rules : write down your url using songs from your top songs of 2025 playlist & tag as many people as the letters in your url !
thanks @yvesmour for the tag < 3
A ngel - massive attack
M ascara - deftones
O h - ciara ft. ludacris
sh U t Up And Drive - rihanna
R unway walk - demrick ft. brevi
F ergalicious - fergie ft. will i.am
L ookin’ for da hoes - sexyy red
O pr - gesaffelstein
R osemary - deftones
E mo boy - ayesha erotica
S ax - fleur east
tagging: @pancakenutprince @hear-something-different @jisunggy @vampirehoon @cait-with-luv @love4hobi @jung-koook @emerald-notes @rachalixie @thevampywolf @yxngbxkkie @okay-j-hannah and anyone else who would like to participate!! <3
Minho adjusted his tie for the third time, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. Weddings were supposed to be joyous occasions, weren’t they? Celebrations of love, laughter, and promises of forever? Yet, here he was, standing in an impeccably tailored suit, about to marry a woman he barely knew, feeling anything but joyous. His reflection stared back at him, the crease between his brows deepening with every second. The tie felt like a noose.
“Stop sulking, hyung,” came Changbin’s teasing voice from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You look good. A real scholarly heartthrob.”
Minho shot him a glare that would have silenced most people. Changbin, however, was immune. “I’m not sulking,” Minho muttered under his breath, though even he didn’t believe the words. His fingers tugged at the tie again.
Minho sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. His mind wasn’t in the room; it was too busy turning over the absurdity of his situation. Years spent lecturing on logic, dissecting literature, and championing the idea of individual agency had somehow led him to this moment—a meticulously arranged marriage, orchestrated by his mother and some aunt whose face he couldn’t even remember.
“Can’t back out now,” Changbin added, pushing off the doorframe with a grin. “Unless you want to send all the guests home and deal with your mother’s wrath. And trust me, hyung, I’ll be the first to sell popcorn and watch that drama unfold.”
Minho shot him a flat look but said nothing. Changbin wasn’t wrong. Backing out wasn’t an option, not when the woman he was about to marry came with glowing recommendations. A surgeon, his mother had informed him with a delighted clap of her hands. Accomplished, brilliant, kind, and apparently drop-dead gorgeous. The perfect daughter-in-law material, in other words. His family had done everything short of hanging her résumé on the wall like a trophy.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his blazer. As he shrugged it on, he couldn’t help but feel like he was stepping into a role he hadn’t auditioned for—a leading man in a play where the script had been written long before he entered the stage.
Y/N’s palms were sweating, and no amount of discreetly dabbing them with the edge of her dress seemed to help. She stood at the altar, her heart pounding in her chest, as the murmur of guests filled the room. Her eyes flitted to the door, waiting for Minho to appear.
For the past week, her life had been a whirlwind of surgeries, late-night meetings with wedding planners, and answering endless texts from her mother. It felt surreal, like she’d been thrown into someone else’s dream wedding—one she hadn’t exactly volunteered for.
“Why am I doing this?” she whispered to her best friend, who stood beside her in a pastel bridesmaid dress, looking far too amused for Y/N’s liking.
“Because your parents threatened to disown you if you didn’t at least try,” her friend whispered back with a barely-contained laugh.
Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. It was true. Despite all her achievements, she was still that shy little girl seeking her family’s approval. Being a world-class surgeon hadn’t changed that. The wedding might have been their idea, but here she was, going through with it because walking away felt too much like failure.
Her thoughts scattered like confetti the moment the doors opened. Minho stepped in, and everything else seemed to fade into the background. He was tall, lean, and devastatingly handsome. His black hair was styled to perfection, framing his sharp features. His suit hugged him like it had been crafted by someone who understood the definition of precision, and the air of quiet confidence he exuded was enough to make her breath hitch.
Her best friend let out a low whistle, leaning closer. “Okay, I take it back. If you don’t marry him, I might.”
“Shut up,” Y/N hissed.
Married life was... odd, to say the least.
Minho spent his days teaching university students, delving into the intricacies of Shakespeare and Kafka. Y/N spent hers in a hospital, saving lives and dealing with emergencies that left her too drained to care about trivial things like cooking or cleaning.
They had an unspoken routine:
Y/N would come home late, exhausted, and Minho would have dinner waiting for her.
Minho would stay up grading papers while she crashed on the couch, sometimes falling asleep mid-sentence while recounting her day.
They’d exchange polite “good mornings” and “have a nice days,” but deeper conversations were rare.
It wasn’t awkward, per se—just... unfamiliar.
Over the weeks that followed, something shifted.
Minho started texting her during the day, little things like, Don’t skip lunch, or Did you sleep last night?
Y/N found herself bringing home snacks for him, claiming she’d picked them up on a whim, though she’d actually spent way too much time in the store debating which ones he’d like.
They started watching movies together on weekends, bickering over genres. Minho preferred psychological dramas; Y/N loved rom-coms.
“You seriously think this is funny?” Minho groaned one night, watching the lead actor trip over a series of increasingly ridiculous obstacles.
“It’s hilarious,” Y/N shot back, laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t miss the way her laugh made his chest feel warm.
…
“You know,” Minho said, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, “I didn’t think married life would mean sharing my coffee stash with someone who performs literal surgeries before I even wake up.”
You glanced up from the stove, where you were stirring scrambled eggs for the both of you. "I didn’t think it’d mean coming home to someone who alphabetizes their bookshelf and gets irrationally angry when one book is out of place.”
“Touch my books again, and it’ll be war."
You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Good morning to you too, husband.”
The word still felt foreign. You’d been married for three months now, after a whirlwind of family introductions and a mutual agreement that, while neither of you believed in love at first sight, you could give companionship a chance. He was a literature professor, calm and composed with a sharp wit, and you were a surgeon, thriving on adrenaline and precision. Two opposites in every sense of the word, now sharing the same roof and calling it home.
“Don’t burn the eggs,” Minho teased as he set the table, placing his usual cup of black coffee at your spot.
“They’re perfect, thank you very much,” you replied, sliding the pan off the burner. “Unlike someone’s last attempt at cooking pasta.”
Minho feigned offense. “Excuse me, my pasta was avant-garde.”
“It was burnt.”
The morning ritual of trading barbs had quickly become your favorite part of this arrangement. Despite the awkwardness of the early days, you’d found a rhythm. You respected each other’s space, cheered each other on, and occasionally stole moments like this—warm and light, like the eggs you plated and brought to the table.
Minho sipped his coffee, glancing at you. “Long shift today?”
“Not too bad. Just six hours,” you said. “You?”
“Grading papers,” he said with a grimace. “Seventy essays on whether The Great Gatsby is a love story or a cautionary tale.”
“Ah, the joys of shaping young minds,” you teased.
Minho shook his head, but his smirk softened. He looked at you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re really good at this, you know.”
“At what? Mocking you?”
“That too,” he admitted, “but I meant… this. Us.”
You froze, caught off guard. He wasn’t usually this candid. “I guess we’re both trying,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm.
“I’d say we’re succeeding,” Minho said, reaching out to steal a bite of your eggs with his fork. “Even if you do insist on putting ketchup on your eggs, like a heathen.”
“Hey!” you laughed, swatting his hand away.
The truth was, Minho had a knack for sneaking past your defenses. Whether it was his quiet attentiveness when you came home exhausted or the way he made sure to send you texts during your long shifts (“Don’t forget to eat. And drink water. And sleep. I’m grading your habits, 2/10 so far”), he was making it harder not to fall for him.
As you cleaned up the dishes together, Minho cleared his throat. “By the way, my department’s hosting a dinner next week. Spouses are invited.”
“Oh,” you said, your heart skipping a beat. “Am I—?”
“You’re coming,” he interrupted, looking at you like it wasn’t even a question. “I need someone to laugh at my jokes when my colleagues inevitably talk about Chaucer.”
You snorted. “You’re assuming your jokes will be funny.”
He leaned closer, his voice low. “I don’t need them to be funny. I just need you there.”
Your breath caught, but Minho had already turned away, heading to his study. “Have a good day at work, Dr. Ketchup.”
“Have fun with Gatsby, Professor Burnt Pasta,” you called after him, hiding your grin.
You stood in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing the counter where his hand had been seconds ago. Maybe this marriage wasn’t just about making it work. Maybe, just maybe, it could be something more.
(You couldn’t make it to the party, an emergency surgery happened, you apologised though, his colleagues were a bit too sad when you didn’t make it)
It was supposed to be a peaceful Sunday morning for Minho—his one precious day to lounge in sweatpants, sip coffee, and enjoy the rare luxury of a slow, uneventful routine. He had even entertained the idea of making you breakfast before you left for work, something simple yet thoughtful. But fate, as always, had other plans.
A sharp knock on the door disrupted his rare moment of domestic bliss. With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself away from the stove, glancing warily at the pan on low heat. As he shuffled to the door, half-asleep, he wondered who could possibly be bothering him on his sacred day off.
The door creaked open, revealing Felix, one of his students, standing there in all his youthful glory. A textbook was tucked under his arm, his expression bright and hopeful.
“Professor Lee!” Felix greeted, his tone unnaturally chipper for a Sunday.
Minho blinked slowly, still processing the intrusion. “Felix? What are you doing here?”
“You said you’d help with my essay on Sunday,” Felix reminded him, his tone tentative but insistent.
Minho racked his brain, piecing together fragmented memories from office hours. “Right…” he muttered, groaning internally. He vaguely remembered agreeing to it but hadn’t expected Felix, the popular, gossip-loving, poster-child of charm, to actually follow through. “Yeah, come in.”
As Felix stepped inside, his eyes scanned the space with open curiosity. It was his first time seeing his professor’s home, and it wasn’t what he expected. The cozy, lived-in atmosphere seemed at odds with Minho’s perpetually serious demeanor in class. His attention was quickly snagged by a pair of stylish, feminine glasses sitting on the coffee table. Girlfriend? Felix wondered, tilting his head.
Before he could dwell on the thought, the distinct sound of heels clicking against the floor made him freeze. A moment later, you emerged from the hallway, dressed sharply for work. Felix’s eyebrows shot up, his thoughts immediately scrambling for an explanation. You blinked, just as surprised to see someone new in the living room. “Oh,” you said, your tone polite but slightly off-guard. “Hi.”
Felix, now officially overwhelmed, managed to blurt out, “Hello”, he said, before his gaze flickered back to the coffee table, then to you, as he didn’t know how to address you.
No way, he thought, it’s the doctor who came on news for saving a K-pop idol, from almost death.
“Minho!” you called, turning your head toward the kitchen. “Is this one of your students?”
Felix, his curiosity reaching critical levels, edged closer to the source of your voice. Peeking into the kitchen, he found Minho by the stove, a pan in hand. Smoke curled lazily upward, and the sharp scent of burning food filled the air.
“Minho,” you said, stepping into the kitchen with an incredulous laugh, “are you burning food again?”
Minho startled, nearly dropping the pan. “I’m not burning it! I’m… enhancing the flavor,” he argued, his tone defensive.
“Enhancing?” you repeated with a laugh. “Minho, cooking is about creating something edible, not staging a kitchen fire. It’s amazing how often you mix those two up.”
“I was trying to make you something before you left for the hospital,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed but reluctant to admit defeat.
Your playful smile softened at his admission. Gently, you reached over to turn off the stove. “That’s sweet, but maybe stick to teaching literature instead of culinary experiments.”
Felix, lurking just out of sight, stared wide-eyed as you roasted him. The banter, the easy familiarity—it all added up. They’re married?
“Go sit down,” you told Minho, nudging him out of the kitchen. “I’ll make something quick before I leave.”
Minho grumbled under his breath but obeyed, brushing past Felix on his way back to the living room. Felix hurried to take a seat, trying to appear nonchalant, though his mind was racing.
When you passed through the room moments later, coffee in hand, you offered Felix a warm smile. “Nice meeting you. Don’t give him too hard of a time with your questions.”
Felix nodded mutely, watching you leave. The moment the door shut behind you, he turned to Minho, who had returned with two glasses of juice.
“Professor…” Felix began slowly, his voice thick with disbelief. “Is she your wife?”
Minho raised an eyebrow as he sipped his juice. “Yes. Why?”
Felix blinked rapidly, struggling to reconcile this new information. “No reason,” he mumbled, though his expression betrayed his shock.
Moments later, you returned to the hallway, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. Minho met you by the door, leaning casually against the frame.
“Don’t overwork yourself,” he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’ll try,” you replied, a familiar warmth in your voice. You both knew it was a promise you likely wouldn’t keep.
Felix, still reeling from the day’s revelations, hovered awkwardly nearby. As you stepped outside, he called out suddenly, “Have a good day, Mrs. Lee!”
You froze, the unexpected title catching you off guard. It wasn’t unpleasant—just unfamiliar. Slowly, you turned, offering Felix a polite but flustered smile. “Uh… you too,” you managed before hurrying to your car.
Minho chuckled, leaning casually against the doorframe as he watched you leave. “Mrs. Lee, huh?” he mused aloud, mostly to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I like the sound of that.”
Felix, now thoroughly overwhelmed, buried his face in his hands. Sundays, he realised, were never as peaceful as they seemed.
Minho shook his head, walking back inside. “Come on, let’s get to your essay before you start narrating this like a drama.”
The next day at school, Felix did exactly that.
Felix leaned forward dramatically, hands splayed wide as he began recounting his Sunday adventure to a growing crowd of curious students in the cafeteria. His voice, filled with excitement, caught the attention of several nearby tables, each eager to hear more.
"Guys, listen up," he said, flashing a grin. "You won’t believe what I saw at Professor Lee’s house yesterday."
A few students glanced at each other, intrigued, as Felix's words hung in the air. He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to keep everyone hanging on his every syllable. "So, I went to his place for some essay help, right? And the first thing I notice when I walk in is this super cozy vibe. You know, soft lighting, a hint of fresh coffee... real domestic bliss. But then—then, I spot these feminine glasses on the table."
Hyunjin, who had been lounging back in his chair, rolled his eyes. "What’s so weird about glasses?" he asked, unimpressed.
Felix raised a finger, signaling that this story was about to take a turn. "Wait for it. So, as I’m trying to figure out who’s glasses they are, out walks this stunning woman. She’s in full professional attire—like, the whole deal. She’s walking like, like a CEO walking into an important meeting. And guess what? She’s his wife. Dr. Y/N. The surgeon."
Hyunjin blinked, his expression shifting from indifference to shock. “His what?” he practically shouted, hands flying to cover his mouth as his eyes widened.
The murmurs of disbelief spread like wildfire among the crowd, each person leaning in a little closer, straining to catch every word.
"You’re making this up," Jisung said skeptically, shaking his head as he crossed his arms.
Felix smirked, leaning back in his seat with an air of triumph. "I’m not! They’re so romantic, it’s almost nauseating. I’m telling you, it’s like one of those cheesy rom-coms. He even tried to cook for her."
"Professor Lee? Cooking?" Hyunjin scoffed loudly, half-laughing in disbelief. "That man lives off convenience store meals. There's no way he was cooking anything decent."
Felix leaned in closer, lowering his voice for effect. The group went quiet, eager to hear the juicy detail. "He burned it," he said, his face full of mock sympathy.
The table erupted in laughter, the absurdity of the image painting a perfect picture in everyone's minds.
"But that’s not even the best part!" Felix exclaimed, practically bouncing in his seat. "No, no. The best part is how she roasted him. And I mean roasted him. And then, do you know what he said? He said he was trying to make something special for her before she left for work. I mean, come on—imagine that. Your husband burns breakfast out of love for you. Isn’t that just... romantic?"
Jisung couldn’t help himself and muttered, "That doesn’t sound romantic. That sounds tragic."
Felix ignored him, continuing with the fervor of someone who had just witnessed the most entertaining drama. "And the way they bantered? Oh my god, guys, it was like something out of a rom-com. She laughed at him, and he got all offended but secretly pleased—it was like watching this whole love story unfold before my eyes. You would think they had a love marriage, not some arranged one."
Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now. "Wait, they’re in an arranged marriage?" he asked, trying to wrap his mind around it.
Felix nodded solemnly, as if he were revealing some deep, hidden truth. "Yeah. But you’d never know. The way they looked at each other, the way they interacted—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were madly in love."
By now, half the cafeteria was hanging on Felix’s every word, the whole campus’s girls were there(for felix’s charm) of course.
And, as expected, the rumors began to spread like wildfire. What started as Felix’s casual recounting of a Sunday visit quickly turned into a full-fledged mystery. Everyone was dying to know more about Professor Lee’s mysterious wife—and, more importantly, if they could have a glimpse into this romance that Felix had so dramatically described.
…
Minho was halfway through grading essays in the faculty lounge when his colleague, Chan, approached him with a mischievous grin.
“Hey, Minho,” Chan started, plopping down in the seat across from him.
“What?” Minho asked without looking up.
“So… I heard some interesting things about you and your wife,” Chan said casually, his tone laced with amusement.
Minho froze, his pen hovering over a student’s paper, Felix’s. “What things?”
“Oh, nothing major,” Chan said, feigning innocence. “Just that you’re apparently head over heels for her, cooking her breakfast and all that. Burnt, of course.”
Minho’s eyes traveled through the paper in his hands and it clicked. “Felix.”
Chan laughed. “So it’s true?”
“Partially,” Minho muttered. “He came over to the house for essay help and caught us in the middle of a normal morning.”
“Normal?” Chan raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, you’re living in a K-drama.”
“Don’t start,” Minho groaned.
Chan grinned, leaning forward. “Come on, though. Is it true you tried to cook for her?”
Minho hesitated before muttering, “I might have… attempted.”
Chan burst out laughing. “Wow, you really are whipped. I didn’t think you had it in you, Minho.”
Minho shot him a glare. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” Chan said, smirking. “But, honestly, it’s nice to see you so… happy. You’re usually such a grump.”
Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up his pen and went back to grading(maybe unfairly) , pretending not to notice the smug look on Chan’s face.
As Chan got up to leave, he clapped Minho on the shoulder. “By the way, I think Felix might be your biggest fan now. Watch out, or he’ll start writing a romance novel about you two.”
Minho groaned, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Meanwhile, you were eating lunch with your colleagues, when a message from Minho popped up.
Minho: Felix told half the campus we’re madly in love.
You: We’re not?
Minho: That’s not the point.
You: It’s not a bad rumor to have, Professor Lee. 😉
Minho stared at the screen, shaking his head. Felix might’ve been overly dramatic, but maybe the kid wasn’t entirely wrong.
Minho wasn’t sure what to expect when the teacher announced they’d have a new student joining their class. Honestly, nothing good ever came from those announcements. It was either someone who’d instantly become a teacher’s pet, or someone who’d break the curve on every test. The murmurs among his classmates were just as chaotic as usual:
“Is it an omega?” whispered one girl, clutching her notebook like the mere idea of another omega might shatter her fragile dreams.
“Maybe another Iota?” chimed in a guy from the back.
“Do you think they’ll be hot?” asked another, leaning so far forward in their desk that Minho feared they might actually slide off. Priorities, apparently, were alive and well in this room.
Minho sighed, staring at his notebook and twirling his pen like a bored drummer. Why did everyone always act like this was a game of “Guess the Newbie”? What were they expecting? That the door would burst open and some sparkling creature would walk in, tossing their hair? Reality was far less exciting. It was probably just another Kappa with a questionable sense of humor or an omega with an even more questionable haircut.
The highest rank to ever exist in the building is an epsilon, Seungmin.
But Minho didn’t care. He was far more invested in perfecting the little doodle of a disgruntled cat in the margins of his notebook than in yet another transfer student who’d probably cause a minor riot for a week and then vanish into the gray blur of mediocrity. He’d seen it all before: the hushed whispers, the speculative stares, the over-the-top introductions. It was always the same routine, and frankly, he wasn’t interested.
That was until you walked in.
The moment the door creaked open, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. The shift in the air was immediate, sharp, almost electric. Conversations screeched to a halt mid-sentence. Pencils froze mid-scribble. Even the class’s notorious gum-chewer accidentally swallowed it down.
Minho, still blissfully immersed in giving his cat doodle the perfect grumpy expression, barely registered the collective intake of breath around him. Then it hit him—the scent.
He blinked.
But every step you took radiated an energy that screamed, "Yes, I’m the main character, and yes, you’re all extras."
Your gaze swept the room, scanning the sea of wide-eyed faces, ranging from shock to something bordering on fear, some confused. Maybe this was what you got for walking into a room of alpha-scent-deprived omegas and humans—a cocktail of curiosity, unease, and outright fascination brewing in the air. It wasn’t entirely your fault; the odds of encountering anyone outside the standard rankings here were slim to none.
This place was the catch—a strange little bubble where no other rankings, except for the occasional omega and a handful of kappas, existed for miles. If you were lucky, you might stumble across two or three iotas or epsilon types in the wild, like rare birds someone whispered about but never actually saw. This wasn’t just a school; it was the breach, a shaky middle ground between werewolf instincts and human normalcy.
And here you were, freshly thrust into the mix, a human (used to be) and newly turned, still figuring out what that even meant. Adjusting wasn’t exactly your strong suit, especially with instincts that swung between “protect everyone” and “don’t touch me, I’ll fucking pluck your eyes.” The city was too much—too loud, too crowded, too full of conflicting scents that tangled up in your brain and made every second feel like a fight to breathe.
So you’d come here, to this quiet pocket of nowhere, hoping for something simpler. But the stares around you said this wasn’t going to be simple at all.
But what really made Minho’s pen falter mid-stroke was the scent rolling off you. It wasn’t the typical “oh, I’m new and slightly nervous” smell that transfer students wore like an awkward cologne. No, this was different. This was like a summer storm breaking through a stifling heatwave—sharp, invigorating, and impossible to ignore.
