping free. His hand slid up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek with an intensity that felt like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.
And for a second—or more—you kiss him back.
Because it’s Hyunjin.
Because it’s this moment, in this room, with everything unsaid finally spilling over.
Because deep down, you’ve been waiting for it too.
You let your eyes close, allowing the reality of him to finally override the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain.
But as quickly as the fire had started, he doused it.
He pulls away abruptly like he’d been burned by the very heat he’d sought out.
The space between you feels colder than it should.
Your heart is still racing, your lips still tingling, your thoughts scrambling to catch up—but his expression has already changed.
Closed off. Controlled. Gone.
“We shouldn’t,” he says, almost flat. Like he’s reading from a script he doesn’t believe in but is forcing himself to follow anyway.
You stare at him.
“What?”
He steps back, running a hand through his hair, avoiding your eyes now.
“That was—” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “It didn’t mean anything.”
The words land wrong.
Too sharp. Like they were chosen specifically to cut.
You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Didn’t mean anything?”
“It was just—” He exhales, frustrated. “A moment. That’s all.”
Right.
You nodded slowly, the realization sinking in like lead in your stomach. You felt the familiar, cold walls of professionalism rising back up to protect you, though your chest felt like it was caving in.
“Okay,” you say.
Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
“Okay,” you repeat, turning back to your screen like nothing just happened. Like your world didn’t tilt slightly off its axis.
A beat passed. Then another.
He didn't leave, but he didn't move toward you either.
“Play the track,” you add, eyes fixed forward. “We’re wasting time.”
There’s a long pause before you hear the faint click of the mouse.
And just like that, you both pretend it never happened.
But the air in the studio?
It never goes back to normal.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Hyunjin doesn’t remember the drive home.
One second he’s leaving the studio, the next he’s standing in the middle of his apartment, keys still in his hand, the silence pressing in too loud.
The kiss lingers—not just the feeling—everything. The way you froze for half a second before leaning in. The way your breath hitched. It had felt right. It had felt like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't realized he was building.
And then, his grip tightens around his keys.
“…Idiot.” he mutters under his breath.
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like moving might shake the memory out of him.
It didn’t mean anything.
He actually said that.
A humorless laugh leaves him, sharp and short.
“Yeah. Sure Hyunjin.”
Because if it didn’t mean anything, then why does his chest feel like it’s being squeezed from the inside out?
Why does he keep replaying the exact moment you kissed him back?
Why does he remember the look on your face right after—confused, open, real—before he ruined it?
He exhales hard, dropping onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.
He knows why he pulled away. It wasn’t because it meant nothing but because it meant too much.
You’re not just someone he can mess around with. Not someone he can risk dragging into something messy, complicated—something that could blow back on both of you. You work with them. You’re part of the process, part of the team. One wrong move and everything shifts.
And him? He’s already a mess.
Late nights, pressure, expectations—he barely keeps himself together most days.
The thought of bringing you into that storm—of inevitably hurting you because he couldn't find his own center—terrified him.
His jaw tightened until it ached.
“So I just hurt her anyway,” he whispered to the empty room.
Because that’s what he did.
There was nothing casual about that kiss, and you’re not stupid. You would’ve seen right through it—seen through him.
And instead of owning it, he panicked.
Took something real and reduced it to nothing. His hands come up to cover his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes.
“Why did I say that?”
No answer. Just the echo of your voice in his head.
Didn’t mean anything?
He can still hear the way you said it—like you didn’t believe him, but you were forcing yourself to anyway.
You hadn't screamed. You hadn't thrown him out. You had just… agreed.
And if you really believed him—if you took those words as your new reality—you would never let him that close again.
And the thought of that?
It makes something twist painfully in him.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Across the city, you’re staring at your ceiling.
Sleep won’t come.
Every time you drifted close to it, the memory of the studio pulled you back. The heat of him. The way his thumb had brushed your cheek like you were something precious. And then the way he pulled away like it was nothing.
You press your lips together, turning onto your side, pulling your blanket tighter around you like that might hold you together.
“What was that?” you whisper to no one.
Was he playing with you?
No—Hyunjin’s not like that. At least… you don’t think he is.
But then why?
