𐙚Tags: Age difference (reader is significantly younger), codependency, Freudian (ehh ik 😓), size difference, toxic very toxic!!weird dynamics, the reader is not perfect!! She's immature!
𐙚Summary: You and Sangwoo had always had a rocky relationship, it was inevitable that you wouldn't stay together long. Too bad you end uo seeing him again when you join a series of games in order to earn money. Sangwoo x Pregnant!Reader
𐙚Note: lemme know if yall like! Its baded on that poll i made a while back on which fic yall would rather read :D Also the reader and sangwoo are both meant to be toxic towards eachother.
“See? I told you this would be fun!” you giggled, voice light despite the rain pounding against the thin fabric of the umbrella. Your hand was looped around Sangwoo’s arm as you tried to keep pace with him, your boots sloshing through puddles without much care.
“Stop moving so much. You’ll get wet,” Sangwoo muttered, tilting the umbrella closer to your side even though that left his own shoulder exposed. His voice was quiet, half-lost in the rhythm of the rain and traffic. You caught only pieces of it — his usual mix of concern and annoyance, though you knew him well enough to understand the meaning behind his words without hearing them properly.
Instead of responding, you twirled once under the umbrella, arms outstretched like you were in a scene from some old-school romcom. You almost missed the umbrella entirely, your shoulder catching the downpour and subsequently getting him wet as well.
“My suit–” he began again, irritation rising slightly in his voice.
“Oh my god,” you groaned dramatically, drawing out the vowels, “if I hear you complain about that suit one more time I swear I’m gonna tear it off you myself.” You looked up at him with an exaggerated pout, already laughing as you brushed droplets off his sleeve. “You have like, five of this exact same one, anyway. What are you so worried about?”
He didn’t respond immediately, just pressed his lips into a thin line, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Grinning, you reached down and grabbed his hand. He stiffened just slightly like he always did when you initiated touch in public but he didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers with his and gave his hand a gentle tug as you started walking again, letting your body lean comfortably against his side.
“It’s late,” he said after a moment, sighing. “You shouldn’t make me wait around like that. What if something happened to you?” His voice was tight, like he didn’t want to admit he’d been worried.
You rolled your eyes — fondly, this time. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen next time, I promise. I’ll leave class early or whatever, cross my heart.” You lifted his hand to your chest dramatically as if sealing the vow.
“Don’t leave class early,” Sangwoo said flatly, casting a sideways glance at you.
You snorted. “Okay, dad.”
He gave you a look but didn’t argue further, and you could tell he was biting back a sigh. He didn’t like it when you treated things lightly, especially important things.
“Anyway,” you added quickly, giving his hand another tug, “I’m starving and all this serious talk is boring me. It’s our anniversary, shouldn’t we be doing something fun?”
He hesitated, gaze scanning the street, probably about to suggest something like a reservation or a quiet café. But then you spotted the golden glow of a fried chicken shop just down the block.
“Ooooh, look there!” you said, practically bouncing as you pointed.
The shop’s interior was just as cozy as its quaint exterior. You sat down, hoping it would be the perfect anniversary spot — a rare, quiet moment to enjoy together. But, as always, Sangwoo had to ruin the romance by bringing up the vague, looming future.
“Will you continue your studies?” he asked between bites.
You were determined not to let him spoil the day, so you begrudgingly answered. At times, he felt less like a boyfriend and more like an overbearing father — far too concerned with grades and careers instead of simply focusing on the moment.
“Well, you should get serious. The job market is tough—” Sangwoo began, but you cut him off.
“Can’t we enjoy a single meal without you making it stressful?” you groaned.
Sangwoo leaned back in his chair, his fork pausing midair. “I’m just saying, you need to think ahead.”
You rolled your eyes, tracing the rim of your glass with your fingertip. “Thinking ahead doesn’t mean ruining the now.”
He let out a short laugh—dry, almost scoffing—before taking another bite. “You always say that, but someday you’ll thank me.”
“Someday isn’t today,” you replied, a little sharper than intended.
The TV hummed faintly in the background, its glow casting flickering shadows across the cramped apartment. Some overly dramatic scene played out on screen—yelling, maybe slapping, you weren’t paying much attention. The volume rose suddenly, probably a fight scene now. You squinted at it, detached and dull, the remote lying somewhere too far to bother. A crumpled chip bag sat beside you on the sunken sofa cushion, half buried in a mess of pillows and candy wrappers. You were curled up in the corner, knees tucked beneath you, chin resting on your arm, sunken into the sofa, similar to a statue who couldn't move.
You didn’t feel guilty about it. Not yet.
It was your break, you told yourself. You’d just finished university, burned out, drained and you deserved a little nothingness. Just for a while.
But then, as if the universe itself had rolled its eyes, the door opened. A loud, cold sound that sliced through the quiet.
Your body reacted faster than your thoughts, panic rising. You scrambled off the sofa too quickly, slipping on a wrapper beneath your foot and losing your balance.
Your head knocked into the edge of the coffee table with a dull crack. A stinging jolt of pain flared up as you winced and clutched the side of your skull. Tears sprang up unbidden, clouding your vision, but you bit them back.
Not now. Not in front of him.
“Is this what you’ve been doing all day?” Sangwoo’s voice rang out, flat and laced with that familiar bitterness. He didn’t even wait for an answer, just closed the door behind him with a heavy sigh.
You could hear his shoes drag lightly across the floor, the soft scuff-scuff announcing his irritation. You stayed still, trying to collect yourself as he approached.
You were already murmuring a shaky, “M’sorry…” when his hand reached out, his fingers were large, familiar, unexpectedly gentle, pressing against your head where you’d hit it.
But the gesture wasn’t comforting. Not really.
“All I asked,” he said, kneeling beside you, voice cool and too calm, “was that you at least check out a few job offers. That’s all. One thing.”