“An alpha,” someone whispered, as if the word itself might summon divine intervention.
Minho slowly looked up, and his eyes met yours. He told himself the clench in his stomach was just hunger. Or indigestion. Or maybe his body’s reaction to realizing that, for once, this might not just be another forgettable week.
“Sit wherever there’s space."
Your gaze settled on the middle row, right before the doodling guy. There, two boys sat next to each other—one, a kappa who looked nonchalantly at his notebook, and the other, an omega. His fluffy brown hair framed his soft features, and he had the kind of face that could light up a room.
Instinct kicked in, and you moved toward them. Every step closer made the omega’s scent more vivid—sweet, with a hint of vanilla.
Stopping beside the kappa, you tilted your head.
“Move,” you said, voice steady but not unkind.
The guy blinked at you, then at the omega beside him, before grabbing his things and relocating without a word. You slid into the seat, your presence filling the space as you set your bag on the floor and leaned slightly toward the omega.
“Hi,” you said with a small smile, voice low but friendly.
His eyes—round, wide, and startled—met yours. His scent spiked, sugary sweetness intensifying as his lips parted slightly. “H-Hi…” he stammered, voice barely above a whisper.
It took you a second to realize that his cheeks were flushed, his breaths coming faster, pupils blown wide. Then it hit you—the telltale signs of an omega thrown into a sudden rut.
The boy’s fingers gripped the edge of his desk as he looked away, clearly trying to compose himself. “I—I need to go,” he muttered quickly, standing and nearly stumbling as he hurried out of the classroom.
The teacher paused mid-sentence, eyebrows raised, but didn’t stop him. Omegas in rut weren’t uncommon, after all.
Before you could think too much about it, someone sitting behind you leaned forward. “You’ve got some presence,” they whispered.
You turned to see another omega—this one with dark, sharp eyes and a slightly annoyed expression. His scent was more subtle than the first omega’s, but it still carried an unmistakable undercurrent of tension.
“Did you have to pick his seat?” he asked, his tone almost accusatory.
“What do you mean?”
The boy scoffed lightly. “Jisung’s sensitive. You sitting there just flipped his whole system upside down, it’s his first time sensing an alpha, everyone told him it’s so good and he didn’t believe it”
“Is that so?” you mused, a smirk tugging at your lips, noting his name in your head, cute. “And you? Are you about to run out of here too?”
“If you’re going to keep sitting there,” he said, his voice steady but his scent betraying him again, “don’t think you’ll get to me that easily.”
You leaned back in your seat, amused. “What’s your name?”
“Minho,” he said. “And don’t think you’re all that just because you made him run out.”
Your grin widened. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”
Minho narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond. From the corner of your eye, you saw him fidgeting slightly, his scent wavering like he was trying not to be affected by you.
Jisung was still nowhere to be seen when the bell rang. Minho stood, grabbing his bag, and paused beside you.
“If you really want to cause chaos, keep sitting there,” he said, lips twitching into a half-smile. “Just don’t be surprised if the rest of the omegas around here can’t handle you.”
You tilted your head, watching him leave.
The next day, the energy in the classroom was electric. Whispers filled the air as students leaned into each other, exchanging glances and hushed remarks. The focus of their chatter? You.
“She’s the only alpha in the whole school,” one girl murmured, her eyes flicking to Jisung, who sat slouched in his seat, face burning red.
“Bet she smelled Jisung’s rut yesterday,” a guy teased, grinning.
“Leave me alone,” Jisung muttered, sinking lower in his chair. His scent spiked slightly, a mix of embarrassment and lingering arousal, which only made the others laugh harder.
“Relax, Jisung,” another boy said, smirking. “Maybe she likes you. She did choose to sit next to you.”
“Shut up!” Jisung snapped, voice cracking, which only made the teasing worse.
Minho, who sat a behind, clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Would you all stop acting like pups? It’s pathetic,” he said, his sharp tone silencing most of the group.
But even Minho couldn’t completely hide the tension in his scent, a subtle undercurrent of something heated and restrained.
Before anyone could reply, the door opened, and the room instantly fell silent. Your scent hit them first—a commanding presence that rippled through the air like a shockwave. Omegas and betas alike straightened in their seats, their teasing forgotten as they instinctively lowered their gazes. Even Minho stiffened, his fingers curling slightly around the edge of his desk.
You walked in with the same confidence as the day before, your sharp gaze scanning the room before settling on your seat beside Jisung. You offered him a faint smile as you sat down, and he practically choked on his own breath, fumbling to look anywhere but at you.
The tension in the room was palpable, and you could feel it—the way every gaze lingered, every breath hitched. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was instinctual. They couldn’t help it.
A moment later, the teacher walked in—a middle-aged omega woman whose scent was laced with the faintest trace of nerves. She cleared her throat, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. For a brief second, her scent wavered, and you caught it—a mix of apprehension and something else she quickly suppressed.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice a little too tight as she began calling attendance.
When she got to your name, she hesitated, glancing up at you before quickly moving on. It was subtle, but everyone noticed.
By the third day, the classroom dynamics had started to shift. Initially, everyone had been on edge around you, their instincts hyper aware of your alpha presence. But you made an effort to be approachable—smiling at your classmates, helping pick up dropped notebooks, and even laughing at their jokes. Slowly, the tension eased, and people started to warm up to you.
Even Jisung, who had been a nervous wreck at first, now managed to talk to you without tripping over his words. “You’re surprisingly chill for an alpha,” he said one afternoon, offering you a shy grin.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, raising an eyebrow but grinning back.
“Just…you’re nice,” he said, cheeks tinting pink. “Like, you don’t act like you’re better than everyone.”
“Why would I?” you replied with a shrug. “I mean, sure, I’m an alpha, but that doesn’t make me more important than anyone else.”
Your casual attitude quickly became a topic of conversation. People in the class started to joke about how “cool” you were for an alpha, and some of the braver students—especially the omegas—began to test the limits of your friendliness.
One afternoon, as you were talking to Jisung and Minho, a group of omega girls approached. They giggled among themselves, their scents sugary and playful, as one of them leaned a little too close.
“You smell really good,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.
You blinked at her, caught off guard. “Uh, thanks?”
Another girl chimed in, her tone teasing. “Can we…smell you? Like, just a little? You’re an alpha, after all.”
You hesitated, glancing at Jisung and Minho. Jisung’s face was bright red, his scent spiking with embarrassment, while Minho rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
“Um, sure?” you said, scratching the back of your neck. “If it makes you happy.”
The girls squealed in delight, leaning in closer. One of them brushed her shoulder against yours, while another pretended to adjust your collar, her fingers lingering a little too long. You couldn’t help but laugh nervously, unsure of how to handle the sudden attention.
“Wow,” one of them said dreamily, inhaling deeply. “No wonder everyone’s obsessed with you.”
Minho let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re letting them take advantage of you,” he muttered, loud enough for you to hear.
“They’re just curious,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder at him.
“Curious, my ass,” he shot back, his sharp gaze cutting to the girls. “They’re practically rubbing themselves on you.”
At his words, one of the girls giggled, leaning even closer to you. “Don’t be jealous, Minho,” she teased, her tone playful.
“I’m not,” he snapped, his cheeks faintly pink.
The tension in the room shifted slightly, and you decided it was time to put an end to the situation. Standing, you stepped back, creating a little space between yourself and the girls. “Okay, that’s enough sniffing for one day,” you said, laughing lightly to keep the mood relaxed.
The girls pouted but didn’t push further, returning to their seats with lingering smiles.
As you sat back down, Minho leaned forward, his voice low. “You’re too nice for your own good.”
“I’m just trying to make friends,” you replied with a shrug.
“Friends don’t grope each other,” he muttered, his scent spiking slightly with irritation.
You smirked, leaning your chin on your hand as you looked at him. “Oh, really? What about you and Jisung?”
Minho froze, his expression shifting into something between horror and indignation. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re always smacking him on the butt,” you said, your grin widening. “Isn’t that technically groping?”
Jisung nearly choked on his drink, bursting into laughter as Minho’s ears turned pink. “She’s got you there,” Jisung wheezed.
Jisung leaned closer to you, still giggling. “Welcome to the group,” he said.
“Thanks,” you replied, grinning. “I think I’m going to like it here.”
Minho took a bite of his sandwich, trying to ignore the low hum of tension in the air as the other students filtered through the cafeteria.
"Hey, you," a voice broke through his thoughts.
He turned to see a girl standing in front of you, holding her tray with a friendly smile. She was one of the more outgoing girls from their class, known for her habit of striking up conversations with just about anyone. Her omega scent was subtle but noticeable in the sea of mixed smells.
“Hey, um… you. I was wondering if you’d like to come to the sauna with the girls after school?” She asked, almost nervously, glancing around to make sure no one was listening too closely. “We all thought it’d be fun, you know, a little bonding time. Plus, I heard you’re new here, and we’d love to have you join.”
The other girls sitting around the table exchanged glances, some of them clearly waiting for your response with bated breath. It wasn’t unusual for the omega girls to invite new students to these kinds of social gatherings, but there was something about this particular invitation that felt a little more… deliberate. The scent of the group shifted slightly as the girls around her leaned forward, hoping to gauge your reaction.
Minho glanced at you from the corner of his eye, still chewing his sandwich but now far more aware of the situation than before. He had to admit, the idea of a group sauna sounded strange to him. He knew the way omegas could act when they were in groups—clustering around an alpha like they were about to do something they couldn’t do alone.
Would you go? Minho wondered. Something about it seemed off to him, and he wasn’t sure whether he should just ignore it or step in.
You glanced up at the girl, the faintest smile tugging at your lips as you assessed the situation. The air around you was thick with anticipation, the other girls practically holding their breath, eager to hear what you’d say.
You let the silence hang for a moment, letting the tension build, before you tilted your head slightly and said, “A sauna, huh? Sounds fun... but I think I’ll pass.”
The girl blinked, taken aback by your response, her hopeful expression faltering for a moment. You could practically see the other girls' shoulders slump in disappointment, the air around them deflating.
The girl who had asked you stepped back, her cheeks flushed with a mix of confusion and slight embarrassment. "Oh… okay, no worries!" she stammered before turning to leave, her friends quickly following suit.
...
A few months had passed since you’d first joined the class, and Minho had started to get used to your presence. It was strange how you could throw the entire class into a whirlwind just by walking into a room. The scent of an alpha—strong and commanding—had made everyone on edge at first. But as time went on, he found himself becoming more accustomed to it.
However, for the past three days, you hadn’t shown up.
Everyone noticed, of course.
The usual buzz of chatter and whispers had been a little quieter without you there.
For those three days, Minho sat beside Jisung. It wasn’t like you to just skip class, so naturally, they both worried. What happened? Was she sick? Something else? Minho couldn’t help but feel a nagging concern in the pit of his stomach.
As they were leaving school together, Jisung, who had been unusually quiet that day, turned to Minho.
“Do you think we left something under the desk?” he asked.
“In case we forgot something.”
Minho shrugged and crouched down beside the desk. He slipped his hand under the desk, feeling around.
He paused when his fingers brushed against something soft. A cloth. A handkerchief, to be exact.
Without saying a word, Minho pulled it out and tucked it into his pocket.
“Nothing there,” he said casually, trying to mask the odd sense of familiarity he felt as he looked at the handkerchief. Something about it seemed like it belonged. Something about it felt... personal.
Later, when Minho was alone at home, his thoughts wandered back to the handkerchief. His curiosity got the best of him, and he took it out, smelling it. The soft fabric had a faint trace of your scent—your unique, unmistakable alpha scent was strong enough to intoxicate him.
“Hey Minho, sorry I’ve been missing the past few days. I’m kind of... out of it. Could you bring me some mango juice? I’m craving it right now.”
Minho blinked, staring at the screen. There was something off about the message, something that triggered a sudden awareness in him. He knew you weren’t just sick—you weren’t the type to let something like that keep you down for long.
Before he could stop himself, he was already typing a reply.
“Of course, I’ll bring it to you.”
He didn’t tell Jisung. There was no need to explain, not when he wasn’t sure how to even explain his own feelings. You hadn’t shared much with him about your personal life, and he certainly didn’t know much about your habits—besides the scent of an alpha that always seemed to hang around you. The idea of running errands for you wasn’t a big deal... but there was something about the request that felt different now, more urgent.
After school, Minho found himself standing in front of your house, the mango juice clutched in his hand, his mind racing. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something for you. But this time felt different.
He hesitated before knocking. When you opened the door, his senses were hit by a wave of your scent—sharp, heady, and overwhelmingly potent. It hit him like a physical force, almost suffocating in its intensity. It wasn’t just the usual traces of you—this was something entirely different. Something raw, primal, and undeniably irresistible.
His breath hitched in his throat as the scent wrapped around him, clinging to the air like an invisible thread pulling him closer to you. His heart rate quickened, his body reacting to the overwhelming sensation. He hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t anticipated just how much your presence would affect him in this state.
You stood there, still slightly flushed, watching him with those eyes of yours—eyes that were both distant and yearning. Minho’s body tensed, caught between wanting to retreat and feeling like he couldn’t move away. It wasn’t like he could just turn and leave; the guilt, the helplessness in your voice, made it impossible to just walk out.
“Minho?” you asked softly, and that was enough to bring him back from the haze the scent had cast over him.
There was a sheen of sweat on your forehead, and your eyes, usually sharp and focused, were clouded with something else.
“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly. “I didn’t want to burden you, but I’m in heat. I didn’t know who else to ask.”
Minho's knees buckled and his mind went foggy, unable to put together a sentence let alone a word. With the look Minho gave, you started to have second thoughts, perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. “I'm sorry, I can see your uncomfortable. You can leave” you said with a heavy sigh “Thanks for the juice tho.”
“N-no no no it's fine, girls walk around school in heat all the time,” but none of them were Alphas, none of them smelled as powerful and overwhelming as you.
“Do you want to come in then?” you asked, trying your best to still look friendly despite the situation. Minho knew it was a bad idea, didn't know if he could control himself. He'd never been in the presence of an Alpha in heat. He was still just now getting used to being with an Alpha period.
“Uhh, sure I'll come in,” he blurted out. He didn't mean to say yes but it was too late, from then on his fate was sealed.
Once inside Minho was scared to move, everything smelled like you and his mind was still racing a thousand thoughts a second. You shuffled your way around him and sat down on your couch, opening the small drink to take a sip.
“You can sit down, you look weird just standing there,” you said patting the seat beside you.
Instinctually, Minho darted to the seat beside you, unable to control his movements and completely lost in your scent.
Minho sat down on the couch half confidently, but you could smell the nervousness under everything else. His pinky finger slid to yours causing you to look up at him, with those eyes of yours.
The moment lasted for what seemed like forever, the two of you staring at each other. His face plastered with a half-smirk, yours blank trying to read what your next move should be.
“So whatcha wanna do?” you said, devilishly placing your hand on his thigh.
The nervous in Minho smelled faint now, with his hot gaze never leaving your body. He was looking you up and down like some nude magazine and you were loving it.
“Can I be honest?” he said raising an eyebrow. All scent of Minho left the room, that sweet smell you came to love just left and was replaced with something else. What, you couldn't put your finger on but it smelled good.
“Honesty is the best in a relationship right? No matter the context.”
Minho grabbed your hand and began tracing small circles on your palm, delicately his skin brushed against yours, as he continued.
“I want you,” he said, leaning in so close his nose almost touched you. “I want to touch you, smell you, be with you, and quite frankly be in you. You have to feel something or you wouldn't have invited me over tonight, right?”
He tilted his head like he was asking a question, he obviously knew the answer to and you knew just how to respond.
“Challenge complete Minho,” you said looking down with a smirk at the bulge that was now forming in his pants.
Minho didn't mind your words or expression, almost as if he couldn't hear you. He scooted closer and placed his hand on your neck, pulling you closer to him.
“Just relax,” he said kissing you and passionately slipping his tongue in for a taste.
You let yourself fall deeper into Minho and his seductive kiss, even though you were the Alpha, you just wanted to be touched and Minho obliged.
Sliding his hand down, he flipped your skirt up and rubbed his knuckle into your clothed cunt, deep enough to be wet with your slick.
“Fuck your already wet for me huh, such a good girl,” you moaned into his mouth, as he slid your panties to the side and dipped two fingers in, stretching you open in preparation for his cock.
Slowly you rocked your hips, grinding your clit into Minho's hand as you became desperate for friction. “Want me, want my cock in your wet pussy do ya Baby?” he asked, putting your hand in his pants. You wrapped your fingers around his hard shaft and muttered a soft “please” in his ear.
Your whispers sent shivers down Minho’s spine, as you slowly pumped his penis that was now leaking with precum.
“Wanna fill me up?” you whispered, licking his ear trying to entice him. Quickly you learned you didn't need to.
Low growls started pouring out of Minho as he laid your head down on the couch and swiftly whipped his cock out of his pants.
He hoisted your legs up and lined his tip up with your soaking hole. The sight of Minho’s veiny cock, hard and twitching just for you, was enough to send you over the edge right there, until he pushed in.
Putting his hands on either side of you for support he pushed in hard, wasting no time trying to cum in your tight cunt.
You never had sex with an Omega before but knew, none would compare to Minho. His penis made your back arch with each deep thrust and your nails dug into the fabric of his sweater when he would drag it slowly against your spot.
The soft squelching of your slick and his cum churning in your vagina filled the room, making it feel dirtier and sexier while he fucked you.
With each fast slap of Minho’s balls against your ass was another slap of his necklace in your face, tickling you on the nose and earning a smile, despite being fucked roughly by an Omega.
Your room now smelled of sex and his soft spicy scent. No matter how much you cleaned you knew the smell would never leave, especially now with his cum dripping down your ass and onto the fabric of your couch cushion.
“Yes Baby take my pups like a good girl.”
~
You felt your orgasm crash over you as Minho’s thrusts became sloppy and your cunt even sloppier, walls fluttering and clenching around Minho.
“Fuck your so tight, can't hold on.”
His big knot stretched your hole and soon made it impossible for Minho to move any further. For an Omega, he surely had a big penis, perhaps his confidence and arrogance came from there you thought, as you were looking him in the eyes, stuck but very much where you wanted to be at that moment.
“You're so pretty,” he said placing a soft kiss on your cheek, his sweat making his dewy skin stick to yours.
“Don’t say something you don't mean Minho, it’s fine if you just wanted to fuck the Alpha of the school” you said, hoping he would correct you, hoping he would say your wrong and that he really did love you.
You swallowed your spit hard, when he spoke again.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, I really do think you're pretty and I want you to be mine.” He stared you straight in the face with his cute earnest eyes, intimidating you whilst somehow still comforting you, a mix of emotions you've never felt before, like smells that didn't match. The only thing you could blame it on was his big soft sweater against your skin as he wrapped his arms around you.
“I think you've made me yours Minho,” you said motioning to where the two of you were still connected.
“You know what I mean,” he said rolling his eyes. Leaning up you chased him into another kiss, sloppy and wet, both your lips now swollen and red from all the desperate kissing that happened just a minute ago.
“You know, for an Omega you have a great penis.”
Minho looked at you with a cute toothy smirk and pretended to whip a piece of his hair out of his face.
“You know, when I'm rutting my knot is way bigger. You plan on taking that in your tiny pussy?”
noooo you don't get it I'm a wolf girl this hit all the right places!!!!! And something about a cat boy as a wolf boy just....omg. this is beautiful!!!! I was about to go searching for a fic to read and nearly spilled my drink when I saw Minho. Omega. Alpha female reader. Kn*tting?! I almost dropped my phone trying to click the read more button!!!!!
Thank you for writing this. Seriously, thank you so much!!!! I can never seem to get enough wolf boys or wolf boy fics so I'm like nearly in tears, don't touch me okaaaayyyy?!
You stood over the lifeless body, your breath steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes remained wide open, frozen in an expression of shock and betrayal, reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick canopy of trees. The woods, dark and dense, loomed around you, swallowing all other sounds except the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hoot of an owl. The woods had always been his greatest fear, ever since he was a child. That’s why you chose this place. You lured him here with the perfect bait—promises of a romantic evening, the illusion of affection that he so desperately craved.
The blade in your hand glistened, slick with the blood you’d just spilled, each crimson droplet sliding down its length with a kind of grace. You glanced down at the handle, the smooth wood fitting comfortably in your grip, before shifting your gaze back to him. A slow smile tugged at your lips, curling them into a smirk as you admired your handiwork.
"Y/N… why the woods? You know I hate it here, it’s too dark…," he'd whined earlier, his voice trembling with the same unease you’d always found so irritating. You remembered the way his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, as if expecting the shadows to leap out at him.
You had chuckled softly at his discomfort, leaning in close to murmur sweetly, "Why are you scared?" Your hand had traced lazy, gentle patterns down his arm, a gesture that once reassured him. "I’m the one who’s going to have to walk back alone."
The way his brow furrowed in confusion, the slight quiver in his lips as he tried to make sense of your words—it was almost too easy.
"W-What?" he had stammered, the fear creeping into his voice.
But he never got an answer.
His hands had reached up, grasping weakly at your wrists as though that could stop you. You watched, emotionless, as the light slowly faded from his eyes. The strength in his grip loosened, his arms falling limply to his sides.
Now, as you stood over him, the wind ruffled your hair, carrying away the metallic scent of blood. The darkness of the woods no longer seemed menacing to you—it was a sanctuary. You had planned every detail, down to the exact moment the moon would be highest in the sky, casting its cold light over your final act.
The shadows embraced you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You knelt beside him, wiping the blade clean on his shirt, then stood again, taking in the stillness of the night. His body was just another part of the landscape now, another piece of the scene you had made.