Why kiss you like that—like he meant it—and then act like it was just some passing impulse?
Your chest tightens.
“Was it a joke?” you murmur, the thought bitter in your mouth.
You hated that you were even asking the question. You hated that you were dissecting his motives like a lyric sheet. But mostly, you hated how effortlessly you had responded to him. You had kissed him back without a second of hesitation, as if your body had been waiting for his signal for years.
And maybe it had.
You squeezed your eyes shut against the burning behind your lids. “That was so stupid.”
Stupid to let your guard down.
Stupid to blur the line between work and… whatever that was.
You’ve liked him for a while now.
You just got good at hiding it. Tucking it away behind schedules and deadlines and teasing arguments about phrasing and tone.
You convinced yourself it was harmless.
Safe.
Until tonight proved it wasn’t.
Your throat tightens slightly, but you swallow it down.
“Okay,” you whisper, echoing your own voice from earlier.
If that’s what it meant to him—nothing. Then you’ll treat it like nothing too.
You have to.
Holding onto a one-sided hope was a slow-acting poison, and you refused to let it settle in your system.
So you make a decision there, in the quiet of your room, staring at a ceiling that doesn’t give you answers.
You’ll keep your distance.
Keep things professional.
No more lingering looks. No more late-night conversations that drift too personal. No more letting yourself read into the way he says your name or the way he stays just a little longer than he needs to.
You’ll fix this.
Before it gets worse.
Even if it means pretending that something that felt so real, never happened at all.
And somewhere between your resolve and the silence that follows, your chest aches in a way you can’t quite ignore.
But you let it.
Because it’s easier than hoping he’ll come back and say he didn’t mean what he said.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The studio feels normal again.
Too normal. Like nothing ever happened.
You’re already there when Hyunjin walks in—headphones on, back straight, eyes fixed on your screen. There’s a cup of coffee beside you, untouched, and a stack of notes neatly arranged like you’ve been here longer than you actually have.
Like you needed the extra time to build a wall.
He looked at you—or rather, at the way you were pointedly not looking at him.
“You’re early,” he says, voice careful.
“Deadlines don’t adjust for sleep schedules,” you reply, flat, professional.
No glance. No pause.
Just work.
Something in his chest sinks.
“Right,” he mutters, setting his things down a little slower than usual, like he’s waiting—hoping—you’ll look up.
You don’t.
The silence stretches.
He set his bag down with exaggerated slowness, the rustle of fabric and the clink of his water bottle sounding like thunder in the silence.
Usually, you’d fill it. Complain about a melody. Tease him about being late. Say something that would make him roll his eyes but secretly smile.
Now? Nothing.
Just the faint clicking of your keyboard.
“About last night—” he starts.
“Second verse still needs fixing,” you cut in, finally speaking—but not to him. Not really. Your eyes stay on the screen. “You dragged the last syllable again.”
He exhales, frustrated. “Can we not do this right now?”
“We are doing this right now,” you say, calm. Detached. “We’re working.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
That makes you pause—but only for a second.
Then you hit play.
It was loud enough to drown out any further attempts at whatever conversation he’s trying to start—or perhaps just loud enough to give you an excuse not to hear it.
He stared at you, really looking this time, and the realization hit him like a physical blow. The softness was gone. The lingering, playful glances that had been your secret language for months had been erased, replaced by a professional distance so profound it was almost insulting.
He reaches out, stopping the track mid-play.
The sudden silence is sharp.
“Don’t,” you say immediately, a flicker of irritation finally breaking through.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“I am talking to you. Your timing is off—”
“Not about the song.”
Your fingers still over the keyboard.
Slowly, you lean back in your chair, finally looking at him.
And for a split second, he sees it.
That crack—hurt. Barely there, but enough.
Then it’s gone.
Replaced with something colder.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you say.
His brows pull together. “Nothing?”
“You said it yourself,” you continue, voice steady in a way that almost sounds rehearsed. “It didn’t mean anything.”
The words landed with more weight than they had the night before. Because now, they didn't sound like his lie—they sound like they belong to you.
“That’s not—” He stops, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.”
“No, I just—” He exhales sharply. “I panicked, okay?”