His hand lingered at your temple, but there was no warmth behind it. Just a steady pressure, like he wanted you to feel the weight of his disappointment.
“I know,” you whispered, glancing up at him. You searched his face for something soft—maybe a flicker of the old Sangwoo who used to brush hair behind your ear or tuck your scarf in when it got cold. But all you found was tension in his jaw and tiredness in his eyes.
“I know,” you said it again, a little louder. “I just… forgot. I’ll go tomorrow, I swear.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy and stiff, until you pushed yourself to your feet and started gathering the wrappers off the floor. Anything to avoid his gaze.
From behind you, you heard him settle onto the couch. “Tomorrow, if you do, go check that school. The one near the subway. I think they’re still hiring.”
You didn’t answer. Just nodded faintly, lip caught between your teeth as you bent down to scoop up more trash. You hated this—being told what to do like you were some kid who needed a checklist and permission to breathe.
Maybe you were a little immature, but you’d never claimed to be perfect. And sure, you were tired, maybe even a little lost—but you weren’t lazy. You were just… figuring it out. Slowly.
Still, the words tangled in your throat. You couldn’t say all that. So you stayed quiet.
“Are you even listening to me?” His voice cut through the quiet again, sharper this time.
You flinched, turning to find him standing right behind you.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” you hissed, hands bracing against the kitchen counter. “You know I hate that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t move away. He loomed there, still in his grey work suit—the one you had begrudgingly ironed last night. The faint scent of cigarettes clung to him, stronger than his usual cologne. You’d asked him to quit more times than you could count, but he never listened.
That was always the problem. Neither of you listened. Not really.
“Then what did I just say?” His voice was low now, but it carried an edge that made your stomach twist.
You stared up at him, brows furrowed. “God, you really don’t trust me, do you? I said I’ll go find a job soon. Stop acting like I’m some kind of burden.”
You tried to push past him, but his arms shot out, bracing on either side of the counter. You were caged—boxed in by his height and the thick tension between you.
“And when is soon coming?” he said, voice barely raised but more intense than a shout. “Do you even realize how hard it is for me to carry all of this alone? The rent, the bills, the food—you think any of that pays for itself?”
“Are you counting the days now? What next—the minutes? The seconds?” you spat.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the buzz of the overhead light—flickering slightly, casting everything in a sickly yellow hue. Another thing he never got around to fixing.
It wasn’t just the lightbulbs. It wasn’t just the money.
It was everything. And it was nothing.
And maybe that’s why it all felt so exhausting.
You blinked, tears threatening again, not from the pain in your head this time but from something else.
You eased the apartment door shut, pressing the handle down just enough to avoid that familiar, grating squeak—but the hinges betrayed you anyway, letting out a faint groan that cut through the stillness. The air inside was warmer than the late-night chill outside, but heavy, almost suffocating, the way it always felt when Sangwoo had been waiting up.
He was there on the sofa, half in shadow, one leg bent, an arm draped lazily over the backrest. The TV was off, leaving the only light to spill from the single lamp in the corner, pooling gold over the cluttered coffee table. His eyes found yours the moment you stepped inside.
“It’s 3 a.m. Do you have the slightest clue how worried I was?” His voice was low but tight, irritation threading through each word.
You kicked your shoes off quietly, trying not to meet his gaze. “I just… took an extra shift after work. You know the convenience store down the street? They were hiring for nights. I told you, so I… took a couple of shifts there.” You forced your tone to stay calm, even casual, though your pulse had started to quicken.
“An extra shift,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like he was turning the words over in his head.
You nodded, tossing your keys onto the counter with a dull clink. “I’m not sure what the big deal is. You come home late all the time,” you muttered under your breath, almost hoping he wouldn’t catch it.
His head tilted slightly. “What was that?”
He sighed long, heavy, the kind of sound that made you want to sink into the floor. “Sit down.”
You obeyed immediately, perching beside him like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to take up space. The coffee table was bare except for a small, tidy stack of bills; water, electricity, rent all fanned out like an accusation.
He tapped the top envelope with one finger. “We’re already late on these.”
You opened your mouth to explain, to promise you’d do more, anything, but his next words froze you.
Your brow furrowed. “Found… what?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “The test. The pregnancy test.”
It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Your mouth opened, closed again, your voice caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. “I… I was going to tell you,” you managed, barely audible.
“When? After we were already past the point of no return?”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you meant it in every way possible. Your hands were cold. “I thought… I thought maybe if I worked more, you’d be less upset. I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”
His jaw tightened. “This isn’t about me being upset. This is about the fact that we can’t afford this.”
Your eyes stung, and you nodded quickly, too quickly, like agreeing fast enough might fix it. “I’ll figure it out, I’ll do whatever you need. Just… don’t be mad at me. Please.”
His hand stayed limp in yours, the weight of it almost worse than if he’d pulled away. He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then slowly exhaled through his nose.
“This…” he started, his voice quieter now, “this isn’t working.”
Your stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
He finally pulled his hand free, leaning back against the sofa. “Us. This. We’re not… we’re not in a place to handle this kind of responsibility. We’re already drowning in bills, we barely see each other without fighting. You think adding a child to that will fix it?”
“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head, your voice trembling. “No, I don’t– I just– I thought if I worked harder, if I..”
“It’s not about you working harder,” he said sharply, cutting you off. “It’s about the fact that we’re not right for each other. And the more we drag this out, the worse it’s going to be.”
You felt your throat tighten, panic blooming in your chest. “No, don’t say that. Please. We can fix it, we can— I’ll change, I’ll stop doing things that bother you, I’ll-”
“It’s not something you can fix by changing yourself,” he said, his tone softening but only slightly. “Sometimes… it’s just not meant to work.”
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