Without a second glance, you turned and walked away, the leaves crunching softly underfoot. You wouldn’t be walking back alone after all—not really. His fear had died with him, but yours? Yours had just begun to bloom.
You stared down at the body, your breath now coming in measured, calculated intervals as the reality of what needed to be done next settled in. The blade still shone in your hand, but its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, it was just dead weight, like him. The woods were vast, dark, and suffocating, but you couldn’t leave him here. No. He had to come back with you. This wasn’t over yet.
With a sigh, you crouched beside him, brushing aside the stray twigs and leaves that clung to his clothes. His lifeless body looked heavier now, limp and uncooperative. You grabbed him by the ankles, testing his weight with a small tug. The thought crossed your mind briefly—how odd it was to be this close to someone you once shared intimate moments with, now reduced to a mere object, something to be moved, disposed of.
The first tug was awkward, his legs dragging across the forest floor with a dull scrape. The sound was unsettling but strangely satisfying, the friction against the earth a reminder of his final resistance. You adjusted your grip, digging your heels into the dirt for leverage, and began the grueling process of pulling him through the trees. His body bumped over roots and uneven ground, his head lolling to one side, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.
You glanced over your shoulder occasionally, scanning for any signs of movement, for any witnesses that might be lurking in the darkness. The woods were silent, save for the sounds of your labor and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Each pull sent a surge of adrenaline through you, driving you forward.
It wasn’t long before the clearing came into view, the distant outline of the city lights barely visible through the gaps in the trees. You had parked your car far enough away that no one would suspect anything, but close enough that you could still manage to get him inside without drawing too much attention. You hadn’t planned on him being this heavy, though. The trek felt longer, more arduous with each step, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled the physical strain.
After what felt like hours, you finally reached the edge of the woods. His body was covered in dirt and leaves now, his clothes torn from being dragged across the rough terrain. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at the car, hidden just out of sight, parked along a secluded stretch of road. The hardest part was yet to come.
You heaved him up into the trunk, your muscles screaming in protest as you shoved him inside. The thud of his body hitting the metal interior echoed in the night, but no one was around to hear. You slammed the trunk shut, the sound final, like a door closing on this chapter.
Back at the apartment, you parked in the underground lot, grateful for the late hour and the quiet that enveloped the building. You moved swiftly, methodically, hauling his body from the trunk and into the elevator, avoiding the security cameras you had already noted during your planning. His weight dragged behind you, a burden both literal and symbolic, as you made your way to the door.
Once inside, you exhaled, surveying the dimly lit space. The apartment felt too clean, too pristine, as though it had been waiting for this. You wiped your hands on your black jeans, smearing them with dirt and blood, and turned your gaze to the body lying in the middle of the room.
This was your sanctuary, your carefully curated life, and he was the one thing that didn’t belong anymore. But now, it was his final resting place. His presence here would serve a new purpose.
With a grim determination, you dragged him across the floor one last time, positioning him where you wanted—just another piece in your plan.
The hospital loomed in the distance, its sterile glow cutting through the night like a beacon. A smart choice, really—neutral ground where you could blend in and buy yourself time. No one would suspect you here. Hospitals were filled with people consumed by their own tragedies, chaos and misery woven into the very walls. It would be easy to slip through unnoticed, another face among the wounded and weary.
The stench of iron clung to you, lingering in the air like some perverse perfume. Blood, still warm, dripped slowly from your fingertips, splattering onto the cold pavement with each step. The sound of it hitting the ground was faint, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic, but to you, it might as well have been a drumbeat echoing your guilt. Your black clothes, chosen with care for their ability to conceal, now felt heavy, saturated with the evidence of your crime. The fabric stuck to your skin, wet and uncomfortable, the drying blood forming a layer that made your every movement feel deliberate. You could feel it like a second layer of skin, invisible to everyone but yourself.
You walked toward the hospital’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open as you approached, like a mechanical sigh welcoming you into a world of antiseptic smells and soft murmurs. The fluorescent lights were harsh against your bloodshot eyes, casting everything in a cold, sterile light that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the blood that still clung to you. But no one looked twice. The rush of nurses, doctors, and patients barely spared a glance in your direction. To them, you were just another face, just another body passing through.
The blood from your ex seeped through your clothes in places, sticky and warm, though no one noticed. Not yet. Your dark attire hid the worst of it, but you could still feel it, the wet patches where his life had spilled over and marked you as something other than innocent. You kept walking, your pace steady but not hurried. Panic would give you away. You couldn’t afford that. Not now.
He had to die.
The thought repeated in your mind, a mantra of justification, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—yourself or the ghost of him that still lingered in your thoughts. His face flickered across your memory, that familiar sneer curling his lips, the look of disdain that he always wore when he talked to you. That condescending tone, the way he spoke as though every word you said was meaningless, as though you were some toy to be played with and discarded. His cruelty had always been so subtle, so artful. He never hit you, never screamed at you. No, he was much smarter than that.
He twisted your thoughts until you didn’t know where his desires ended and yours began. He made you doubt yourself, question everything you once held dear. Slowly, over time, he chipped away at you, stripping you down until you were a hollow version of the person you used to be. You tried to leave, once. You packed your bags, stood in the doorway, but he had stopped you with nothing more than a few choice words—a promise to change, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made you second-guess everything. You had been weak then, afraid. But not anymore.
Now, you were free.
But freedom came with a price, and as you stood in the sterile hospital hallway, the weight of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. You could almost feel his ghost following you, whispering in your ear, telling you that you would never really escape him. He would haunt you, a constant presence, until the guilt consumed you whole. But you didn’t care. You could live with the guilt. It was better than living with him.
You moved through the hospital with purpose, though each step felt heavier than the last. Every door you passed felt like an invitation to turn back, to undo the irreversible, but you pushed forward. You knew why you had come here, knew that the hospital wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a temporary refuge from the storm that raged inside you.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you approached the front desk, the buzz of the hospital growing quieter in your ears as your mind raced. You leaned against the counter, feigning calm as you scanned the waiting room, your pulse thrumming under your skin. It was busy—families waiting for news, doctors rushing between patients, nurses scribbling down charts. No one cared about the woman in bloodstained black clothes who had just walked through the doors. Not yet.
You tapped your fingers against the counter, your mind flickering back to his face once more. You saw the sneer again, heard his voice—the way he’d called you pathetic, small. But not this time. This time, you had made sure he would never speak again. And as the hospital buzzed with life around you, you felt a twisted sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. He was gone, and you were still here.
You were still free. But for how long?
"Good evening, how can I help you?" the nurse chirped, her voice unnervingly bright, the kind of overused politeness that made her seem robotic. She had no idea who you were, no idea what you had done just hours ago. And that was the beauty of it.
"I’d like to donate blood," you replied smoothly, your voice soft but unwavering. You kept your expression neutral, even innocent, as if nothing in the world could be out of place.
The nurse blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the request. "Oh, sure… um, we just need to take your vitals first. If you’ll follow me—"
"No need," you cut her off with a slight wave of your hand, tilting your head with genuine confusion, as if she had suggested something absurd. "I’ve got plenty of blood at home. I can bring it in buckets if you want."
Her face changed in an instant. The nurse’s eyes widened, her friendly mask cracking as she tried to process what you had just said. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hospital walls behind her. Her hands trembled—ever so slightly—but enough for you to notice, enough to spark that amusement inside you.
She stammered, trying to find her voice, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, she mumbled something under her breath, barely audible, and then turned on her heel, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she hurried away toward the back room. You watched her flee, your eyes following her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened animal.
The sight amused you. She was weak, terrified—just like him.
A cruel smirk crept across your face, spreading slowly as you leaned back against the counter. You could still see the look on her face, the way her hands shook as she fumbled to escape your presence. People like her were so easy to scare, so fragile. All it took was a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift in tone, and they crumbled.
You glanced around the waiting area, the sterile atmosphere now tinged with your silent amusement. It was almost too easy. You had come here to buy time, to distance yourself from the body you had left behind, but this… this was a bonus. Watching people break under the weight of their own fear, just like he had, gave you a sense of control. It reminded you that you weren’t weak anymore.
The nurse hadn’t returned, and you doubted she would. The idea of her cowering in the back room, trying to explain what had just happened to her colleagues, made you chuckle under your breath. You imagined her recounting the conversation, her voice shaking, her eyes darting around in fear that you might still be lurking.
You leaned against the counter, waiting patiently, your smirk never fading.
Not long after, an older nurse emerged from the same door, her hair white as snow, her movements slow. There was something about her—a quiet strength, a knowing look in her eyes that came from years of experience. She wasn’t like the younger nurse who had fled in terror. No, this woman had seen her fair share of strange things. She wouldn’t be easily shaken.
"My dear," she said, her voice soft and warm, approaching you with a gentle smile. "Don’t mind that young one. She’s easily spooked. You seem like a lovely girl. Kind. Strong. This generation’s a bit misunderstood, but you all have good hearts deep down."
You blinked, her words falling over you like syrup, thick and sweet. Kind? She was calling you kind? The irony of it curled inside your chest like a snake ready to strike. The words dripped from her lips, heavy with patronizing sympathy, as though she thought she could read you—like you were some lost child she could save with a few soft-spoken reassurances.
"You're kind."
"Kind," you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue in a whisper of disbelief, tasting bitter, soaked in irony. Did she even know what she was saying? Could she sense the darkness lurking beneath your skin, or was she blind to it? You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.
The older nurse’s smile never wavered. She reached out and squeezed your shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort, but all you could feel was the weight of her hand—a reminder of the blood that still clung to you, the blood she had no idea was there.
Then her fingers brushed against something wet, and her smile faltered. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression shifting as she looked down at her palm. Blood. Dark, sticky blood smeared across her skin, clinging to her fingers like the evidence of a sin too great to be washed away. Her face drained of color, the warmth that had once been in her eyes replaced with a growing sense of dread.
Her gaze flicked from her hand to your face, and in that moment, the truth crashed into her like a slow, suffocating wave. She knew.
But she didn’t say a word. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs, as if her mind was trying to grasp the horror of what stood in front of her but couldn’t quite catch up.
And then, like an omen, the distant sound of sirens broke the silence. Faint at first, but growing louder, closer. They were coming. For you.
The nurse’s eyes widened, panic finally creeping into her expression. You could see it—the fear, the dawning horror that spread across her face as the reality of the situation settled in. She had touched the blood. His blood. And now, she understood.
But she didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She just stood there, frozen in disbelief, her eyes locked onto yours, as though she were trying to reconcile the image of the "kind, strong" girl she had seen with the truth of what you had done.
You let your gaze linger on her, savoring the moment, the way her confidence crumbled under the weight of her realization. Her world was shattering in slow motion, and you… you were the cause.
With a soft, almost cruel smile, you turned away, your steps calm, measured, as if the sirens weren’t growing louder with every passing second. You could feel the nurse’s eyes on you, still too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to react. It was perfect. The fear, the silence, the power you held in that fleeting moment.
But you didn’t have time to relish it. The sirens were closing in, and you needed to disappear. Without a glance back, you slipped out the hospital doors and into the night, leaving the nurse—and everything she now knew—behind.
Without thinking, you bolted, pushing through the hallway doors as the wail of sirens grew louder, chasing you through the sterile corridors. Your heart pounded in your chest, every step echoing against the cold tile floors. You needed a way out, fast.
You ran deeper into the hospital, barely aware of your surroundings, just desperate to escape. Rounding a corner, you slammed into someone—a tall, thin man in a hospital uniform. His face was pale, almost sickly, and his hair was a wild mess, framing his hollow eyes. He looked like he had been here far too long. A mental patient.
"Watch it," you muttered, trying to shove past him. But he just stood there, unmoving, his gaze shifting from your face to the floor beneath you. It was as if he could see through you, into the blood-soaked secret you carried.
Without a second thought, you grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—a laundry room, dimly lit and cluttered with piles of clothes. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly glow over everything.
Slamming the door shut behind you, you pulled out your knife and pressed it against his throat. The blade still had traces of blood on it, glistening under the light.
"Take off your clothes," you ordered, your voice cold and unflinching. You needed to blend in, to disappear before the sirens reached the hospital.
His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, almost too calmly, he began to undress, his movements methodical, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes, amusement gleaming in them, as if he found the entire situation entertaining.
When he was down to his undergarments, he sat on the wet floor, folding his legs beneath him like a child. His stare never wavered. He watched you with a kind of fascination as you tore off your blood-soaked clothes, swapping them for his. The fabric was cold against your skin, damp from the humidity of the room. As you changed, you noticed the water on the floor—the blood from your clothes seeping into it, swirling like red ink in a puddle.
His eyes became crescent moons as he saw it too. His lips curled into a small, smile. "That’s not your blood, is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with delight, as though the truth excited him.
"No," you replied simply, pulling the patient uniform over your body. "It’s not."
The room fell into silence, save for the soft dripping of water and the distant hum of the hospital around you. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with curiosity, his mind racing to understand you, to piece together the kind of person you must be.
He looked down at the bloodied water, his grin widening. "You killed someone."
You shot him a cold glare, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more excited by your reaction.
"I like you," he murmured, his voice dark and playful, like a child discovering a new toy. "Take me with you."
"No." Your response was immediate, firm.
As you moved toward the door, his hand shot out, grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "Take me with you," he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of determination.
Your eyes narrowed, your grip tightening on the knife. "No."
He stood up, quick and agile, pulling clothes from a nearby pile and dressing himself in them as though he had planned for this all along. "If you don’t take me," he said, his tone light, almost sing-song, "I’ll scream."
The threat hung in the air between you. You stared at him, your mind racing. He was unstable, that much was clear. But he wasn’t lying. He would scream, and the sirens were already too close. If he screamed, you’d be caught. You didn’t have a choice.
"You're insane," you muttered, your voice filled with frustration.
He grinned, a wild, manic grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe. But if you don’t take me, I’ll scream."
"Fine," you growled, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. You didn’t have time to argue. You had to get out, and now, he was coming with you whether you liked it or not.
You rushed to your car, the man—Hyunjin—you had asked in a hurry, following close behind, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Once inside, you sped off, leaving the hospital behind, the distant wail of sirens fading into the night.
The drive to your house was silent, tension filling the small space between you. Hyunjin sat next to you, his eyes flitting between the road and your hands on the steering wheel, a barely concealed excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
When you finally pulled up to your house, you led him inside. He followed closely, his eyes scanning the space—until they landed on the body.
Your ex, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
Hyunjin let out a delighted whistle. "You’ve been busy."
You shot him a glare, you walked over to the body, nudging it with your foot. His head fell to the side when Hyunjin tried to touch his face and the blood fell on your shoes. You ran your foot over the dead man's shirt to wipe off the blood.
"He deserved it."
"I’m sure he did," Hyunjin said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And now what? We just… live with it?"
You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. "You’re not going to run?" you asked, curious.
He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I? You’re interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Yes," he said, stepping closer to you. "You’re like me, you're fun." His eyes gleamed with that same unsettling light from before. "We could be good together, you know."
You stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words. He was dangerous, unpredictable. But then again, so were you.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like him around.
...
The door slams behind you as you enter the apartment, your pulse racing with the thrill of what you’ve just done. There’s a certain satisfaction lingering on your lips, a wicked smile you can’t quite hide.
You step over to the mirror, admiring the streaks of blood on your cheek. Not yours, of course. Never yours. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as you lean closer to your reflection.
"Beautiful."
The voice startles you, and you turn to find Hyunjin lounging on the couch, his head tilted as he watches you, eyes glittering with something. He looks far too calm, for someone who just saw you walk in like this.
"Is that why you're still here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I’m a monster?"
His lips curve up into a slow, smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "Because you’re the only one who makes me feel alive," he says, voice as smooth as velvet, dripping with sweetness.
"Isn’t that what you wanted? To save me?"
You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate, predatory. "I didn’t save you, Hyunjin, you begged me to get you outta there."
Hyunjin’s fingers trace along the edge of the couch, his gaze unwavering. There’s a flicker of madness behind his calm exterior, one that mirrors your own. It’s what drew you to him in the first place. The way he teeters on the edge of insanity, always so close to falling, but never quite letting go.
"Maybe that’s why I like you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Because I want you to break me completely."
You laugh, the sound echoing through the room, cold and hollow. "You say that, but can you handle me, Hyunjin?"
He stands, slow, until he’s towering over you. His fingers brush your cheek, lingering over the blood like a lover’s touch. "Why do you think I’ve stayed?" His lips are close to your ear now, his breath hot against your skin. "I crave the chaos. I crave you."
You can feel the tension in the air between you two, the dangerous pull of your shared madness. There’s a sick beauty in it, the way you both destroy and rebuild each other, over and over again. No one else would understand it. No one else would survive it.
"You’ll fall apart," you warn, even as your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.
His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see it — the madness, the desperation. It’s consuming him, just like it’s consumed you.
"Then let me fall," he murmurs, his voice heavy with longing. "Let me fall into you, Y/N."
Your grip tightens, and for a moment, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence.
Then, Hyunjin smiles —while smearing that blood on your face a little more— that wicked, broken smile that matches yours so perfectly. You press your lips to his, hard and unforgiving, feeling his breath hitch as the weight of your shared insanity finally crashes down.
ingle dad! Photogrpher Lee Know x Traumatic amnesia suffering, pilot! Reader
Part-1, Part-2
A week passes.
A long, strange, healing kind of week.
After the surgery, there were so many tubes. So many wires and white walls and hourly vital signs and cautious optimism that you sometimes remembered what your life used to be.
Now, you're back at the Jeju airport.
Back in uniform.
Back in your element.
Except this time… your element has Minho.
And Hae-soo.
And Jin-ah, who looks like she’s going to hurl your captain badge into the ocean if you don’t stop hugging your Hae-soo and board or fly the damn plane.
You’re crouched near Gate 5B, in a deep embrace with Hae-soo—who, for someone with stitches and bandages, has a surprisingly strong grip on your neck.
“I’ll miss you,” she sniffles into your shoulder.
“I’ll be gone for three hours,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” she sniffles harder. “That’s like… a hundred minutes.”
You giggle.
She tightens her arms around you like you’re made of gold and she’s scared of the world stealing it.
“I’ll be right back after the flight,” you promise again.
“You’re gonna miss your own flight,” a voice says flatly.
You turn just in time to get your ear yanked by none other than Jin-ah, who has clearly shed every layer of professionalism she usually keeps on like armor.
“No more Captain this, Ma’am that,” she mutters, dragging you by the lobe. “You’re flying this damn plane, and I swear if I have to do another pre-flight check for you while you baby cuddle, I’m quitting.”
You laugh, trying to pry her fingers off. “Ow, okay, okay! I’m coming!”
Hae-soo waves furiously, now latched onto Minho’s side.
You glance back once more before boarding, and she yells
“FLY US SAFE, MAMA!”
You give her a sharp salute. “Aye aye, captain!”
You enter the cockpit as the rest of your crew arrive—flight engineers, first officers, your second-in-command nodding at you before getting into position.
You slide into the pilot’s seat, headset clicking into place.
And for the first time in weeks,
You breathe.
The controls feel familiar. The clouds through the glass feel like home.
The woman who forgot love…
is suddenly the woman flying with her whole heart again.
Once the passengers are boarded, you sneak a peek through the cabin window before take-off.
Minho is trying to settle Hae-soo into her window seat, but she’s got opinions.
“Why can’t I sit in the cockpit?” she pouts, arms crossed.
“Because she has to fly, not babysit.”
“She could fly and babysit at the same time!”
“I don’t think the airline agrees.”
She sighs, defeated, until,
You tap into the flight announcement system.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” your voice rings warmly through the plane, “this is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard flight 2203 from Jeju to Seoul. Skies are clear, flight time will be approximately 20 minutes….”
Hae-soo’s ears perk.
She sits straight up, head whipping toward the speaker.
“…we ask that all passengers fasten their seatbelts, return tray tables to the upright position…”
She gasps. Loudly.
“That’s my MOM!” she yells, pointing upward. “That’s my mom!”
Minho chuckles, but tries to hush her.
“THIS IS HER PLANE!” she announces to the entire row like they’re her invited guests. “SO LISTEN TO HER!”
The poor kid in the seat ahead of her turns slightly, unimpressed.
That’s when Hae-soo smacks the kid’s head with her plushie, the kid turns to his mom, his mom fastens his seatbelt, and glares at Minho.
“Fasten your seatbelt,” she scolds, beaming. “This is my mom’s plane!”
Minho quickly leans forward. “Hae-soo—!”
“HE DIDN’T LISTEN TO THE RULES.”
In the cockpit, your phone buzzes.
A video.
You click play as the co-pilot adjusts settings.
It's shaky at first—Minho clearly holding his phone low while recording—but then it steadies.
In the frame:
Her eyes light up. Her whole body jolts with delight. She starts giggling, hitting Minho's arm excitedly. When she hears your voice.
Then: the poor child beside her. The smack. The sass.
You hear Minho laughing in the background.
“She’s your daughter, alright.” Jin-ah says from over your shoulder.
You bite your lip, smiling hard.
Your heart feels too big for your chest.
Don’t let her become a tyrant.
And you press the headset back on.
“Let’s take her home,” you whisper to the clouds.
“please put your phones on airplane mode…”
years later.
The uniform never stops feeling like home.
No matter how many years pass.
No matter how many lives you’ve flown across cloud lines and countries.
No matter how many airports blur into one another.
You still breathe differently when you're in that cockpit.
But this morning—you’re not flying.
You’re standing outside the front gate of Hae-soo’s new high school.
In oversized sunglasses.
In your favorite heels.
And a coat Minho tried to talk you out of because it's "too expensive for a 15-minute outing."
You ignored him. Obviously.
You glance beside you.
Minho is wearing a black hoodie, a baseball cap, and the most dad expression ever invented.