You don’t react.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he adds, softer now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” you ask.
There’s no edge to your voice.
No anger.
Just a quiet, terrifying calm.
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out.
Because how is he supposed to explain that he kissed you because he couldn’t stop himself and then pushed you away because he was scared of how much he wanted it?
How much he wants you?
“I…” He falters.
And that hesitation? It’s all you need.
You nod once, like something just got confirmed.
“Right.”
“No, wait—”
“It’s fine, Hyunjin.”
He freezes.
Because that tone—it’s the same one you use with everyone else. Accessible but untouchable.
“I get it,” you continue. “It was a mistake. It happens.”
“A mistake?” he repeats, almost disbelieving.
You shrug lightly. “You said it didn’t mean anything. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t want you to agree with me!” he snaps, stepping closer. “I want you to—”
“To what?” you cut in, standing now, finally meeting him at eye level. “Take it seriously? Read into it? Make it something it’s not?”
His expression shifts, something desperate flickering through.
“It was something.”
Your chest tightens—but you don’t let it show.
“Not according to you.”
“I was wrong.”
The words come out quick. Immediate.
And entirely too late.
You held his gaze for a long, agonizing second. Then, you shook your head, a small, sad smile touching your lips that didn't reach your eyes.
“No,” you say quietly. “You had your chance to mean it…and you didn’t.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
He looks like he wants to say more—like there’s a hundred things sitting at the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out.
But you’ve already stepped back.
Already putting that distance between you again.
“We have work to finish,” you say, turning away. “If you’re done… we can start recording.”
It’s a dismissal.
Hyunjin didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, watching you shut the door he hadn't even realized you were closing. And the worst part? You weren't slamming it. You weren't yelling or crying or demanding an explanation.
You were just… letting him go.
Like whatever was between you, really didn’t mean anything at all.
And now, he’s the one left chasing it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It doesn’t stop.
Even after that conversation, Hyunjin doesn’t back off.
If anything, he gets worse.
At first, it’s small. So small you almost convince yourself it’s nothing.
He starts listening.No more arguing just to get a reaction out of you, no more dragging out takes because he thinks it’s funny when you get annoyed.
Every time you gave a correction, he leaned into the microphone, his eyes searching yours through the glass with a weight that made your pulse stutter.
"Like this?" he’d ask after every adjustment.
Like he’s waiting for your approval.
You keep it clinical. “Better. Again.”
But he still looks at you like that word matters more than it should.
Then it’s quieter things.
You mention—offhandedly—that you didn’t have time to eat. The next day, a familiar takeout bag from your favorite place was sitting on your console. No post it notes scrawled in marker. Just the quiet presence of it. You ignored it for three hours, your resolve hardening even as your stomach growled.
You take one bite. Then another.
And you hate the way your chest tightens when you realize it’s exactly what you like.
Across the room, Hyunjin doesn’t say anything.
But you catch him glancing once—just once. Like that’s enough.
Also, he stays later now.
A few minutes turning into an hour, until he was the only one left in the room with you every single night..
Even when there’s no reason to.
You’ll be packing up, ready to go, and he’ll still be there—leaning against the console, watching you in that quiet way that used to feel comfortable.
Now it feels dangerous.
“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him one night.
“I know.”
“Then go home.”
A beat.
“I will,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Hyunjin.”
“Walk with me,” he says suddenly.
You freeze.
“We’re going the same way anyway.”
“We’re not,” you reply. “I have somewhere else to be.”
It’s a lie. A bad one.
He knows it and you know he knows it.
But he doesn’t call you out.
“...Okay,” he’d whispered, stepping back to let you pass. He was learning how to respect the space you’d demanded, but he was making sure you felt exactly how much of it he was willing to fill.
The others definitely notice now.
“Hyunjin,” Jisung whispers loudly one day, not even trying to be subtle, “you’re down bad.”
“Shut up.”
“You are,” Changbin adds, grinning. “I’ve never seen you this obedient in the studio.”
“I’m not obedient.”
“You said ‘yes’ five times in a row.”
“That’s called listening.”
“Since when?” Minho chimed in, his voice a sharp blade of amusement.
Hyunjin glares.