“You look like a man dodging taxes,” you mutter.
He scoffs. “I look cool.”
“You look suspicious.”
“And yet,” he counters, “all these students still check me out. Do I look like I have a daughter old enough for high school?”
You glance him up and down. “You look like you’re here to drop off your third divorce.”
He snorts. “Jealous much?”
“You wish.”
Before he can reply, Hae-soo comes running back from the gate.
School uniform. New shoes. Backpack that weighs more than her.
“DAD!” she groans dramatically, “you said you’d leave after I went inside!”
“I wanted to see you walk in.”
“And I said no!” she stomps. “I have a reputation now. People know me as cool.”
“You’re not that cool,” Minho says with a snort. “You drooled on your textbooks last night.”
She gasps. “TRAITOR.”
He bows mockingly. “I am but a humble truth-teller.”
You ruffle her hair before she can stomp off again.
“I packed you lunch,” Minho say softly. “Check the top pocket, okay?”
“I know, I know—grapes with no skin, crustless sandwich—yes, Dad, I know.”
She hugs you tighter than she pretends to want to. You feel your eyes watering a little.
“Mom, queen never cry!” She gives you a thumb’s up.
And then she's gone. Just like that. He nudges your hip with his when you stare too hard at the school gates.
Later, you sit in the car, eyes still on the gate she disappeared into.
The silence between you and Minho is soft.
Not heavy. Just there.
He glances over, one hand resting on your thigh. “Wanna go on a lunch date?”
“I have a video conference in thirty minutes.”
He groans. “Ugh. My wife, the millionaire.”
You smirk.
“My husband, the soon-to-be househusband.”
“Damn right.”
You arch a brow. “Really planning on retiring?”
“Been planning,” he says. “I did my time. Raised a child. Paid my dues. I want to cook now. Vacuum carpets I’m emotionally attached to. Make passive-aggressive notes for the neighbor’s cat. Also, you’re rich so...”
You laugh, head dropping against the window. “You’d be insufferable.”
“I’d be free. Also, I want to help Jisung raise his son. I owe him too much, he did so much for me.”
You look at him again. You owed Jisung a lot too.
His eyes are brighter now.
He’s older. Softer.
Still Minho. Still yours.
And you’re remembering.
More than ever.
Not in a burst. Not in a sudden tear-stained monologue.
Just Memories. Threaded in like stitches.
The shoes he tied on your swollen feet.
The wedding you didn’t attend.
The hospital hallway.
Your baby girl’s laughter.
Soonie. Jin-ah. Your dad.
months after hae-soos surgery, You just suddenly said it. You were all making kimchi and she stood up to go to the bathroom, saying how she’s a big girl and can go by herself, waddling about and then the light went off mid way and she came running back, attempting to sit on your shoulders when jin-ah detached her and took her to the bathroom.
"She’s mine, isn’t she?"
you chuckled and said it.
And he’d nodded, hands full of spice and hair a whirlwind as she played with it, getting photographed by Jisung, but still, nodded with mouth wide.
You were already in love with her then.
Even before you knew.
You reach over now, taking Minho’s hand.
Lacing your fingers with his.
“I think I missed too much,” you whisper. “Too many firsts. Too many days.”
“You didn’t,” he says immediately.
“How do you know?”
“Because she always saved it for you.”
You look at him.
“Her best words. Her loudest laughs. Her first question in the morning. Her dumbest jokes. Her weirdest midnight thoughts. She saved all of it. For you.”
Your eyes sting. “You’re gonna make me cry on a Tuesday morning.”
“Good,” he says, kissing the back of your hand. “I like seeing you cry over me.”
Single dad! Photogrpher Lee Know x Traumatic amnesia suffering, pilot! Reader
angst, romance, parenthood.
warnings?: Reader's father is given a name (sorry), Reader's parents are divorced (sorry again), let me know if there's more!
Jisung was right.
It had happened a few days ago, over beers in the studio.
“Hyung,” Jisung had said, glancing sideways while looping a track. “If you want kids that bad, maybe talk to her. Not me.”
Minho had sighed. “She’s under a lot of stress. It’s not the time.”
“But you’ve wanted this for a while now, haven’t you?”
“I have. But...”
Jisung had leaned back with a crooked smile. “Then don’t say anything. But don’t sulk to me about it either.”
...
He’s in his usual post-shower state—damp hair curling at the nape, hoodie sleeves rolled up to the elbows, biting the edge of a rice cracker while scrolling through his phone with mild disinterest.
You smile at the sight. The familiar warmth of a shared domestic life wraps itself around you like a favorite blanket.
He looks up when you shuffle in.
“You didn’t sleep well?” he asks gently.
You shrug, mumbling, “Just nerves.”
Your pilot exam results came out last week. Another attempt, another ‘failed’—and you didn’t cry this time. You just sat on the floor with the paper in your hand, pressing your palm over your stomach as if something inside you was sinking again. The second time stung less, which scared you more. You were getting used to failure.
A teacher who was a part of the question-making comitee tried to coerce you to sleep with him so he can give you the questions to the next year's exam. You didn't. You didn't tell Minho either.
Minho had hugged you silently that night, forehead pressed to your temple as he whispered, “You don’t owe anything to anyone, okay?”
You didn’t believe it. But you kissed him anyway.
Now, you’re sitting at the dining table, a thick stack of resume drafts open on your laptop. You’ve been applying to jobs for the past few days—airlines, aviation logistics, even some side internships for aerospace engineering departments. Anything to make the bitter taste of giving up feel less permanent.
“Do you want another egg?” Minho asks, poking at his own plate.
You shake your head without looking up.
He’s quiet for a while, just sipping his coffee, occasionally glancing at you. You’re focused—eyebrows drawn together, back slightly hunched, tapping out another rephrased bullet point about your leadership experience during training school.
You ask him what happened.
"…I’m just wondering whose nose our kid would get."
Your fingers still on the keyboard.
Silence splinters between you.
You look up slowly. “What?”
Minho’s still facing forward, pretending like it wasn’t a loaded confession. “I mean—your nose is cute. But my baby photos? Come on, legendary.”
You side-eye him, sharp and unreadable. He laughs under his breath, like it’s just banter. But you know Minho. And that isn’t a joke. There’s a certain soft ache in his voice. He’s not being cheeky. He’s imagining. And you can see it behind his eyes—the blurry outline of a little face that doesn’t exist.
You stand up wordlessly and close your laptop with a little click.
“Where are you going?” he asks, brows furrowing.
You don’t answer right away. You walk to your shared room, hugging the laptop to your chest like a shield. When you speak, it’s quiet. you're trying not to cry already. It's been a long—everything.
“Minho, we talked about this before marriage.”
He follows you, right outside the door.
“…What did you say then?” you ask. Your voice shakes now.
He says nothing.
“Just me and you,” you whisper. “We need nobody else. Right?”
The door is closed, but not locked, but he knocks, softly. “Baby”
You’re sitting on the bed, facing the window, blinking too hard for someone who isn’t crying.
“Baby” he says again, a little firmer now, the edge of frustration bleeding into his voice. “Come on, don’t shut me out.”
“You’re the one who started this” you say quietly. “I was minding my business, applying for jobs, trying to stay afloat after failing something I worked my ass off for—twice—and then you drop a hypothetical child in the middle of the living room like it’s a cute joke.”
“I wasn’t trying to pressure you.”
“But you were thinking about it,” you say, voice cracking. “You’ve been thinking about it. You bought a onesie, Minho.”
You did see it the other day.
He exhales, carding his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I did. I’ve thought about it. But I didn’t mean to make you feel cornered. I swear to God, I wasn’t trying to make this a fight.”
You rise to your feet now, something sharp surfacing in you.
“You say that, but it’s already a fight, isn’t it? You know what scares me most about this? Not just the idea of being a mom, not just the pain or the change—it’s the fights. The silence. The small cracks that grow into a wall between us.”
Minho’s eyes soften but his jaw is still clenched. “You think I’d let that happen?”
“You can’t always control it” you snap. “Even the best parents fight. And when it happens, it’s always the kids who bleed more than the parents.”
“Y/N…We won’t be like that.”
“You can’t promise that!” you say. “No one can! You and I—we’re good, we’re strong, but we’re human, Minho! We’re already breaking over this conversation. What if we break worse later? And there’s a child in the middle?”
You press your palms to your face, choking on emotion, the weight of your past two years pulling at your spine like chains—failed dreams, delayed milestones, and now this. The fear of losing even him to it.
And then he says it.
Barely a whisper.
“I wish I never...”
You freeze, walk and open the door fast and see him with his hands over his eyes.
“...brought it up.” He finishes.
He sees your expression crumple in real time.
Your eyes are watery, but your hands fall to your sides, and your voice is too hollow to be angry anymore. “I thought you were going to say you wished you never married me.”
The moment the words leave your mouth, it’s like you’ve punched the wind out of him.
He moves closer, wrapping his arms around you like it hurts him to breathe otherwise.
“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, holding you tightly, rubbing your back and head. “I’d never say that. I’d never even think of it. God, don’t say shit like that. Please.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie like you’re scared he’ll vanish if you let go.
“I’ve already failed the one thing I wanted more than anything,” you whisper. “I don’t want to fail you too.”
“You haven’t,” he says instantly, shaking his head. “You haven’t failed anything, you hear me? You are not a failure.”
His voice is breaking now.
He pulls back just slightly, just enough to look at your face, brushing away the tears with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for pushing, even unintentionally. I’m sorry for not reading the room. I’m sorry for bringing it up like that. I’ll drop it. Forever, if that’s what you want.”
You look at him.
Your Minho.
The man who folds your laundry exactly how you like it.
The man who still stares at you like he can’t believe he got to marry you.
The man who wanted a piece of both of you in one little heartbeat.
You breathe out, slow and ragged, forehead pressed to his.
“I just don’t want to be a disappointment,” you whisper.
“You never were,” he says. “You never could be.”
Your lips quiver, and then you bury yourself in his arms again, pulling him close.
Silence hangs between you, but this time, it’s warmer. Gentler.
And then, after a long time, you speak.
“Let’s find out.”
Minho’s arms tighten. “What?”
You hesitate. Pull back just enough to meet his gaze, still trembling.
“…Whose nose our kid would get,” you say.
His breath catches.
“darling…”
“I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m still scared. I might always be scared. But I want to try. I want to… see what love we could make.”
He doesn’t move for a moment. Just stares at you with such softness it makes you ache.
“You’re sure?” he whispers. “I mean it—are you absolutely sure? Not just because I want it? Not just because you feel like you need to make up for something?”
“I don’t want to be reckless,” you say. “But I don’t want to live stuck in fear either. I think… if it’s with you, I guess could do it. I want to do it.”
He cups your cheeks and kisses you, with an overwhelming tenderness that says a thousand thank-yous in one breath.
You hold onto him, clutching the back of his hoodie, grounding yourself in his warmth.
“We'll be the happiest ever, I promise.”
You dream of that happiness that night.
The room is small.
Too small for your breathing, which already fights you most days. Sterile-white walls, four chairs, one dull yellow light that flickers once like it’s shy to stay on. You’re sitting on the floor instead, your knees folded to your chest. You had climbed down from one of those chairs at some point—maybe when the nurse said “You should see her now” in that careful voice. The one people use when they’re afraid their words will push someone over.
You’re already over. You’re beyond.
And there she is. Behind the glass.
Your little girl. Your Hae-soo.
Small. So, so small. Smaller than the ones you saw in those baby magazines Minho kept stashing in his camera bag because he didn’t want his friends to tease him for reading them. Her fists are curled by her sides like she’s trying so hard to be strong already. But she’s not. She’s just born. And they’ve already taken her away.
You’re not allowed to hold her. Not even once.
The doctor said incubator. The doctor said oxygen support. The doctor said she might not live very long.
And you’re here, breathing shallow, your palm flat against the glass, like if you keep it there long enough, the warmth will seep through and into her. Like if you try hard enough, maybe she’ll know you’re her mother.
“Y/N…”
You don’t turn. You can’t.
The moment his voice reaches your ears, you feel your lungs betray you. A sharp intake of breath—and then it just stays. Like the sadness locked your ribs from the inside.
“Y/N,” Minho says again, closer this time.
He stands beside you, his hand moving slowly to your back, as though touching you too soon might crack you worse than you already are.
“Why…?” Your voice breaks. “Why won’t they let me hold her…?”
You fall.
You slide down like your body doesn’t remember how to stay up anymore, like the grief snuck into your knees and pulled. Minho catches you before you hit the floor fully, but he doesn’t pull you up. He goes down with you.
Behind you, he wraps his arms around your waist, presses his cheek against yours, and holds you so tight your ribs should hurt—but it’s the first time in hours your heart remembers it can feel something other than fear.
you whisper, gasping for air. “Why can’t I hold her…?”
His throat tightens behind you. You feel it. His breath hitches against your neck. But he says it anyway.
“They’re trying to keep her breathing, baby,” he murmurs, pupils wide. “She’s… trying.”
Your chest wracks with the next sob.
“She has 65 roses too. They said they… they can’t tell how long she’ll live. Minho, she’s just a baby. my baby—”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to hold her.”
He rocks you, slowly, gently, the way he always did on bad nights when your lungs ached and the nebulizer refused to work and the world felt like it was shrinking around your chest. He would sing, sometimes. Not loud. Just a hum. Just so you’d stay.
Your nails grip the sleeve of his shirt.
You close your eyes, letting the tears fall freely. There’s nothing else you can do. Your chest is burning from crying, your lungs are rasping like old paper. But you don’t care. Your hand is still against the glass. Minho’s hands are around your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, too.
And Hae-soo is there, inside that tiny box.
The door creaks open behind you. You don’t move, but Minho lifts his head slightly.
It’s Jisung.
You can’t see his face clearly, but you hear him step in. His voice catches. Then pauses.
“I… I just wanted to check in,” he says softly. “I saw the doctor come out.”
Neither of you answer.
Then you hear his voice crack.
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “I’ll just be…”
The door clicks shut before he finishes. You don’t need to see him to know he’s wiping his tears outside. You don’t need to look to know he’s probably kicking the wall, frustrated that there’s nothing he can do.
You and Minho stay there.
Looking through glass at the most beautiful thing you’ve ever made.
The monitor beeps in the distance. The lights hum overhead. Your lungs ache—but you breathe anyway.
The days that followed Hae-soo’s birth didn’t feel like days at all.
They felt like a gray blur. Blurred time. Blurred sound. Blurred everything—except the image of your daughter, through the glass. That was clear. Too clear. Crystalline in your mind like it had been etched there with the sharpest needle.
You sat in the same chair every day, like it was yours now. The others stopped asking if you wanted water. Or rest. Or food. You didn’t want anything. You wanted Hae-soo.
Your baby girl.
Your soft-lunged, slow-breathing miracle.
Minho sat next to you.
You weren’t sure if he was even real. If you moved too much, he might disappear like the rest of the world did.
You didn’t move.
Even when the nurse pulled Minho aside—quiet voice, quiet hallway.
You didn’t even blink.
“She needs to go home,” the nurse said, glancing at your still figure. “This… this kind of shock, when it happens right after something physically traumatic like childbirth—it can cause irreversible psychological imprinting. She might never recover if she stays like this.”
Minho’s jaw locked.
The nurse lowered her voice even more. “It’s dissociation. She's slipping somewhere her body thinks is safer. If we don’t pull her back now…”
Minho nodded. Too quickly. He didn’t trust his voice.
“I’ll take her,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll take her home.”
You didn’t move when he crouched down next to the incubator. Pressed his forehead lightly to the cold surface. You didn’t even flinch when he whispered, “Hae-soo… Please wake up. Mama’s waiting. You hear me?”
Then turned to you.
“Come on,” he whispered.
You didn’t protest.
You let him take your hand. Let him walk you to the car like he was walking a ghost. You didn’t cry. Not until he asked.
“Talk to me,” Minho said, hands tightening around the wheel. “Please. Say something. Anything, love. Please.”
You turned to him, pupils wide, too dark, too gone.
And then it came.
“You lied to me,” you whispered, staring into the void, porbably listening to those voices in your head.
Minho’s breath hitched.
“You said we’d be happy.”
Your voice cracked. “You said… nothing would go wrong.”
“Y/N…”
“Then why? Why are we like this now?”
Minho opened his mouth.
“We didn’t know—”
“It’s my fault.”
Your voice was louder now, but it trembled.
“I knew about 65 roses. I had it. I should’ve known what we were giving to her. I should’ve—” You gasped for breath between syllables. “I should’ve never met you. I should’ve never married you. I should’ve never brought her into this world.”
Minho gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“Stop” he said.
“No—!” you yelled, “No, don’t tell me to stop! You promised me! You said we’d be happy—!”
“And we will be!”
“She’s dying, Minho! She’s not even five days old—”
“Stop.”
His voice broke this time.
He pulled the car into your street without another word. Parked in the driveway. Came around, opened your door. You didn’t move. He pulled you out gently anyway.
Carried you inside.
After the accident.
The hospital didn’t feel cold anymore.
Not because it wasn’t. It still hummed with that sterile chill. But because Minho felt nothing at all now. Numbness had layered over him like paint—thick, suffocating.
He had his head in his hands, elbows resting onhis knees.
Your mother sat beside him. She didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble. Her voice, when it came, was full of cold iron.
“You’ve ruined her life.”
Minho didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He already knew.
She wasn’t wrong.
“She was doing just fine before she met you,” she continued.
He knows so. He blames himself the most. He's given you dreams and shattered them himself.
He thought about the first time you ever touched his hand. How you pulled it away a second later and laughed like it was a mistake. How he promised to never hurt you. Never let the world crush you. Never let you feel forgotten. And now here you were.
Surgery scheduled. Your smile—lost.
He was crying, even if his face didn’t show it. The tears had dried on his cheeks hours ago. But inside, he was split open.
The day of your surgery passed in silence.
And then a week.
And then two.
Minho kept count like a man sentenced.
Then the news came.
Tiny.
Breathless.
A nurse came rushing into the corridor where Minho sat, his head down.
“She’s out.”
He stood.
“She’s out of the incubator,” she said. “Your daughter. Her oxygen is holding. She’ll live.”
He blinked at her.
“She’ll live?” he repeated, lips trembling.
“She’s a lucky one. Four years at most.”
Minho ran through hallways, around corners—he didn’t even know how he was moving so fast.
Your mother stood there.
She looked exhausted. Her hair was tied back, face bare. No more anger. Just something worse—quiet finality.
“I’m going in,” Minho said.
“You can’t.”
“I can. She’s my wife.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“She doesn’t remember.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“She doesn’t remember anything. The doctor said that after something like childbirth, and an accident, we must be happy she isn't in a coma for ten years.”
“What do you—?”
“She didn’t even recognize me at first. She thinks we still live in our old city. She doesn’t know anything about her marriage. Or her child. Or even the fact that her parents divorced.”
The smile on Minho’s face disappeared.
“She cried” her mother added quietly. “She asked where her father was yesterday. Why he wasn’t here. She doesn’t even have the slightest clue.”
Minho took a shaky step forward, eyes flickering toward the door.
“I need to see her—”
“No.”
“I—”
“She’s got a new life now.”
Her voice dropped.
“Leave her alone.” she said with a cracked voice.
She shoved him back—not harshly, but with all the weight of finality behind it. Then she slipped into the room, closing the door behind her.
But he saw it. Just for a moment. Through the gap in the door.
You were on the bed, tears streaking your cheeks, your voice barely audible, as you were looking around the room.
“Where’s dad…? Mom, why isn't dad here today?”
Minho’s legs gave out.
He fell to the floor like someone cut the strings holding him up. His lungs were tight, like they didn’t remember how to work. The memory of you crying in his arms, years ago stabbed through his chest again.
You didn’t remember him.
“Hyung.”
Jisung’s voice reached him somewhere deep in the fog.
He knelt beside Minho, looking worried, confused.
“Hyung… did you tell her?”
Minho didn’t respond.
He just grabbed Jisung’s wrist and stood.
“Let’s go home.”
And there she was.
Hae-soo.
Lying in her small crib in the living room, surrounded by white mesh cloths and air filters, a soft elephant plush tucked next to her. Her little eyes blinked slowly, and she moved her lips without making a sound.
Minho walked over.
His legs were trembling again.
Jisung didn’t speak.
Minho crouched down.
Looked at his daughter. His daughter.
The one he wasn’t allowed to tell you about.
“Hey, angel,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re a strong little one, aren’t you?”
He sat down fully now, cradling her tiny hand with the edge of his finger.
“Your mama doesn’t remember us, Hae-soo.”
His voice trembled.
His eyes welled up.
“But that’s okay.”
He leaned down, kissed the top of her head.
“We’ll stay out of her life, hmm? We won’t disturb her. She’s got her own sky to find again.”
He cries, muttring sorry's over and over agin to his daughter and you, who isn't there.
...
Minho sat on the floor, legs crossed in front of her crib, his head low. One hand held Hae-soo’s tiny fingers through the mesh. The other clutched a muslin cloth damp from wiping tears that just wouldn’t stop.
He hadn’t moved in a while.
Even Jisung, trying for the last ten minutes to measure formula into a sterilized bottle, had started to do it in near silence—too afraid to break the grief that sat like fog across the room.
“I think I got it,” Jisung finally whispered, crouching near the kitchen with a triumphant (and exhausted) look.
Minho didn’t reply.
Jisung bit the inside of his cheek.
The bottle clinked as he capped it, sighing. “I’ll try to feed her once she’s up.”
But before he could cross the room—
Knock knock.
Three short, slow taps at the door.
Minho didn’t move.
Another knock. Firmer.
Jisung gave him a questioning glance. Minho blinked slowly, then stood, shoulders slouched like he was carrying the weight of three people.
He opened the door.