Across the room, you kept your head down, your pen trembling slightly against the paper. You could feel Chan watching you. He waited until the others drifted toward the vending machines before he slid into the chair next to yours.
“Are you going to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low enough to stay between the two of you.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Chan.”
He sighed, the sound of a man who had handled enough disputes for one lifetime. “You’re both exhausting. He’s trying, you know.”
“I know.”
“And?”
You flipped a page in your notebook, the paper crisp and final. “And nothing. It doesn’t change what happened.”
Chan studied you, his gaze heavy with the kind of wisdom that comes from seeing too many hearts break in small rooms. “You don’t believe him?”
“I’m starting to,” you said, closing the book with a soft thud. “That’s the problem.”
Chan doesn’t respond right away.
Because that answer? It says more than you intended.
Hyunjin doesn’t stop.
He adjusts himself around you like he’s trying to prove something without forcing it.
He gives you space—but never distance.
He talks to you—but never pushes too far.
He looks at you—always looks at you—like he’s waiting for the moment you’ll finally soften again.
And sometimes, you almost do.
Like when he laughs—really laughs—and it slips out before he can stop it, bright and unguarded, and you forget, just for a second, that you’re supposed to be careful.
Or when he hums a melody absentmindedly, and you instinctively add a harmony under your breath, and your voices blend like they always have—natural.
That pull. That same pull that led to—
No.
You shut it down. Immediately.
Because you remember—You remember the kiss. You remember how real it felt. And you remember him pulling away like it was nothing.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
One night, it breaks.
You’re both alone again.
The others left hours ago, and you told yourself you’d leave earlier this time—but here you are, still sitting across from him, the soft glow of the screen the only light left.
“You’re tired,” he said. It wasn't a question.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “You don’t have to keep doing that.”
“Doing what?” you snapped, finally looking at him.
“Acting like you don’t feel anything.”
Your chest tightened, that familiar, suffocating pressure returning.
“I don’t.”
He doesn’t believe you. It’s obvious.
And that annoys you more than it should.
“You don’t get to decide that,” you say.
“I’m not deciding. I’m seeing.”
“You’re assuming.”
“I’m remembering.”
That hits too close.
You stand abruptly, standing abruptly and shoving your laptop into your bag. “We’re done here.”
“No, we’re not.” He moved faster, intercepting you before you could reach the door.
“Yes, we are.”
“Not until you actually look at me and say you don’t feel anything.”
You laugh, short and sharp. “Why? So you can decide if it’s convincing enough?”
“So I know if I should stop.”
Silence.
That…makes you pause.
Because for the first time, there’s something different in his voice.
Not just persistence or guilt.
Something steadier. Something real.
“If I say it,” you ask quietly, “you’ll stop?”
His jaw tightens.
“If you mean it.”
There it is.
The problem.
You looked up at him, the lie sitting on your tongue like a piece of lead. It was right there. All you had to do was say the words and the pressure would vanish. You could go back to being "the professional" and he would finally leave you alone.
But you couldn't do it.
Because if you said it, you’d be no better than he was that night.
So instead, you shake your head slightly.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.
You look away first.
And that’s all he needs.
“I meant it,” he says, stepping closer—but not too close. Not enough to scare you off. “That night.”
You don’t respond.
“I just got scared,” he continues. “And I said the worst possible thing I could’ve said.”
Your hands tighten around your bag strap.
“I know you don’t trust it,” he adds. “I understand.”
A breath.
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.
“You should,” you say quietly.
“I won’t.”
“Hyunjin—”
“I like you.”
The words were so simple they were devastating. No poetry, no metaphors—just the raw, naked truth. You stood there, caught between the wall you’d built and the person who was slowly, painstakingly dismantling it brick by brick.
You freeze.
Because this?
This is what you wanted.
Once.
Before he made you question everything.
And now that it’s here, it feels heavier than it should.
“I know I messed up,” he says. “I know I don’t get to just fix it because I want to. But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t matter.”
Your throat tightens.
“You can ignore me,” he adds softly. “Push me away. Take your time. I’ll take it.”
A beat.
“Just… don’t tell yourself it was nothing.”
Silence fills the space again. But this time, it’s different.
Because the distance between you? It’s still there.