A man stood there. Weathered like wind had carved grief into his eyes. A worn brown jacket over his frame, slacks dusted with road from the walk here. He looked out of place in the middle of all that sorrow—but his gaze was quiet.
Kind.
Minho’s breath hitched. “What happened…?”
The man didn't answer at first.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion—”
“No, it’s okay,” Minho cut in, voice cracked. “We’re not… not trying to bother her. We won’t. I promise, sir, we won't—”
“You don’t have to call me sir,” the man interrupted gently.
Minho blinked.
The man stepped in, eyes catching on the crib in the corner. The tiny child with tiny lungs.
“I… I came because I want to help.”
Minho looked at him, confused, heart pounding.
“I want to help raise her,” the man said. “Hae-soo. If you’ll let me.”
The room fell silent.
...
“Alright, princess,” he whispered, crouching near Hae-soo’s tiny bundle. “Uncle Ji is gonna try, okay?”
He tilted the bottle with shaky hands, barely getting it close before she made a soft, protesting noise.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he cooed nervously. “I’m new to this. You’re new to this. We’ll figure it out.”
She blinked. Tiny eyes, curious. A quiet gurgle followed.
Jisung smiled softly, brushing a finger over her swaddled leg.
“You’re the toughest baby I’ve ever met, you know that? Already making us grown men cry and you’re only a month old.”
She latched clumsily a few seconds later. And Jisung let out a breath of relief, murmuring, “That’s it. Good girl…”
Behind him, Minho had quieted.
The man was still beside him, watching the scene unfold.
Minho looked up through red-rimmed eyes and whispered, “Do you think she’ll come back… to us?”
The man stared for a long moment.
Then, very softly: “I think the heart remembers what the mind forgets.”
Minho looked over at Hae-soo.
Her tiny chest rising and falling. Her perfect, brave little face.
Falling in love the first time feels like splashing the streets of your heart with colour.
Falling in love again with the same person feels like taking a tour around your heart and slowly realising they're splashed in colours.
About seven years ago, you woke up in a hospital bed with no idea who you were.
There was no dramatic moment of panic. Just a quiet, slow realization that the faces around you didn’t unlock anything familiar inside you.
Your mother had been there—tired, steel in her spine, voice too calm to not be practiced.
“You’re safe,” she’d said, smoothing your hair back with the gentlest fingers, “and that’s enough for now.”
Later you’d learn the list: accident, trauma, cystic fibrosis, lung transplant, complete memory loss. You were lucky to be alive. Blessed, some said.
But you didn’t feel lucky. You felt… like a guest in someone else’s life.
You were told a lot of things—softly, carefully, with eyes that looked for signs in your face.
But none of them really landed. Not until they told you your name. And even that felt like trying to wear someone else’s shoes.
You couldn’t recall your birthday, or what kind of person you used to be. You didn’t know what you were like before the ventilators and white lights. Only that you were on the edge for weeks. And that you came back with no memory, but a completely different pair of lungs.
Your recovery was quiet. No dramatic montages. Just weeks of walking down hallways, learning to breathe with lungs that didn’t belong to your past self.
You met your dad every weekend, like ritual.
He’d show up in jeans and soft eyes, and you’d go out to the park or the quiet street near the river and play badminton until your arms ached and your hair stuck to your neck.
You didn’t know what kind of father he used to be. But now, he’s patient. Laughs at your bad jokes, which even you don't laugh at. Watches you like he’s memorizing every expression.
You’ve never seen him angry. You’ve never heard him yell.
But he never really talks about the past either.
And neither of them have ever mentioned that they don’t live together.
Your mother—she’s a quiet woman who runs the house like clockwork. She’s never unkind. But strict, yes. Often quiet in ways that feel loaded.
When you were finally healthy enough to return home, there were boxes sealed and labeled neatly in the spare room. Some of them she kept away from you, including a few old textbooks.
“Too heavy,” she said the first time you reached for one. “They belong to a senior of yours. I’m just storing them.”
You nodded. You’d learned not to argue.
You joined college again. direct admission to the third year, made friends who were younger than you and didn’t ask about your past. You played games late into the night. Laughed easily. Became stricter about your studies—maybe from instinct. Maybe from fear of falling behind.
You were a little goofier now, you’d been told. More expressive than before.
You still couldn’t remember who you were. But sometimes… your hands did.
You were tipsy on soda and laughter, tired from board games and pizza and wrestling for the aux cable on the drive back.
You dropped your bag on the floor. Kicked off your shoes. Flopped onto the couch.
The stack was right there.
Your fingers skimmed over the covers. Fundamentals of Flight. Jet Propulsion & Turbo Machines.
A part of you had reached for it before your brain could even form a thought.
You sat there, criss-cross on the carpet. Opened the first one. Flipped through diagrams and charts.
And just… read.
For hours. Like something was waking up in your blood.
You didn’t stop until your mom found you there at 3AM, bleary-eyed, hair tousled.
She didn’t raise her voice. Just stood in the doorway.
“I told you those weren’t yours.”
You looked up.
“I think they are.”
Silence. “It’s late. Go to bed.”
You didn’t argue. But you went to sleep with the book next to you like a pillow.
Your heart speeds up every time a plane roars overhead.
You don’t know why.
But it’s always been there, like muscle memory deep in your bones.
And after days that felt so blurry, you told your dad, when he drove you home from the court. The car was warm. His hand rested casually on the wheel.
“I think I want to become a pilot,” you said.
He glanced at you. “Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Not just for fun. The whole thing. License, engineering exams, maybe even defense, if I’m lucky.”
He was quiet for a second.
“Sounds great.”
You blinked. “Really? I don’t even know who I used to be.”
“Then become someone new,” he said softly. “You don’t owe the past a damn thing.”
The next few months were the hardest of your new life. You’d missed too many foundational years. You had to cram in double the coursework, unlearn and relearn, study till dawn.
Your mother didn’t stop you after that.
She didn’t offer help either. Just watched you carry those books upstairs. Watched you take over the dining table with printouts and prep material and formula cheat-sheets stuck on the fridge like magnets.
Sometimes, she hovered at your door. Never said anything.
A year later.
You’re standing in front of the results board.
Your legs won’t stop shaking.
You scan down the list—fingers twitching—until you see it.
Your name. Right there. 9th ranker.
You ran around and started screaming, you didn't cry like the others, you didn't know why. But your dad came just in time as you were shaking the 1st ranker by his shoulders violently as he's crying a river, screaming, we did it, you did it, i did it!
You didn’t even expect to pass. Not really.
Not with such a good score. Not on your "first" try.
You laugh so hard your knees buckle. You hit your friend’s shoulder again like it’ll help you breathe.
And then you run.
Out of the exam center. Down the block. Into the neighborhood where your world began again a year ago.
“I PASSED!” you scream, hair flying, chest full of air that doesn’t betray you anymore.
“I’M GOING TO TRAINING!”
People peek out from their balconies. A few claps. Someone whistles. Kids scream and chase you down the street, asking what you passed.
“I’M GONNA BE A PILOT!” you yell, hands in the air, nearly tripping over your own feet. “I’M GOING TO FLY!”
You picked up a small girl and swirl her around.
"Cutie, I'll fly you to dreamland!"
It’s unlike you. Or maybe it’s more you than you’ve ever been.
You make it all the way back home, out of breath, grinning like you’ve stolen joy itself.
Your mom meets you at the gate, apron still on, eyes wide with something like shock.
“I passed,” you tell her, trying to hold it in but failing. “I actually did it.”
You wait for hesitation. For the quiet fear again.
But instead—this time—she wraps her arms around you. Not as tightly as she could. But tightly enough.
“Of course you did,” she whispers. “You always do what you say you’ll do.”
You startled up so fast you hit your forehead against Minho’s jaw, and Jisung let out a “WHA-?” like he was being drafted into war.
Standing above you was Jin-ah, your assistant and oldest friend, eyes wild with alarm. She dropped to her knees and grabbed your wrist.
"You both need to leave. Now. Your fiancé is here."
"What?"
Minho, still disoriented, blinked. “Fiancé? He’s in Seoul—”
“He was,” Jin-ah whispered furiously. “Apparently, he figured you got cold feet. Says you came here to clear your head. And guess what? He wants to sort things out."
Your stomach dropped.
Jin-ah continued, her voice tight, "He even said—‘If she loves beaches so much, we can just marry here.’ I told him you were sleeping and he said—oh my god—he’s here!"
She shoved both Minho and Jisung behind the beach tent, like they were some kids sneaking out after curfew.
Minho didn’t resist. He looked dazed. You were still trying to stand properly when a deep, soft voice called out behind you.
Bang Chan stands there, a few steps away on the sand, dressed in a crisp linen shirt and casual jeans. His brows furrow when he notices the makeshift bedding on the beach, and then—the remnants of a half-finished bottle of soju.
Chan blinks and turns to Jin-ah.
“Why was she sleeping outside? Not in the room?”
Jin-ah, impressively quick, straightens up and offers the smoothest lie you’ve ever heard.
“She wanted to sleep through the sunrise,” she says. “Said she hadn’t seen one in a long time. So I brought her out here and left her wrapped up. She was very insistent.”
You sit up straighter, rubbing your temple. “I... I did. I wanted to feel the sunrise.”
Chan’s expression softens instantly. He walks over to you, crouches slightly, and places a hand on your back. “You should’ve told me. I’d have booked the beachside room with the wide-open view.”
You smile. Automatically. Because you’re supposed to. “Sorry. It was last-minute.”
He helps you up, gentle as ever.
Chan puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “Let’s go have breakfast, hmm?”
You nodded dumbly, heart knotted in guilt.
Because Chan was...good. Chan has always been right.
Even now, as you walk with him down the breakfast buffet line, he’s checking your plate to make sure you’re eating something more than pastries. He places a small cup of green juice beside your plate and mutters, “For energy.” Then looks away with a warm, almost boyish smile.
You remember liking that smile.
You remember thinking: this is the kind of man I should end up with.
Stable. Grounded. Responsible. A great job.
He never raises his voice, never forgets birthdays, never backs down when it comes to taking care of you.
He even offered to reschedule the wedding, and its venue.
You should be crying tears of joy.
Your heart is strangely distant from your ribs.
A story, you realize, can have more than one happy chapter.
But you’re not sure anymore if this one’s yours.
Bang Chan didn’t look surprised.
Not even a twitch in his polite, practiced smile when you smiled and said, “Beach wedding sounds... nice.”
His fingers, warm and light, brushed your knuckles as you walked through the lobby of the resort—back into your shared room, where flowers in glass vases swayed gently under the ceiling fan. Where your suitcase remained untouched. Where a wedding dress bag hung, unopened, in the closet.
He said, “Only if you want to, Y/N. We can keep it small.”
You smiled again. Nodded like the good girl you’d taught yourself to be.
He didn’t pry. Didn’t question.
Something in you needed someone to call it all out. To snap their fingers and say, “You’re not fine. You want to know about your past.”
But Chan? He didn’t say a word.
Maybe your mother had told him everything.
Maybe he already knew about your past.
His lips curved kindly, his eyes steady.
So you did what you always do.
You ran away.
...
Behind closed doors, Minho stared at the wall while Jisung chewed his third banana like it was all he had left in the world.
“We should leave Jeju,” Minho finally muttered.
“No tickets,” Jisung said around a mouthful. “Fully booked.”
“Then take the ferry.”
“Storm warning. Ferries cancelled till Friday.”
Minho groaned, flopped onto the bed, arm over his eyes. “Why is the universe so dramatic?”
Hae-Soo, quietly playing with her walkie-talkie, pressed the button. “Dad? This is Alpha-Soo, come in. Alpha-Soo to Minho-oppa.”
Minho sat up, grabbed his own. “Minho-oppa receiving. Over.”
“I think Mr. Chan is nice… but I want Y/N to come play cards with me again. She said she’d teach me to cheat. Over.”
Minho chuckled.
Jisung sighed. “Y/N’s a little... crazy. But the good kind. The kind who breaks your camera, and your ribs, and your reality.”
Minho looked toward the window, where the sea shimmered.
...
An old café tucked between a pottery store and a sleepy bicycle repair shop.
Dim. Outdated. Smelling faintly of lavender and espresso beans.
The kind of place no one would think to look.
Perfect.
You sat in the corner booth by the window, legs pulled up on the seat, a lukewarm cup of something untouched in front of you. The glass fogged faintly every time you exhaled.
You weren't crying.
But your throat burned like you wanted to.
You sat there, unmoving, as the world carried on. You were trying not to feel. Trying to hold on to that string of numbness that felt safer than tears. The only thing you heard was your own heartbeat pounding behind your ears.
The chair opposite you scraped softly.
“Found you.”
The voice was unmistakable. Bright even in exhaustion. Sweet even in exasperation.
Jisung.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look at him.
He slid into the seat across from you, chest heaving like he ran the whole way. He looked at you with this ridiculous blend of panic and relief, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand.
"You cause more chaos than a celebrity scandal, you know that?" he panted, taking out his phone. “I texted Minho. Told him you’re safe. The whole damn resort is losing its collective mind.”
You stayed quiet.
“Hae-Soo’s crying. She thinks you left her.”
Your eyes blinked slowly.
“She asked if it was because she spilled juice on your uniform.”
Your throat caught.
“She was holding her walkie-talkie, repeating ‘Y/N come in’ like it was a real cockpit transmission. She’s been pacing like a little military commander.”
A breath slipped from your chest. Not quite a sob. Not quite anything.
“She won’t sleep,” he said, eyes soft now. “And Minho… God. He looked like he was ready to throw himself into the sea. Chan’s… you know… disturbingly calm.”
Still, you didn’t answer. But your fingers began to tighten around your water glass.
Jisung leaned back slightly, eyeing you.
"You always do this?" he asked, gentler, like he knows the answer. “Run away when it gets hard?”
You turned your head just a fraction. Just enough.
"Yes." Your voice was hoarse.
He nodded. Not surprised. Not judging.
"And you always come back?"
You shrugged.
"Eventually."
Silence lingered, soft like fog. It was comforting, the kind of silence Jisung was good at sharing. Not the loud kind that echoed guilt. But the quiet one that just... sat beside you and breathed with you.
You sighed. Then finally turned to face him.
"I feel like I’m split in half,” you admitted. “One part of me keeps trying to remember. The other part keeps wishing I’d forget completely so I could just… move on.”
Jisung’s brows pinched.
“And which part wants to marry Mr. Cutie?”
You swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
He leaned forward, voice suddenly sharp in its kindness.
“Maybe don’t marry anyone till you do.”
You looked at him. “Does Minho hate me?”
“Minho? No.” he said with a snort.
He’s been in love with the ghost of you for six years. If hate was possible, he’d be cured by now.
You blinked slowly, your gaze never really landing.
“I get it.” He says.
You looked up.
“I mean, not exactly. But… I get how it feels when your heart knows something before your head does.”
You closed your eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare them.”
“I know.”
“I just needed… air.”
“I know.”
Jisung leaned on the table, folding his arms. Then after a beat, “You good?”
You sighed.
“No.”
“Wanna be?”
You didn’t answer.
So he pivoted, slowly standing, motioning toward the door with his thumb. “Walk back with me ?”
The two of you strolled back in the direction of the resort, silence mostly accompanying your steps except for the crunch of gravel under your shoes. The wind had picked up slightly, sweeping your hair across your face.
After a long stretch of quiet, Jisung glanced sideways.
“So... pilot, huh?”
You turned to him slightly, smiling. “Yeah. Pilot.”
“That’s… pretty big.”
He nodded like he was just putting it together.
“It is,” you said. “It’s what I love. I mean… I think I’ve always loved it. Being up there. The sky is just—quiet. And free. And everything looks small. Manageable. It gives perspective.”
Jisung was quiet for a second.
Then, very carefully, he said,
“Yeah, but… back then—I mean—”
He coughed. “I mean, wasn’t it hard? Studying all that physics and pressure system thingies? You don’t strike me as the... cockpit-math kind of person.”
You chuckled. “That’s exactly what everyone said.”
Then shrugged.
“But I love it. Now at least. It’s my passion.”
Jisung gave a long, slow nod.
The kind people give when their brain is doing backflips.
“Someone I know used to hate studying for it. Like violently hate.”
The you he once knew—the one who swore you’d die before calculating altitude drift again—and the you now, serene in your pressed uniform, with skies under your eyes.
It was confusing.
You looked at him.
“Huh,” he said, lips pursed. “That’s... neat.”
You glanced at him suspiciously. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said way too fast.
“Just, like, it’s funny how some things… change.”
You stopped walking.
He did too, a few steps ahead.
You tilted your head, frowning. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He raised both hands. “What? Me? Nooo. I mean, yeah, obviously—yes, I do—like a lot of things. I mean, I am older than you.”
“By what, a year?”
“Three months. But still—mentally? Old soul.”
You rolled your eyes, walking again.
He caught up.
The silence was comfortable again for a bit.
But you caught him glancing at you once.
Then again.
Finally, you sighed. “What now?”
He scratched his head sheepishly. “You ever have that thing? Like… deja vu?”
“What kind?”
He shrugged. “Like you’ve been somewhere before. Or done something before. Or met someone before. Like, you see a guy eating noodles and you know he’s gonna drop one on his shirt. Or like, you’re helping a guy click photos then he spots a girl with an umbrella and you just know he's gonna fall in love.”
You blinked, a weird feeling settles in your chest. “Actually, yeah. Sometimes. But I thought that’s just my brain being weird.”
Jisung smiled a little. “It’s not.”
You gave him a look.
“I mean, it might be,” he added quickly. “But not always. Some memories take their time.”
You didn’t answer that. Just walked.
And as the resort lights finally glowed into view down the street.
The lights of the resort were bright when you reached the entrance—warm and golden, but strangely harsh under the weight of everyone’s emotions. You walked beside Jisung, your steps quiet. He was strangely silent too.
As soon as you crossed into the main lobby, you saw it.
A blur of curls and a high-pitched squeal—
“Y/NNNNN!”
Hae-soo ran straight toward you with arms wide, and without hesitation, you crouched just in time for her to leap into your hug.
Her arms were tight around your neck, and she sniffled once, pressing her little face into your shoulder.
“I thought you left,” she whispered, voice cracking.
You smiled, hugging her close, whispering softly, “I just needed air. But I’ll always come back.”
Minho was just behind her, trying to catch his breath. His hair was messy—clearly he’d been running around. Chan stood a few steps away, face tight, jaw locked. He wasn’t angry. No. He was scared.
Minho nodded, eyes still on his daughter in your arms.
You finally pulled back gently, brushing Hae-soo’s curls away from her damp face. “Sorry for scaring you.”
“You promised not to vanish!” she scolded.
You nodded, lips guilty. “I did. That was my mistake.”
Chan stepped forward then. “Y/N.”
You looked at him.
His voice was low, but there was relief hiding behind his calm. “Are you okay?”
You nodded.
His hand touched your elbow. “Next time… at least text?”
You apologize.
You turned slightly, glancing at Jisung as he leaned against a pillar, scrolling casually through his phone.
You tilted your head. “Hey.”
He looked up.
“I’ve met you before… haven’t I?”
He blinked.
“What makes you say that?” His voice was light, but you caught that second’s hesitation.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Just feels like it.”
He tilted his head. “Do I… feel familiar?”
You shrugged, unsure. “Yeah. Maybe it’s just deja vu.”
He chuckled. “Maybe.”
But he didn’t deny it.
And you were starting to notice that too many people weren’t denying things lately.
Later that night, long after the others had gone quiet and the stars had taken their full shape, you walked beside Chan across the beach. You were both barefoot, the waves occasionally brushing your toes.
You were the first to speak.
“I know.”
He looked at you.
You continued. “I know you know. About before. About me.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, softly:
“I was told not to say anything. They said... your memories should return on their own. If they come at all.”
You stared at the moon’s reflection.
“That’s fair. But still... no matter who tells you what, it doesn’t become truth until it comes from me. Right? no matter who tells you the story… it’s never my version.”
Chan didn’t speak.
You added, “There are things no one else would know. No one can know. Except me.”
He nodded once.
“I’m remembering pieces. I don’t know what to do with them yet, but... they’re coming.”
His voice was gentle. “Then maybe you should slow things down.”
You nodded again.
“I want to delay the wedding. Just a month. I just need... time.”
Then he nodded. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Really?”
He looked at you—smiling gently. “I’m not here to trap you, Y/N. You’re allowed to take your time. If we’re going to build something real, it has to be with all of you present. Not just what time and accidents left behind.”
Your chest softened. “Thank you.”
Your mother arrived at your hotel room with pastries.
"You didn't tell me how stunning Jeju is this season."
You smiled softly. Always neutral. "I guess I was distracted."
She poured tea. Chamomile—your favorite. Or at least, what she'd told you it was.
"How are the wedding preparations going?" she asked, stirring a cup too carefully.
You shrugged. "Still going. I asked Chan for a delay."
She froze just a millisecond. Then smiled again. "That's wise. Take your time, but don't let silly distractions confuse you, hmm?"
Distractions.
You heard the word for what it was. But you nodded anyway, sipping your tea. If she knew you remembered more than you let on—she’d only become harsher. So, you played the game.
She talked about venues and cakes, never once asking how you felt.
And for now… that was okay.
Because there were other truths assembling themselves inside you.
you were all gathered on the wide woven mat outside the resort. The sky was lit up in streaks of red and gold, firecrackers from a nearby beach party splintering across the sky.
Chan was inside, fetching juice boxes and some late-night coffee. Your mother was sleeping.
You sat in the middle. Not on purpose. It just happened that way.
On your left was Minho. On your right, Jisung. The night breeze was cool, the waves softer than usual.
Then came the first loud crack.
You barely flinched. But both Minho and Jisung moved at once—hands automatically reaching out, instinctively covering your ears from either side.
You blinked, startled.
“Um... what are you doing?” you asked, confused.
They froze. Looked at each other. Realized what they’d done.
Minho cleared his throat.
“Oh—sorry. It’s just... usually Hae-Soo sits in between us. She’s scared of firecrackers, so... habit, I guess.”
Jisung chuckled awkwardly. “Force of habit. You’re not scared, huh?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. I’m not.”
They both looked at you for a moment, like they were trying to see something that wasn’t there anymore.
You lifted your phone and took a picture of the sky bursting open in blue and silver.
They didn’t speak.
You didn’t either.
...
Minho watched you from the balcony, just as the moonlight crept across the stone tiles, soft and silver.
You were standing by the beach, adjusting the walkie-talkie Hae-Soo had clipped onto your belt a few days prior. The same one that now sat half-forgotten on the table between them.
Chan walked over. Quietly. No threats.
Minho turned his head slightly. “Here to punch me?”
Chan gave a short breathy chuckle. “Tempting. But no.”
Minho nodded once. “Do you...know?”
Chan nods, standing beside him now.
A heavy pause.
“I’m not here to accuse you, I understand what happened was not under your control,” Chan added. “I’m just here to let you know I’m not a stupid villain in your head. I'm going to marry her. And I’ve tried to take care of her the best I could.”
Minho stayed quiet for a while.
“I’m not in love with her anymore.”
Chan turned his head slightly.
“I’ve moved on,” Minho added, quieter.
Neither noticed the small figure curled beneath the wooden stairs, just below the deck—knees to chest, holding a walkie-talkie close.
Hae-soo had followed her father, curious.
Now, she sat frozen, lips parted.
Her hands trembled just slightly.
Mom…?
She didn’t say it. she closed her eyes and stayed still, as if stillness would make everything make sense.
...
You’d changed.
And he had noticed.
The first crack was the loud one—a firework from the beach’s edge, probably a leftover from some wedding after-party. It made Jisung flinch and Minho instinctively reach out, just as he always did.
But you… didn’t flinch.
You used to get startled by balloon pops. You’d hated loud anything.
But now?
You watched with a calm fascination, counting the seconds between the light and the boom.
Something else struck him too.
You’d eaten mushrooms.
He blinked as the memory came rushing in—three years ago, you used to freak out about even a mushroom’s presence on the table. He remembered once when the resort staff mistakenly added shiitake to your soup—you threw it away immediately and spent hours blaming the mild hives that followed.
But yesterday, at lunch, you’d dipped into a mushroom risotto and complimented the flavor. He thought he was imagining things.
Until today, when you spooned mushrooms from a shared hot pot with ease. No allergy. No discomfort.
He didn’t mention it. He just stared a little longer than he should’ve.
And then came the spinach.
You used to love it—oddly. Once, you joked that if Popeye had a girlfriend, she’d definitely be you. You’d stir it into noodles, omelets, even ramen. Now, you picked it out. Casually, like it was never a favorite to begin with.
Minho tilted his head at you, watching as you made a face at the spinach on your plate and passed it to Jisung, who accepted it wordlessly.
You hadn’t noticed his gaze. But that moment dug a hook into his mind and didn’t let go.
She’s different.
That thought haunted him more gently than expected.
You weren’t the same woman he had fallen in love with.
You were... someone else now.
You loved flying now.
Jisung told him, back when they found you hiding at that cafe—how your face lit up when talking about the sky, the control, the instruments, the feeling of taking off.
“It’s like she’s obsessed with it now, hyung,” Jisung had said. “Honestly... kinda cool. She’s so... sure of it.”
He remembered the arguments—him begging you to give your aviation exams a third shot, and you crying into his hoodie because you didn’t want to waste your life being scared of failing.
Now you wore your pilot uniform like a second skin.
You walked straighter. Spoke louder.
Minho leaned against the balcony, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on you. You’d changed. Fundamentally.
He was still in love with you.
He realized it slowly—through the sounds of your laugh when you teased Hae-Soo over walkie-talkie.
Through the ease with which you handled people now. Firm but warm. Polished yet kind.
You were different.
But he didn’t love you less.
He might have loved you more.
And it didn’t make any sense.
Because love was supposed to anchor itself in memory, in shared inside jokes, in songs sung together at traffic lights.
But you remembered none of that.
If love needed a reason, then he wouldn’t still be standing here.
Still watching you with the same softness in his chest, wprrid you might catch a cold.
Maybe that’s what love was. Just a quiet loyalty to someone's soul. No matter how many times it sheds its skin.
Hae-Soo had stopped speaking to you.
It began subtly. She no longer jumped at you with open arms. She didn’t hand you the walkie-talkie updates. She didn’t call you for stories or squeal when she saw you.
You asked once. Twice. Three times. You even tried to make a silly voice over the walkie-talkie.
No reply.
“She’s not feeling well,” Jisung said one morning at breakfast, stirring cereal she wasn’t even eating. “She’s just... sleeping a lot.”
But something flickered in his eyes when he said it.
You asked, “She doesn’t want to meet me?”
Jisung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Kids are weird sometimes.”
But you weren’t a fool.
You knew she wasn’t sick. You knew she wasn’t sleeping all day.
You knew she was avoiding you.
And somehow, that stung.
You spent the evening sitting on the deck, the walkie-talkie sitting in your lap, silent.
No signal.
No silly voice. No making up silly noises for soonie.
No “Captain Y/N, do you copy?”
And suddenly, the breeze felt colder. Like it was starting to carry parts of your past back toward you—and pieces of yourself were going missing before you could hold onto them.
Chan comes beside you, and sits down on the sand, says nothing.
You take a stick and scribble on the sand:
"Will it
work?"
the waves erase the 'it' and the question mark. You tilt your head.
They say when you gift someone shoes, it'll make them run away from you.
You were eight months pregnant. Exhausted. Swollen ankles, aching back, a baby in your belly kicking you like they was training for Olympic gymnastics.
Minho had come home from the store with a mischievous smile and a bulky paper bag.
“What now?” you’d muttered, half-asleep on the couch, belly peeking from under his oversized hoodie.
“These,” he said, slipping out a pair of ridiculously soft-looking sneakers. “Are not normal shoes. They’re elite. They feel like clouds made love with pudding and decided to become footwear.”
You snorted. “Clouds don’t have reproductive systems.”
“Shhh. The shoes are listening.”
He crouched down, lifting your foot gently into his lap.
“They’re ugly,” you teased.
“They’re perfect,” he insisted, slipping one onto your foot with the tenderness of someone who worshipped the ground you waddled on. “And you have to walk every evening. Doctor’s orders. So, now you have no excuse.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Put them on,” he said, tapping your heel. “Trust me. You’ll feel like royalty. Unstable, emotional royalty. But still royalty.”
You did.
And god, they were comfortable.
He'd have carried you himself instead of gifting you shoes if he knew then, that just after days, you'd be running away from him.
Your mom brought a few of your things from back home to jeju. You tried on those shoes which your mom said were too old for you but you did nevertheless. You didn't know why. Those just fit.
You suddenly realised. no, maybe you knew since long. You like Minho. You wanted to marry Minho.
So you ran back to the resort with those very same shoes, now ragged, making you look poor for someone who's a pilot and owns resorts in Jeju.
You spot the three. Or, the four (including soonie).
You stop a few feet away, breathing hard, heart hammering louder than your footsteps.
“I like you,” you blurt.
Minho doesn’t even flinch. His eyes flicker over your face.
“I don’t want to marry Chan,” you say, voice cracking. “I want you. I want to try… even if it’s messy. Even if it’s—”
He cuts you off with a scoff, lips curling. “Get away from me.”
You blink. The coldness slices through your chest.
“I...just let you be friends with Hae-soo, nothing more.” he spits. “Don’t come crying to me now that you’re scared. I’m not your escape plan. You're just a stranger to me. You've got to be shameless enough to confess to someone while having a fucking marriage in two days.”
His words hit harder than any slap. Your face heats up with embarassment, and you look at Hae-soo, who doesn't meet your eye and hides behind Jisung. You clench your jaw and turn away and left, back to your planned wedding hall.
And Hae-Soo broke.
She jumped up, tugged at her dad’s shirt with wet eyes and trembling lips.
“I want her to be my mom,” she said, voice cracking. “I want her to be my mom.”
Minho froze.
He’d never seen her cry like that.
Not even during the hospital visits. Not even when the oxygen masks made her cheeks bruise.
Jisung reached for her, to explain her, as Minho stood processing what you just said and what she just said. But she squirmed and ran.
“Hae-Soo!”
She ran fast.
All the way to the wedding decor hall—where floral arches hung half-finished and tablecloths were still being straightened.
There stood your mother.
Poised. Elegant. Judging the lace shade on a bouquet.
She turned at the sound of small feet thudding in, confused for a moment to see a child panting, hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Who are you?”
“I—” Hae-Soo gulped. “I want Y/N.”
Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? Where’s your—?”
Jisung burst in. “There you are!”
She turned. Her eyes went sharp.
Then she looked again. At Hae-Soo.
And recognition hit her like thunder.
“You…” she whispered.
Jisung grabbed Hae-Soo gently, but your mother stepped forward, her expression unreadable.
“You survived,” she muttered.
Jisung blinked. “What?”
She ignored him. Crouched down slightly, inspecting the girl. “I thought… with the disease, you wouldn’t—”
“Stop,” Jisung said, voice firm now, arm protectively around Hae-Soo.
Your mother looked up. “You shouldn’t have brought her here.”
“I didn’t. She came on her own. Don't misunderstand, she doesn't know about—”
She pushed Hae-Soo back. Just enough to make the girl stumble.
“Oh, so she doesn't know that Y/N is her mother and still came here? She has no place here. You’re all trying to ruin her again. Like the first time wasn’t enough. Y/N is not your mom anymore.”
Jisung’s mouth dropped open. He tried to say something in protest when Minho comes and lifts Hae-soo up, and looks at your mom.
“You told my daughter.”
“What—”
“How about I tell your daughter ?”
“What will you tell her—”
“The same thing you told mine?”
He looks at her for three seconds then turns away and leaves with jisung and his daughter as she cries.
the next day.
It was wedding practice morning.
The decorators are finishing up. Your phone is flooded with messages from friends asking which lipstick you’ll wear for your “big day.” Someone’s steam-pressing your gown.
You haven’t even looked at Chan.
You can’t.
Your phone buzzed.
Then a voice.
From behind you.
“Y/N.”
You turned, your dad was there, quite late for someone who fixed the wedding date himself.
“Dad,” you breathed, a bit stunned. “You’re here—”
You ran to him, he hugs you from the side.
“Where were you?” you asked.
“I got… busy.”
“Busy?” You pulled away, frowning. “Too busy for your daughter’s wedding?”
He didn’t answer.
And the silence between you was heavier than the hug.
You studied him.
He looked tired. But he smiled again. “I’m here now.”
“That’s not the point,” you whispered.
Still, you held his hand when they called everyone to the makeshift aisle for rehearsal.
The coordinator adjusted the line of chairs and the string lights, humming about how it would all look so magical before sunrise. You tried to imagine yourself walking this path tomorrow morning with real vows and cameras, but the image didn’t fit. It was like wearing someone else’s story.
They ran through the steps. You walked down with Chan beside you, your arm in his, half-practicing how to smile when the music started.
And when Jin-ah jumped in at the front, in a ridiculous makeshift priest get-up (a curtain sash, of all things), she wiggled her eyebrows and announced:
“Now you may not kiss until tomorrow!”
A few decorators and your mother laughed out loud.
But you didn’t.
Neither did your father.
Or Jin-ah, after a moment.
Or Chan.
Everyone else chuckled politely.
You just stood there, lips parted, breath tight, wondering why the joke made your spine go cold. Chan's hands tightened around yours.
Later that night, it was decided: the wedding would be held early morning, before sunrise.
“It’s symbolic,” your mother said, sipping wine at the dinner table. “New beginnings. Fresh light. All those things people write in poems.”
You nodded. You didn’t argue. You let her carry the energy like she always did.
But your father, across the table, barely touched his plate. Or you. Or Chan.
When you looked at him again, he was staring at the floral menu card with a tight jaw.
You tilted your head. “Are you okay?”
He looked up, then at you. “Are you okay?”
You nod.
And the only one who knows how much of a lie that is… Is the man who raised you.
And the man you ran away from.
You are dressed in white.
You look like a dream—someone else's dream.
The lace sleeves hang soft over your arms, the veil already clipped in, pearls gleaming in your ears. You’ve been curled and powdered and perfected until your own reflection looks like it’s lying to you.
You should be standing still.
Smiling. Waiting for photographers. Practicing vows.
But instead—you are pacing.
Your heels click across the floor in quick, panicked steps. Your breath catches on every inhale, your hands fisting around the loose end of your gown.
“I don’t know what to do,” you hiss, voice cracked and wet as you turn away from the mirror.
Jin-ah is behind you, clutching a box of tissues, moving closer like you’re a glass that might shatter if she steps wrong.
“Babe—”
“He’s just some random guy!” you cry suddenly. “Some guy! Some random guy with a kid!”
You laugh, too high-pitched. Too close to a sob.
“I barely spent any time with him. A few weird moments. Some… flashbacks, I don’t know. And now I’m the bad person for getting married to someone normal—(you go to jin-ah and hold her by her collar, lift up your gown a bit so you can resy your leg on the chair beside her)—? I'm—Jin-ah, am I shameless? am I fucking embarassing? Do I look desperate—am I—I begging him to marry me?????”
You violently shake her.
Jin-ah opens her mouth.
“—and yeah, maybe I did say I liked him, maybe I did run back in those god-awful sneakers like a drama heroine on drugs, but Jesus Christ, Jin-ah—he has a kid! A whole daughter. And it’s not like Mom’s ever gonna let me marry someone like that.”
You’re ranting now.
Sinking deeper into that spiral because if you don’t, you’ll drown in something worse.
You wipe your tears so hard your eyeliner smears. Jin-ah tries to dab it gently with the tissue, but you push her hand away.
“God, and his wife must’ve been gorgeous, right?” you snap. “Like—classical, timeless beauty, high cheekbones, sweet voice, amazing she apparantly has skin this shade(you let her go and point to your foundation on the table) and was as pretty as—ew! No. Ew, ew, ew. dont think about it, just don't. God, y/n please, stay sane.”
“Y/N…”
You sniff. Wobble. Whisper, “I can’t do this.”
Your door swings open suddenly. Your father stands there.
He’s not dressed.
He’s in a plain t-shirt and jeans. Hair damp with sweat. Breathing hard like he ran all the way from something you can’t see yet.
“Dad…?”
You straighten. Your veil slips a little.
His chest heaves. “We have to go.”
“What?”
He steps into the room. “We have to go. Right now.”
“What are you talking about? Go where? We still have hours left—”
“Minho and Jisung are leaving.”
You scoff, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “Good. Let them. I don’t care. Not like they care either—”
your father doesn’t move. He just looks at you. And his eyes—god, they look wrecked.
You take a shaky step back. “W-Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Y/N… on the way to the airport, Hae-soo fainted.”
You stare at him.
“I—what?”
“They had to take her to the hospital. Rushed her in. No warning.”
“No,” you whisper. “No, she—she was just fine yesterday. She was dancing with Jisung, I saw her—”
“She’s not fine anymore.”
Your knees buckle slightly. Your hands reach for the vanity.
“The doctors in Jeju won’t operate on her,” your father continues quietly. “She’s too small. They’re afraid she won’t survive the surgery. Her lungs are failing. Seoul was the only chance. But now—she may not even make the flight.”
You’re not crying. Not fully.
But your mouth is open. Like someone just tore out the ground under your feet.
Outside the door, faint chatter still drifts up the stairs. The guests haven’t arrived yet, but the florists are lining the aisle. Your mother’s voice is giving orders. Your phone is vibrating on the nightstand with missed calls from Chan’s stylist.
Your whole life is moving toward a future you’re not walking into.
Chan appears at the door then. Perfectly dressed. Tie fixed. Hair set. He isn't supposed to see you until you walk down the asile with your dad.
He opens his mouth. You run before a sound can escape from his mouth.
You throw the veil off your head like it’s suffocating you.
Tear off your heels and leave them behind as your bare feet slap against the polished tile.
Your father chases you. Jin-ah grabs her phone, a pair of flipflops for you and rushes after both of you, muttering a stunned “Sorry,” to Chan as she passes.
He stands still. His groomsmen behind him watch quietly. One rests a hand on his shoulder. But Chan doesn’t say anything. Because he knew. You never truly belonged here.
The hospital is twenty-three minutes away.
You spend every one of those minutes praying to a god you started believing in after you met Hae-soo.
Jin-ah is driving. You’re still in your gown, tucked in the backseat, seatbelt twisted across the satin bodice. Your father is beside you, quiet, his hand gripping yours tightly.
You don’t speak. You can only see the image—Hae-soo’s face—tiny, warm, shy around you. The way she once said she liked your voice. The way she danced in your hotel slippers. The first time she ever talked to you.
“My dad is a jerk!” with sobs in between and struggling for breaths.
He is a jerk.
You clutch your chest.
And when the hospital comes into view. You’re already out of the car before the engine’s fully off.
The hospital doors hiss open.
You stumble in first, barefoot and breathless in your wedding gown, the hem soaked with gravel and panic. Jin-ah trails behind, cheeks flushed from running. Your father follows, shoulders hunched, chest rising in uneven bursts.
Minho is already there.
Sitting on the low bench outside the emergency pediatric ward.
His head is bowed, hands elbows on his knees, hands together.
He looks up when the three of you arrive.
“Hyun-chul uncle…” he murmurs.
Your father nods grimly. your mind is too fogged, too grief-drenched to piece together how Minho knows your dad.
You move toward Minho. Jisung arrives from the other corridor, chest rising like he sprinted every step.
“She’s critical,” he says, voice tight. “They’re stabilizing her but… her oxygen levels plummeted. Her lungs are—Hyung, I tried everything. They’re not letting anyone in yet.”
Minho doesn’t speak. He drops his head again, elbows on his knees, hands over his mouth like he’s praying.
You stand in front of him and put your hand on his.
"Minho..." is all you say.
Then slowly, he lifts his face. His eyes are red. His cheeks glisten.
“Why…?” he says quietly. “Why won’t they let me see her…?”
You take a step closer.
“She always talks to me, even when she’s hurting. Even when she’s scared. But now…” he shakes his head, a small sob catching in his throat, as he holds your hand tight, you go on your knees to look at him better when he lowers his head again.
“They won’t let me see her. She hasn’t said anything. She’s just lying there like she’s already gone.”
Your heart breaks a second time.
You reach out to him—about to speak, about to whisper something, anything, please don’t give up, when—
The sound of heels clicking. Two figures enter.
Your mother. And Chan.
She looks furious.
Her eyes lock immediately on your gown—torn, dirtied, your hair undone, makeup smeared.
Then she sees him.
Your father.
Her lips twist like acid, and she walks up without a word and grabs your wrist.
“We’re going,” she snaps.
You blink. “What—?”
“Back. You’re getting married. This is nonsense. This—this entire scene—”
Chan steps forward. Quiet. Composed.
“Enough.”
Your mother whirls toward him. “You stay out of this—”
“No,” Chan says, his voice stronger this time. “No, I won’t.”
He pulls her gently to the side, into the corridor.
You stand there, stunned. Shaking.
Your father shifts beside you. Reaches out to place a hand on your back—but stops short. He’s looking at your mother with something like guilt, something long-standing and exhausted.
They exchange no words.
But something bitter simmers between them.
You hear muffled voices from the hall.
Your mother saying you’re throwing everything away,
and Chan replying with something you can’t catch,
low and tired but unwavering.
Then, he steps back into the light.
Walks over to you.
His eyes are soft.
“I’ll do the surgery,” he says. “I’m not certified here, but I’ve done it before. And I’ve assisted two in Seoul under emergency. They’ll clear me. I already called in for the papers.”
You stare at him. Chan, who took the same risk by operating on you, for the same cause.
“Chan…”
He gives a small smile. “You were right. This isn’t about you or me anymore.”
Your father is quiet. Your mother is behind, rigid, silent now.
“You saved me once,” you whisper. Your voice wavers. “And now… you’re saving me again.”
He just nods.
His hand lands on your shoulder once—gentle, steady.
“You don’t have to thank me, it’s my job”
They bring her out just after 5:42 a.m.
You know this because the hospital clock above the pediatric ward buzzes faintly when it resets the hour, and everyone—Minho, Jisung, the doctors, even you—seem to pause for a moment as if the world is holding its breath.
Hae-soo is unconscious.
Tiny.
Pale.
Wrapped in a fresh blue surgical gown, her small feet dangling beneath the edge of the stretcher like they didn’t have time to grow into her future.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the wheeled bed moves past you, and you see the oxygen mask on her face.
The nurse gently blocks him. “You’ll see her after, sir. Please.”
He doesn’t argue.
Which shocks you, because you can see the fire in his eyes. The desperate ache of a father on the edge of his final thread.
But he steps back. Lets them take her in.
You reach for him.
Wrap your hands around his arm, your cheek pressing to his shoulder as he lowers his head to rest on yours.
Minho doesn’t move at first.
Then, slowly… his fingers slide over yours.
You close your eyes. Breathe in the stillness of this stolen moment. The curve of his jaw brushing against your temple. The way your heart doesn't ache near him—it knows.
Behind you, you don’t notice when Jisung raises his phone and quietly takes a picture, while crying. Because Minho. Because you.
“Min,” you whisper. like you always used to do.
He hums in response. Still pressed close to you. like he always used to do.
Your voice is quiet, uncertain.
“…Did Hae-soo’s mom not love her?”
Minho is still. For a long, aching second.