You’re still resisting.
Still holding the line you drew for yourself.
And Hyunjin? He sees the hesitation.
The crack.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then—quietly, almost a whisper—he spoke.
“I think about it every day.”
You blink.
“What?”
“The kiss,” he says. “I think about it every day.”
Your chest tightens.
“Because the truth is,” he says, taking a step closer, slower this time, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, “it mattered too much.”
Your breath catches.
“I didn’t stay,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate that the one time I should’ve been honest, I wasn’t.”
He’s right in front of you now. Not touching.
Just… there.
“I don’t want to run from it anymore,” he adds softly. “From you.”
Your heart is pounding so loud it’s almost disorienting.
“You don’t get to say that so easily,” you whisper.
“I’m not saying it’s easy.”
“Then why now?”
“Because you’re slipping away,” he says, and there’s no hesitation this time. No panic. Just truth. “And I can’t let that happen without at least trying.”
Your eyes search his. Looking for doubt, hesitation, or any sign that this is another moment he’ll take back.
But there was none. There was only him.
“You hurt me,” you say, quieter now.
“I know.”
“And I don’t know if I can just forget that.”
“I’m not asking you to forget.”
A beat.
“Just… don’t shut me out because of it.”
Your resolve wavered. You hated the way your heart leaned toward him despite the logic screaming at you to stay back.
You hate that despite everything—despite how careful you tried to be—you still feel it.
Him.
“I tried to move on,” you admit softly.
His expression flickers. “Did it work?”
You shake your head.
“…No.”
That’s all it takes.
The last thread snapping.
Because the distance you built?
It was never as strong as you wanted it to be.
And now, standing this close, with everything finally said
He lifted his hand—hesitating for a fraction of a second, his fingers trembling—then gently, tentatively, he cupped your cheek. His skin was warm, a grounding contrast to the coldness you’d been carrying.
This time, he didn’t rush. He didn’t overwhelm you with sudden momentum.
He gave you time to breathe, to think, and to choose.
Your breath stuttered, but you didn't pull away. You leaned into his palm, a small, involuntary movement that was all the answer he needed.
When he finally leaned in, the kiss was different. It wasn't the desperate, sudden burst from before.
It was careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
Your eyes close.
And when your lips meet, it was right.
You feel it again—that same pull—but steadier now. Grounded. Real in a way it wasn’t before, because this time, neither of you is pretending.
Your hand finds his shirt, gripping lightly as if to ensure he was still there. And he stayed. He didn't recoil. He didn't break the connection. He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him upright.
When you finally separate, it’s only because you need to breathe—but even then, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his thumb still tracing the line of your jaw.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs.
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You already tried that once.”
“I won’t again.”
You studied him—really studied him—searching for any trace of the boy who had run away. For the first time since that night, you believed him.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
It’s not a grand declaration.
Not a full surrender.
But as your hand slid into his, your fingers interlacing perfectly, it was enough.
And this time, when he leaned in again, you didn’t wait for him to reach you.
A/N: give me someone to cuddle in bed 🥺 i'm craving wholeness in the form of pure love, cuddles and a sense of protection.
******
Hyunjin is the type to get all excited when his cold feet leave the cold floor and get comfy in the warmth of the duvet, snuggling up to you with a childlike excitement.
Hyunjin is the type to embrace your body with his arms and legs, gluing his all to the one he loves. You can feel his smile being imprinted onto your arm.
Hyunjin is the type to admire at your sleeping self. He feels so lucky being able to be this close to the soul he loves most. To be able to admire the way your lips very slightly part. To be able to feel the gentle rises and falls of your chest. To be able to love you just by being able to be close to your most vulnerable state.
Hyunjin is the type to scoot upwards and pull your head into his chest - almost protectively and almost like he's pulling you closer to the very part that stores his love.
Hyunjin is the type to inhale your scent from the top of your head and gently scratch your hair. His fingers thread through your locks which feel somewhat intimate, almost as intimate as sex, but gentle.
Hyunjin is the type to keep you close whilst fast asleep. He loves you with all he is and his body recognises that love, ensuring he's sticking to you every second during sleep.
******
Penny Lane @heaveniseverywhere - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