Then his voice comes, thick but calm.
“She loved her,” he murmurs. “More than she loved me. And more than she loved herself.”
You nod against him. Tears bite your lashes again. Not violently—but steady. Warm. Familiar now.
“I know it’s weird to say this,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But I wish I met you. I wish I married you.”
Your fingers squeeze his. “I wish I gave birth to Hae-soo.”
You break. Finally.
“I’m not usually this—emotional,” you sob. “But Hae-soo… she’s got me feeling like this, Minho. Like I belong. Like I’ve always known her even when I didn’t know myself.”
Minho is already crying. But he hides it in your hair. You feel it anyway.
His arm curls tighter around yours, and he kisses the top of your head—soft, sure, like it’s the only truth he has left.
The nurse returns a few minutes later, informing you both the surgery may take up to eight hours.
You and Minho don’t let go of each other for a while. Not until your back aches and someone offers you a bottle of water and tells you to rest, even if it’s just for a while.
Your dress is still ruined. Stained with gravel, dirt, and emotion. You nod without words.
“Come on,” Minho whispers. “Let’s get you changed.”
The hallway outside the waiting room is dim.
Most of the hospital lights are off in this wing, as it’s still before sunrise. Nurses pass quietly. Machines beep. The hum of the world is softer here—quieter.
Almost like it’s holding its breath.
Behind the glass walls at the end of the corridor, your mother stands by the window, arms folded tightly around herself, watching the lights of the surgical wing blink in a steady rhythm. Her shoulders are straight, chin high, but her hands tremble at the seams of her coat.
She doesn’t turn when she hears him come in. But she knows it’s him.
“I’ve given her someone to love,” she says quietly, staring at nothing. “Someone she could count on. Someone stable. Chan’s good. He’s responsible, he understands her memory, her work, her obsession with control.”
Silence.
“And now you bring him again?” she turns, eyes sharp and glistening. “Into her life? After everything she went through—everything I had to rebuild—you bring him back?”
Your dad doesn’t flinch. His face is older now, grayer at the sides, but not hardened. Just… worn.
“She’s not a child anymore,” he says gently. “You can’t build her a life like a dollhouse and expect her not to break the glass.”
Your mother’s face tightens.
“She was healing,” she bites. “She had order. A future. Do you not see what that man has done to her? What he cost her? She ran away from her own wedding. In a dress Chan paid for, after months of planning, she ran barefoot to a hospital for a child she barely knows—!”
“She knows her, she gave birth to her.” he says quietly.
She looks away, nostrils flaring.
“She doesn’t even remember what happened before the accident.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why she fell in love with him again.” His voice is firm now, but not cruel. “You can keep telling yourself it’s chaos or bad timing or a scar from the past, but even after all of it… she still chose him. Him and that same damn job.”
Her mouth parts slightly. She says nothing.
“Even after forgetting her whole life. After finally getting the job she dreamt of. Even with a second chance at doing things your way—she still loved him.”
He steps closer. Not looming, just… present.
“I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
She turns back to the window. He watches her a moment.
Some part of him knows she’s not crying yet because she’s spent years training herself not to.
“Some marriages are like that,” he says softly, “like ours.”
She flinches.
“No matter how many people try to make them work—parents, neighbors, therapists, children—they always break apart. Something always pulls them apart.”
Silence.
“And then there are marriages like theirs.”
He looks toward the door where Minho and you had disappeared down the hallway earlier.
“No matter what pulls them apart, no matter who tries to come between, no matter how much time or tragedy stands in their way—they always find each other again.”
He doesn’t say soulmates.
He doesn’t say destiny.
He just says it like a fact. A hard-earned truth that took a decade to learn.
Your mother’s shoulders fall.
“I just…” she breathes, barely audible, “I just wanted her to be happy.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want her to become like us.”
“I thought I was a good parent,” he says instead, voice lower now. “Until I saw him raising Hae-soo.”
She turns slightly.
His eyes flicker with something deeper. Regret.
“I was sad that I wasn’t there for her childhood. That I missed those moments. The late-night feedings. The first word. The hospital scares. Her fourth birthday.”
He swallows. “I thought I failed as a father. I saw the way Minho looks at her. How he protects her. How much he hurts for her. The best I can do is to make sure she goes where her heart belongs.”
Your mother says nothing. Just stares.
“He was like a son I never deserved.”
She breaks. It’s not loud. Not explosive.
But her body shakes. Her hands come up to her face, and for the first time in years—maybe since the day your childhood fell apart—she lets herself cry.
Your dad steps forward.
Quietly places a hand on her shoulder.
Not to comfort. Not to fix. Just to be there.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “He’ll always choose her.”
She looks at him, eyes red.
He nods toward the operation theatre.
“Because somewhere in that stupid, stubborn heart of his… he loves our daughter more than his own.”
JYP wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Seoul’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs — Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.
The CEO of AWs was Minho. Terrifying in his management style — pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.
Jisung was the editor sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.
Hyunjin was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Changbin handled business talks but today, he wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.
Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.
Minho, slid a folder across the table to Jisung.
“You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Hyunjin are here today, and you already know…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Everyone knew. If earth split open and Hyunjin fell in, Minho might ask for receipts before helping.
Jisung blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”
Two hours later, Jisung was editing a banner of Hyunjin standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
Hyunjin.
Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauted, and served on a plate with grass.
“Can I have… one hour?”
Jisung blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Hyunjin didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.
“I want to go to the US.”
Jisung narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And… if you decline the offer, since Changbin-hyung is out, I’ll be next in line. Minho-hyung won’t have a choice.”
“...Why should I give that up?”
Hyunjin’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.
He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.
Then launched forward.
"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. Seoul National, USC, NYU, some went to san francisco—I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”
You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Han Jisung. Just ONE!!"
He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly,
“I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”
Jisung’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”
Hyunjin blinked. “No?”
“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”
Hyunjin’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.
And he whisper-screamed, desperate, The rarest word in his vocabulary.
“PLEASE.”
The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Jisung’s all-expenses-paid trip to florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.
Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.
Hyunjin had entered full pestering mode. Like Jisung’s success was a war crime.
He started small — delivering Jisung’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Jisung-ah” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Jisung did not own a tripod bag. So Hyunjin bought him one.
By Friday, Jisung had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.
“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”
Hyunjin stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”
“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”
Jisung squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”
“No.”
Sigh.
“My dad,” Hyunjin began, “is deeply religious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ religious.”
Jisung blinked.
“My mom too. And my grandma — don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘sin magnet.’ Anyway, this one shaman my dad adores — some guy named Master Jido or Judo or something — apparently saw my face in a rice bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”
“A rice bowl?”
“Yeah, and since then, my dad’s convinced I shouldn’t cross the Korean Peninsula. He cancelled my trip to Japan in high school, he deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Korea will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”
Jisung stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”
“I WISH,” Hyunjin cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”
Jisung squnted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Hyunjin, you think I’m that dumb?” Jisung asked.
There was silence. Then—
“Because...Mr. Lee only listens to you,” Hyunjin blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandma died, and boom — you’re free.”
Jisung paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandma died?”
Hyunjin grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to fiji for your mental well-being.”
Jisung yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”
But Hyunjin wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Minho once declared “imported Italian” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.
“PLEASE!”
Jisung sighed.
“Enough diversions and lying.” Jisung snapped, getting up.
“I WASN'T LYING!”
“okay, half lying.”
Hyunjin pulled out a small blue notebook.
Opened it.
Then… lifted it up.
And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty brown eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.
“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair — that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”
Hyunjin let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him — one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than hydropower. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.
“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”
He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:
“There was a girl.”
Jisung blinked.
“A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.
“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreigh transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girls one, was parked next to hers and—”
“Wait.” Jisung frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”
Hyunjin looked mortified. “…The shaman. He said the top tube on boys cycles was dangerous for my family lineage.”
Jisung snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro WHAT.”
“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”
Jisung was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”
“Yes!” Hyunjin cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”
Wheezing, Jisung wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”
Hyunjin glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. she didnt laugh even when i told her.”
“She and I became…accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything — just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”
Jisung tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”
“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’”
Hyunjin scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”
Jisung winced. “Smooth.”
“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”
Jisung, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”
“I never told her I wrote it” Hyunjin admitted.
A pause.
Jisung squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”
Hyunjin waved his hand. “Let me finish.”
Jisung looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Hyunjin.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”
Hyunjin sipped the last of his drink slowly.
Looked out the window.
And grinned.
Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Jisung could only describe as unearned confidence.
“I already took care of it.”
Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”
Hyunjin simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.
“Clarity” Jisung said. “Give it. Now.”
In the JYP Building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was — the shaman’s daughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.
She worked in HR, or maybe Legal — Hyunjin hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.
He’d found his window.
Hyunjin stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.
He called.
Ring.
Ring.
Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The very Shaman. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.
Hyunjin’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.
“Hello, Master Jido. This is Hwang Hyunjin. Your favorite client's son.”
“Oh, it’s Hyunjin! What is it, son?”
“I just had a little doubt,” Hyunjin said, sweetly.
“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”
Hyunjin’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “If I kidnap your daughter…”
“…Eh?”
“…And elope with her…”
“WHAT?”
“…Then marry her…”
“Are you—”
“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”
The silence on the line grew nuclear.
“…Then, Shaman-nim,” Hyunjin asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughters, or yours?”
“What do you want.”
Jisung stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”
“Gently intimidated,” Hyunjin corrected.
“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”
“Wasn’t fake in the moment” Hyunjin said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”
Jisung just stared.
“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles” Hyunjin said.
“Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”
“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”
“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”
“…What does that even mean—”
Hyunjin suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award.
“San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”
The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.
Jisung sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”
You were thirteen when you landed in Korea, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Seoul was from anything familiar — your school, your grandma, the small room in Florida that always smelled like oranges.
Your dad had one rule:
“No Korean boys.”
You blinked.
He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom.
“They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and prostitution.”
You nodded. Not because you believed it — but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.
You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Korean:
"Hello" and "I don't understand."
The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Felix, who looked like he’d been born with bubble tea in his hand. Korean-Australian, bleach-blond, and soft-spoken, he spoke Korean in scattered syllables and English with an accent that made teachers squint and classmates swoon.
You and Felix became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.
Then there was Hyunjin.
The Korean boy who looked like he walked off a shampoo ad — with his floppy fringe and moody aura, and that stupid girls’ bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.
He tried to speak to you.
Often.
“Hi. Me am… Hyunjin… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”
You and Felix burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.
Hyunjin, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. you like me."
“No,” Felix wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”
“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Hyunjin declared, without understanding a thing.
“My English is very… constipation.”
“I feel you, I have many… hormone today.”
“This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”
“Today is Constipation Day in Korea!” and what not.
You and Felix lost it every single time.
You never corrected him.
Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.
Felix would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering:
“Popsex. He really said popsex.”
But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.
The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.
He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.
The cover was of an island. Amelia Island.
Inside, written in broken English:
“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”
You didn’t smile.
Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.
The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:
You: “Did you leave this?”
Hyunjin: “What? Me? This??”
(Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.)
“This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”
you told him you liked it very much. that for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.
“No dating Korean boys” Your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching Korean dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”
You’d just nodded.
He didn’t know about Hyunjin. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.
Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card — anonymous but obvious — you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.
So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.
Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.
You never saw Hyunjin after that.
Your sister was the golden one.
She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.
So when she came to you — eyes big and trembling — and said
“Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Korean. You know how Dad’ll be.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it — that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.
You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.
Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading — but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.
“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have Y/N, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”
You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.
But you didn’t say anything.
You smiled. A small one. A polite one.
You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.
The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.
Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.
“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”
You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you — sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.
Then the baby didn’t cry.
And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.
They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes.
Then he was gone.
The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.
Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.
“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”
And your sister just stood there.
Frozen.
One hand still resting on the tiny urn in her arms.
They never recovered.
You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.
And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.
Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.
“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”
You didn’t respond because she's right.
Years later, you’re still in Korea. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.
But something in you had started to twitch.
A thread pulling tight.
It stirred when you saw your sister's hands shake over her tea.
It stirred loudest when you saw Hyunjin again — in that photo. The boy who once said “goose pinples” with his whole chest. Who looked at you like you were a language he wanted to learn.
It started with a hand graze.
James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.
He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”
You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.
And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.
He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to—he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.
He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.
But when you finally told him—quietly, anxiously—that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.
“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”
You frowned. Not because he was wrong—but because that month already sounded like an escape route.
Still, you nodded.
You always wanted to believe the best of people.
One month turned into two. Then four.
He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.
2 years later.
Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.
“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Studied in Delhi. MBA. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”
You stared at the picture, you knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to—it was the sudden realization of what this meant.
He thought you were ready for marriage.
“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.
Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.
“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry.
“Don’t take it for granted.”
“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”
He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.
He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.
“Go” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”
You smiled.
But your eyes had guilt.
Packing didn’t take long.
Neither did the goodbyes.
You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.
Then came the early morning of departure.
The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.
“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.
You told her everything last night.
You nod and stop.
Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”
You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake.
Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did—waiting, quiet, gentle.
“Please” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”
And that was all.
You picked up your bag again.
And walked through the doors.
You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile—metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.
And then you saw it.
A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.
You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.
You didn’t even want to care.
You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.
A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.
You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.
And then you saw him.
Long legs stretched out.
Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself.
And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.
You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.
He didn’t even notice you—he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.
Your brows twitched.
You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.
But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.
And his face lit up like he wasn’t twenty-four years old but actually five.
A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then—because he had no self-preservation instinct—shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.
He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.
“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”
You blinked.
Squinted.
And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.
“Hwang Hyunjin!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”
“I told you I was inside—!”
“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”
“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”
You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”
He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”
You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”
“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby, Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”
You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”
“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”
You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.
He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.
“Milady,” he said in a terrible British accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”
“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.
He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”
“…Are you high?”
“I took two mints. Close enough.”
You started laughing despite yourself.
You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood—how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.
And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.
“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”
Hyunjin gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition banana milk—!”
You walked ahead, shaking your head.
And behind you, suitcase rolling, Hyunjin trailed after you with that same stupid smile—already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.
This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?
Flashback.
Hyunjin barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.
“Hwang Hyunjin. Office. Now.”
His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Minho never calls. Minho appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.
He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong—was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?
No time to wonder. He walked in.
Minho sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Minho. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet—deadly in its own way.
“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Minho said, without even looking up.
Hyunjin blinked. “...Okay?”
Minho leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”
Hyunjin tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.” He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”
“Exactly,” Minho said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”
He stared straight into Hyunjin’s soul.
“Who should be the model?”
And in that moment… Hyunjin knew he was absolutely screwed.
Minho never asks for opinions. Which meant—he already had someone in mind.
And he was called here, which meant—it was him.
An intrusive image assaulted his brain:
A massive banner over a subway station.
Hyunjin. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.
“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”
He swallowed thickly.
“Jisung,” he blurted. “Han Jisung’s got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a K-drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”
“Hyunjin,” Minho said flatly. “You’ll do it.”
“No—no no no,” Hyunjin stammered, waving his hands. “Minho-hyung, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites demons. My mom said—”
Minho didn’t even blink.
He turned to his monitor.
“Do it or resign.”
There it was. Classic Minho. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.
Hyunjin stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.
He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.
“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.
Minho didn’t glance up. “Take it.”
“Your time, sir,” Hyunjin added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.
Minho finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.
“What now?”
The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.
Minho sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.
Hyunjin sits like a man who is the warzone.
The waiter approaches with a notepad.
Minho: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.”
Hyunjin: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”
The waiter blinks. Looks at Hyunjin. Then at Minho. Then back at Hyunjin, silently judging his life choices.
“Hot… water?”
“Yes. Plain. Hot.”
“Lemon?”
“No. I’m not here to feel joy.”
The waiter backs away slowly.
Minho sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”
Hyunjin takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.
“Sir. I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”
Minho: “Uh huh.”
“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girls cycle.”
Minho freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.
“We were 13—”
Minho cuts in, deadpan:
“Yeah. I know. You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah.”
Hyunjin freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”
Minho sips his water now, mocking.
“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”
Hyunjin seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.
Then:
“There’s… more, sir. But I’ll have to go with the flow—”
Minho cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.
“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”
Hyunjin mutters under his breath:
“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”
“one night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, hyung. Our giraffes.”
“You had giraffes?”
“We once watched a giraffe documentary together in the office pantry. That was OUR moment.”
Minho slows down. Just a little.
“And she was dating a guy who was a small time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite”
Minho paused eating. “What”
“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at Canon messaged me to check if I died.”
Minho tosses his chopsticks down.
“Hyunjin. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your dad bought you a pink one. Are you the son of JYP that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”
Hyunjin looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”
“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”
“Sir—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”
“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”
Hyunjin looks like a dying goldfish.
“But hyung—sir—I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”
“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”
He stands. Leaves.
Hyunjin sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.
The waiter brings the bill.
Hyunjin also starts to get up, following Minho… when—
“Hyunjin,” Minho calls without turning.
“Pay the bill.”
He disappears around the corner.
Hyunjin opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.
“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”
The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.
Hyunjin stands in the middle of it.
Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER™” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.
He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.
The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.
His hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Minho said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.
He adjusts his collar. Winces.
The fabric itchy. The zipper mocking him.
Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams,
“You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”
Hyunjin mutters under his breath, eyes down.
“Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”
And then—
“...Hyunjin?”
A voice.
A very specific voice.
He freezes.
Not like, subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest.
His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.
Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.
And there she is.
HER.
The girl.
The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking.
The one who never judged him during his Girl Cycle™.
The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.
She’s standing there—slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest.
She’s dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, she looks like the goddess of Febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.
And then—
CLICK.
Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights.
They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.
Hyunjin flinches as it hits him in the face—full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes.
Because hers are on him. Just her eyes. On just him.
And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone—
Even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship—
Even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop—
All he can think is:
“Damn. I’m in love again.”
And this time, worse than before.
A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Hyunjin starts piecing things together.
She’s not just standing around.
She’s not observing.
She’s holding a camera.
No.
No.
No, no, no—
“Y/N,” Minho’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”
Green mat.
Green mat.
Green mat.
Hyunjin’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain Breeze Blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.”
He doesn't even know what that means.
She’s behind the camera. Adjusting the lens.
Professional. Focused. The way she bites the inside of her cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.
He’s smiling in the photos.
But only his teeth are participating.
The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.
Click. Click. Click.
He poses.
She shoots.
They don’t say a word.
Until—
It’s over.
Minho walks up, grabs the camera from her hands casually, scrolls through the display.
He stops at a photo of Hyunjin holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.
“Good job,” Minho mutters.
Hyunjin exhales.
“Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Minho looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Not to you,” Minho says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”
Hyunjin wilts.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.
It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.
You’re not sure how you ended up here.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building—like it remembered you both still had things to say.
Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot.
Like he was trying not to look at you.
Like looking might hurt.
Like not looking already was.
You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.
He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His curls are messier. Looser. The way you remember them from last year’s winter, when he used to post black-and-white mirror selfies captioned with song lyrics and emotionally concerning emojis.
You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.
“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.
You shrug.
“You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face.
“Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”
You laugh a little.
Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.
There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking.
Now it just hums.
“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”
You nod. Slowly.
But he notices. You don’t say yes.
And he doesn’t press.
Because he knows you.
The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.
He’s doing it now.
Looking away.
Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.
“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”
You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously.
“What, are you stalking me now?”
“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, going red. “I just saw it.”
“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.
He groans.
“I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”
You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly.
“Yeah. We broke up.”
“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”
Your lips quirk.
“He cheated on me.”
That wipes the color from his face in less than a second.
He stiffens.
Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. Eyes darkening like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.
“Hyunjin,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”
“Tempting.”
“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”
You laugh again—softly. Only a little.
But his eyes flick up instantly.
And then, suddenly—he goes dramatic.
He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.
“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this?You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”
You nod slowly, amused.
“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.”
His eyes widen for emphasis.
“And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”
He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven the theory of relativity.
“That. That’s what your breakup is.”
You stare.
He waits.
You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now.
“I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”
You blink again.
And then—
You snort.
And then you actually laugh.
Hyunjin freezes. Mouth parting slightly.
“Wait. Did you just laugh?”
He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light.
“Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! Go green, baby, let’s save the planet!”
You roll your eyes, still laughing.
“Sit down, idiot.”
“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis with your solar power.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late.
He sees it.
And for a second, he just stares.
Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.
The room is packed.
Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Minho paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.
Hyunjin’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone.
Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.
Your text thread.
Your name. Sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.
He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.
Hyunjin:
where are you
you weren’t at the shoot
you didn’t reply this morning
are you okay
is minho making you quit
blink twice if you need rescuing
Three dots pop up.
Then:
You:
Going to a friend’s wedding!
Wanna come?
His thumb freezes.
Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.
Hyunjin:
I’M COMING
I’M COMING OMG
Then GASP.
An actual, audible gasp in the dead quiet room.
Minho pauses his monologue mid-sentence.
Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.
Hyunjin is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news.
“No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”
Minho narrows his eyes. “Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint.
“I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”
He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Minho stares at him, completely unmoved.
“You’re not even crying.”
Hyunjin forces a high-pitched sob.
“NOW I AM.”
Minho doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans.
“Go.”
Hyunjin immediately drops the act, grins.
“Thanks, boss!! Love you!”
He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.
Minho sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much.
“Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”
The sun’s dipping low, painting gold on the windshield. The soft hum of the AC fills the silence.
He’s in the passenger seat, hoodie slightly wrinkled, hair a little messy from air playing with it five minutes ago. His bag’s in his lap, untouched.
Your cars parked right outside his house, engine off, not saying a word.
Neither of you are.
Until suddenly you reach across the console and hold his hand.
Hyunjin blinks.
Looks down at your fingers.
Then up at you.
You’re serious.
Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly as you ask—
“Will you marry me?”
He freezes like someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is you.
“Wait—wait. Hold on. What.”
You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand.
“You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”
He stares. Then swallows.
Then stares some more.
And finally, very softly:
“You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.
Only the horror is…
His father.
Hyunjin sighs dramatically into the void.
“Appa’s going to kill me.”
His eyes widen.
“No—worse. He’ll disown me. Then resurrect me just to kill me again.”
He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.
“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humour.”
“I’m dating everything my father prayed against during family offerings.”
He throws the blanket over his face.
You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan.
It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers.
Neither do you.
“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”
You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.
“I’m marrying a Korean guy. A model. An AD model.”
You sit up.
They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling.
Then simultaneously:
“Maybe we should elope.”
Beat.
“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”
“So would my dad. With a shaman.”
You’re already there when Hyunjin shows up.
You're pacing.
Hands shaking.
Mind spinning.
He sees you from across the street—crosses quickly, no goofy wave today.
You're chewing your lip. Hard.
"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"
You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er.
“Why did you call me here?”
“plan” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”
You squint.
He opens the door. You walk in with him—reluctantly.
Small booth. Two cups between you—one coffee, one untouched hot water.
You're silent. Hyunjin keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets.
Then:
“Let’s elope.”
You stare at him.
Like stare stare.
As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Hyunjin—my parents—”
You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons.
“Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”
Hyunjin’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly.
“Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”
“What?”
“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”
“Oh my god—”
“As if my father’s ever looked at me and thought: wow, my son’s going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! He once told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”
You blink.
“Turnip?”
“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”
You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly.
“I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”
You begin walking away—heels clicking, exit in sight.
And then—
Hyunjin stands too.
Loud.
Passionate.
Chaotic.
“THAT’S WHY GANDHI SAID!”
Everyone turns. You freeze mid-step.
Turn back slowly.
“…What did Gandhi say?”
He blinks.
Raises his finger again like he’s summoning wisdom from the heavens.
“He said: ‘If you ask me everything—what the fuck will you do, you shithead!’”
Pin-drop silence.
A waiter spills a fork in the corner. A kid starts crying.
You stare at him.
Hyunjin’s chest is rising. He looks like a revolutionary who forgot the script.
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Gandhi said that?”
“Absolutely,” he lies confidently.
Your lips twitch.
You fight it. But it’s coming.
And then—it breaks. You laugh.
Covering your mouth. But laughing.
“You’re such a dumbass.”
“And you’re the dumbass who proposed to me in your car.”
“…Touche”
You sigh, walking back to him, rubbing your temples.
“So what do we do, Gandhi?”
“Let’s go home for now”
It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour—still, almost forgiving.
You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.
But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket.
You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it—he can feel it.
“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”
You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest.
He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”
You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue—but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”
Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your dad—my mom—my sister—”
“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”
You nod slowly against his chest.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”
You shove his chest, laughing for real this time.
“You’re so full of it.”
He tightens his grip on you.
“Full of love, actually.”
“Jinnie”
“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”
Your fingers are lazily tangled in Hyunjin’s hair.
The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Hyunjin’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep—smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.
You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other.
Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.
“I’m pregnant again.”
You blink.
“Wow”
“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”
You glance down at Hyunjin’s messy hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”
“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”
You snort softly.
“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”
You freeze.
“…who?”
“Joseph.”
“…who the hell is Joseph?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”
Your heart rate spikes.
“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. Y/N, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”
“What the fu—”
“BYE! Love you!”
Click.
The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror.
A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you.
You shake Hyunjin by the shoulder—gently at first.
“Hyunjin.”
He groans sleepily.
You slap his arm.
“Hyunjin.”
“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine”
You yank the pillow out from under his head.
He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.
“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”
You grab his face.
“My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”
He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once.
“…who the fuck is Joseph?”
“EXACTLY.”
You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find.
Hyunjin finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.
“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”
THE PLAN.
You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Hyunjin’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.
You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes.
He finally speaks.
“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”
You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Hyunjin.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”
He stays quiet, waiting.
You lift your head, eyes watery.
“My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”
A tear escapes without permission.
“I’m the worst person alive.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours.
“Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie be saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”
You laugh through your tears.
He pulls you gently into his arms.
“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”
You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes.
“I don’t want to lose you either.”
A pause.
Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”
You don’t reply for a long time.
He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.
“I’m in love with you” he says.
He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”
Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”
“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”
“But we’re doing it anyway?”
He nods, forehead resting against yours.
“Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”
You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging.
Messily. Painfully.
But with him.
You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scarier. And Amelia island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.
“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”
He grinned.
And hence……
To jisung:
“Can I have… one hour?”
Jisung blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
To your dad:
“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
Honey, I need you to be online like ASAP 🧍. This literally feels like a Bollywood movie 😭😭 like when did their relationship start or am I missing something??😭😭
On a serious note, though, reading this got me giggling and chuckling because why is Hyunjin so dramatic (even Minho is done with his "devastated love story"). It's like he needs to say or do something funny or else he'll combust into confetti😶🌫️. And Minho giving "I'm tired with everything" vibe is very me coded everytime I talked with my younger brother. I'm praying for Minho ✊😞
Anddd Hyunjin is such a simp— 😶🌫️😶🌫️ I wish nothing but happiness to this couple. May Hyunjin survive his dad and may she survive her family (I say that with sincerity)
He’s not a nerd. He’s just bad at… everything else.
He’s really, really good at playing the electric guitar.
He’s hopelessly in love with you, the star forward of your basketball team, jersey number 04, and exactly zero regard for what your face looks like when you’re eating lunch mid-rush.
And he is very okay with all of it.
“I swear to god, you and your loser taste,” Celina drawls next to you as you stare at the back of Jisung’s head in the library.
You’re not even reading. You haven’t turned a page in fifteen minutes. You’re too focused on the way Jisung keeps bouncing his knee while typing something into his laptop—and then backspacing. Over. And over.
Celina, who has a crush the size of a national emergency on Sana, is judgmental as hell.
“I’m just saying,” you mutter, “he’s not that bad.”
“You literally dribble better than his personality.”
“Exactly.”
You first saw Han Jisung on the worst day to laugh—but somehow, you did.
You were halfway through a half-hearted confession to a not-so-serious crush, voice wobbling more from the awkwardness than sincerity, when he—kindly—rejected you with textbook politeness. You nodded, trying to look heartbroken, until a blur of chaos behind him caught your eye.
There, in all his chaotic glory, was Jisung. And just as he swung dramatically, yelling something weird, he tripped over absolutely nothing and fell face-flat onto the tiled floor.
Hard.
The echo rang out like a slap.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, desperately trying not to laugh as he scrambled up, glancing around like he could will his humiliation out of existence. He dusted off his pride, convinced no one had seen.
And you burst into laughter and ran off.
Jisung’s never spoken more than five syllables to you at once. That one time he held the door open after P.E., he almost passed out because you smiled and said, “Thanks, Jisung.”
He didn't even know you knew his name.
He’s tried—so many stupid ways—to get your number.
Asked Hyunjin (they were project partners and in their fifth passive-aggressive argument that week). Hyunjin had rolled his eyes and said, “Why would she give it to you?”
Tried giving you his SoundCloud after guitar club, but you said “Cool, I’ll check it out!” and didn’t even ask for the link.
Literally thought about writing it on a basketball and tossing it to you.
But when he finally gets it—by accident, from a group project group chat where you type, “Here’s my number in case the pdf doesn’t go through”—he stares at it for ten minutes.
And never texts.
Because he realizes: you’re so far out of his league, you play in a different sport. Metaphorically. But also literally.
He's never confident, always talking too fast, ears turning red every time you make eye contact. He's also probably the only guy who calls your basketball shoes “epic” and means it romantically.
he fell off his chair during music class while trying to air guitar Sweet Child O’ Mine. He didn’t even look embarrassed. He just lay there with his eyes closed, mumbling, “Totally meant to do that.”
He’s not cool. Not in the way Hyunjin is, not in the way Celina wishes your type was.
But he’s warm. And he's so, so good to look at when he's focused, fingers sliding along guitar frets, lip caught between teeth.
You’ve liked him for so long, it almost became a part of you. Like knowing you hate broccoli or that you suck at calculus.
You didn’t tell him because… well.
You thought maybe he didn’t like girls who could shoot three-pointers and wore band-aids on their knees.
But then you catch him in the gym, during free period, practicing basketball throws alone.
Wearing the team jersey which had your number on it.
You stare from the door for a long moment.
Then you turn and walk out, your heart punching your ribcage like it’s the championship match.
You decided to confess.
“Can you not spell 'deforestation' wrong on a BIOLOGY report?” Hyunjin glares
Jisung shrugs, arms crossed. “Didn’t know the forest was real, my bad.”
You’re at the next table over in the library. Celina is whisper-swooning beside you.
You, meanwhile, are trying not to laugh. Jisung keeps making faces at Hyunjin behind his laptop.
Hyunjin narrows his eyes. “You know, for someone who plays guitar all day, your sense of rhythm in sentence structure is horrific.”
“Wow,” Jisung deadpans. “You want me to play my pain like a soundtrack? I can do that.”
You snort. You can't help it. Celina gives you a side-eye.
“Stop laughing,” she says. “argh. Ew.”
But you’re too busy watching Jisung fist bump himself under the table.
There were three things Han Jisung never expected to happen in one week
He’d fall into a mop bucket while trying to impress you with a chest pass.
He’d get rejected by French grammar.
He’d get his first “I’ve loved you since childhood” anonymous message on Instagram.
Also, this boy is a regular on Duolingo. He takes French. Not because he likes the language. But because he heard “je t’aime” in a drama once and thought maybe, maybe, someday he could say it to you.
The problem is, he’s bad at languages. Real bad.
The bigger problem is that his user name is Heesung, thanks to autocorrect (Jisung<<<Heesung) and the stupid green owl's obsession with Heesung from Enhypen.
Yes. Han Jisung is now @ Heesung, in duolingo. And his nemesis?
Duolingo user: “Duolingo”
With a generic profile picture of that terrifying green owl.
The owl seems to have made an account of itself.
Every day:
📩 “duolingo nudged you to practice French!”
📩 “duolingo earned 45XP. Stay in the game!”
📩 “duolingo is waiting. Don’t disappoint him.”
📩 “duolingo thinks you’re going to fail in love and life. Practice now.”
“Bro,” Jisung mutters one night, eyes red from crying over irregular verbs, “he's got it out for me. The owl’s obsessed.”
Hyunjin glances up from their group call, one eyebrow raised as he eats seaweed snacks. “It’s an app, Jisung.”
“You don’t get it,” Jisung snaps, stabbing at his phone. “He’s haunting me. Watching. Judging. Duo isn’t a mentor, Hyunjin. He’s a menace. He probably thinks I'm actually Heesung?!”
“And yet” Hyunjin says, chewing loudly, “you’re still ranked below a 50-year-old retiree named Linda.”
“SHUT UP—”
The message came at 2:07AM. Jisung was mid-practice, picking at his guitar while mumbling about chicken nuggets when it popped up:
hey… i just wanted u to know. i’ve loved you since we were kids. – anonymous 💖
His phone dropped.
His pick dropped.
His soul momentarily left his body.
Then came the screaming. Internal, but real.
“She LOVES me?” he whisper-yelled, eyes wide, pacing around his room. “SINCE WE WERE KIDS?”
This was it. This was fate. Maybe the universe was tired of watching him be single and cringe and hopeless. Maybe—
Hyunjin nearly fell out of his chair the next day when Jisung announced it.
“You… what?”
“I’m in a relationship,” Jisung said proudly, slapping the table in the cafeteria. “She’s mysterious. Romantic. She texted me she’s loved me since we were kids.”
“Do you know her name?”
“…No.”
“Have you seen her face?”
“…No.”
“Did she reply after your ‘who is this’ message?”
“…No.”
“Jisung.”
But Jisung commits. He brags. He walks the halls like he’s just been cast as the male lead in a high school musical no one asked for.
“My girl likes mystery,” he tells Minho and Seungmin at lunch.
“She also likes the block button,” Seungmin mutters.
Minho leans back, smirking. “So what’s her name again?”
Jisung beams. “I call her Nugget. Because she once said she likes chicken.”
Minho chokes on his drink.
You hear about it two days later.
Celina breaks it to you during practice, stretching beside you. “Your boy’s taken.”
You pause mid-lunge. “Huh?”
She checks her phone. “He’s apparently dating some girl who’s been in love with him since childhood. Nobody knows who she is. But he’s calling her Nugget.”
You almost trip.
You laugh.
Then you stop laughing.
In the background, Jisung twirls in the hallway, dramatically singing something in French. It’s probably wrong.
Hyunjin walks next to him.
The thing is — you weren’t even trying to learn French.
You were just trying to pass time between practice and not think about Jisung and his mystery girlfriend who may or may not be a catfish. Celina, being the loud and meddling menace she is, shoved her phone into your hands one day and said:
“Download Duolingo. Language is hot. Let’s be French together.”
So you said, “Sure,” and gave her your phone.
Big mistake.
Because now your profile name is just: @ Duolingo
And your photo? The cursed green owl itself.
You told her to change it. She didn’t.
And thanks to the cursed mechanics of this godforsaken app, your feed now consists of random retirees from Utah, competitive twelve-year-olds who finish entire lessons in 0.4 seconds,
And one @ Heesung, who just. Will not. Escape your feed.
It spammed you with notifications to be friends with @ Heesung and follow him and nudge him to maintain his damn streak.
You did, to stop all that frustration.
Then you saw that weird tweet.
From Duolingo’s official account.
"@ Heesung loves @ Duolingo 💚 it's real!" with a picture that said: "@ Heesung nudges @ Duolingo to maintain his streak!" attatched to it.
(Tagged ENHYPEN’s Heeseung, who probably wants to die now.)
You had stared at it in silence, sipping your energy drink, thinking,
“Wow. I hope Heeseung gets therapy. And also why is this so familiar?”
You slowly realise.
You are the Duolingo.
You are trapped in the greatest mistaken identity romance since You’ve Got Mail.
“Just send him a nudge,” the app blinks. “@ Heesung hasn’t practiced today!”
You sigh, fingers hovering over the prompt, when Celeine jumps to tell you the updates on Jisung's relationship with Mystery Girl.
He’s been so deep into this girlfriend—who no one has seen, btw—that he actually wore cologne to class. He told Minho, very proudly, that his "girlfriend said she likes when he smells like pine."
Minho threw up a little in his mouth.
You finally hit send nudge with all the deadpan energy of a rejected Shakespeare heroine.
@ Duolingo nudged @ Heesung: Practice, or perish 🦉💚
Celina cackles beside you.
“Still can’t figure out who the girl is?” she asks, chewing gum like a professional drama observer.
“Nope,” you mutter.
You imagine Jisung’s stupid gummy smile, him twirling in the hallway again today like his life is now a musical. God, he’s glowing. Practically skipping.
Jisung, meanwhile, is THRIVING.
Every time he gets a flirt text from Mystery Girl, he giggles like a Disney sidekick. He’s convinced she’s shy. That she’s just building the courage to meet.
“I love how you trip over your own guitar cable during rehearsals.”
Which—yes—did happen. But that could’ve just been from someone who saw the band practice.
So, Jisung? On top of the world.
“You don’t get it,” he says to Hyunjin one day, while scrolling through their texts like a man in a novella. “She knows me. Like knows me. She even knows I cry during Duolingo.”
Hyunjin, trying to stay neutral, offers a smile.
“…Maybe she’s someone you know,” he says slowly.
“Do you think it’s a classmate?”
“Or maybe someone who nudged you recently?” Hyunjin shrugs.
“OMG.” Jisung gasps. “DUOLINGO. IT’S A SIGN.”
Hyunjin’s lips twitch.
He doesn't say anything.
You scroll through the same text Jisung’s mystery girl sent him. Celina managed to fish it out from Seungmin through trickery, bribery, and… probably a little blackmail.
You read it three times.
You lean back against the bleachers after practice, sweating, panting, and weirdly numb. The court echoes with your teammates’ laughter as celeine massages your feet.
Months passed since Jisung declared to the entire college that he had a girlfriend.
Months passed since @ Duolingo and @ Heesung kept nudging each other with increasing intensity.
Months passed, and yet—he still hadn’t figured out who his Mystery girl was.
And now?
Now that damn owl has come to your college.
Duolingo’s birthday bash wasn’t just any college fest.
It was a campus-wide green glitter apocalypse.
There were cosplay mascot races. Ranging through various animes.
A live DJ owl.
“Language Strip Spelling Bee” (don’t ask)
And a campus-wide walkathon titled:
“Do my legs make you horny?”: A Gender Liberation Celebration walkathon.
Everyone wore skirts. Especially the boys.
For a week.
“Guys…” Jisung whispers, clutching the event poster. “Why is Duolingo throwing a birthday party in our college?”
Hyunjin sips his bubble tea casually. “Maybe because someone’s profile says ‘@ Heesung’ and the app mistook it for ENHYPEN’s Heeseung attending.”
“THAT’S… that’s identity fraud!” He says as he walks toward your dorm.
You were a bit surprised to see him, and he asked for a...skirt? your skirt?
Celine said you had the best skirts in the whole planet, you could become the best skirt seller.
He even tries it on as you went outside the room.
Jisung is walking with one hand on his hip, absolutely working it in a pleated plaid skirt.
“Just for fun,” he said, laughing. “Also, it’s not weird, right?”
“Totally not,” you said, blinking like a confused anime character.
“Thanks, Y/N. You’re the best. Seriously. Like… Olympic-level best.”
And then he gave you a small hug, and left in your skirt. Left his pants in your room.
You didn't know he was trying to move on.
Jisung’s now on daily calls with “Mystery Girlfriend.”
She still hasn’t sent her photo. Or name.
He hasn’t questioned it.
Jisung’s now on daily calls with “Mystery Girlfriend.”
She still hasn’t sent her photo. Or name.
He hasn’t questioned it.
Today, he’s standing by the fest’s smoothie stall, wearing your skirt, and apologizing on call.
“Sorry baby, I had to wear another girl’s skirt, but it’s not cheating because she’s my friend and also like… her calves are inspiring??”
You walk past at that exact moment. You, for the first time in your entire lifetime you questioned your crush on him and cringed.
You’re sitting by the bleachers that evening, tired from chasing mascots off the court, when Celina drops down beside you.
She’s been quiet today. Probably because Sana hasn't looked at anyone since Duolingo waved at her mid-event.
“Hey,” she says, chewing gum, head tilted. “If Jisung’s off limits…”
“Don’t even—”
“…Want a girlfriend instead?”
You freeze.
She winks. “I’m just saying. We could run this campus. Hot girl-hot girl dynamic? I’d carry your water bottle. Rub your knees. Kiss you before games for good luck. write the syllabus on washroom walls from the inside to help with exams.”
“Celina.”
“Rub each others backs when we're having cramps.”
“Celina.”
“Do you know our periods sync—”
“Celina.”
“Y/N.” She loked at you with sparkly eyes, blinking.
“I will throw you into the mascot pit.”
She shrugs, stands up to get some 'tea', “Just know the offer’s open if your taste in dumbasses doesn’t work out.”
Backstage, where all the mascots remove their heads and cry in silence, Jisung sits cross-legged beside the headless owl suit.
Skirt Week wasn’t over.
Han Jisung wasn’t okay.
He’s spiraling.
The walkathon has awakened something deep and confusing in him.
His thighs were fine—thank you for asking—but today he had taken it too far.
He was wearing a black pencil skirt, knee-length, dangerously tight.
And yeah, yeah, it was yours again.
It hugged his hips in a way that made three girls in the corridor walk into lockers.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was—he was deep in brain soup mode.
He sat in class, chin resting on his arm, staring at the whiteboard like it had answers to questions his soul couldn’t even form.
Who is mystery girl?
Why hasn’t she replied?
Why does everything lead back to Y/N?
Because it did. Always.
He’d be in class—same row as you—and his phone? Silent. No messages.
He’d be watching you play basketball from the bleachers—Hyunjin beside him, rhythmically chewing on sour tape—and his phone? Dead quiet.
But then he’d step away to go buy water and bam, new message.
He’d sit alone in the clubroom after you left and boom, reply.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
You. Always you.
Your smile when you scored.
The way your fingers tapped on your desk when you were bored.
How you once swore like a sailor after you missed a free throw and he instantly fell in love.
He liked you since the moment he realized you weren’t just “that hot athlete girl.”
He loved you since the moment he saw you panic trying to use a vending machine and shout, “WHY ARE THERE SIX TYPES OF PEACH JUICE!?”
You were cool and weird and loud and soft and—
But what if it’s not her?
The thought sucker-punched him.
What if he was wrong?
What if he was falling for the idea of something that never existed?
He didn’t notice Celina plop down next to him in the courtyard until she bit into his muffin without asking.
"Hey," she said casually, mouth full. "You looked like you were about to propose to that tree."
He flinched. "God, Celina, warn a guy. I thought you were my conscience again."
“You have one?”
Jisung ignored her, focused on the guy approaching from the left—tall, bleached tips, eyebrow slit, also in a skirt, and a smile that had no business being that confident.
"Hey," the guy said, leaning in just a little too close. "You're that band guy, right?"
"Uh," Jisung blinked, "Yeah?"
"You look good in that skirt."
"...Thanks?"
"You ever consider switching teams?"
Jisung’s soul left his body.
“Uh—I mean—uh—I’m not really—I don’t—”
The guy winked. “You could be. Think about it.”
“I'm not into guys.”
The guy shrugged and turned to Celina. “You then? What about you?”
Celina wiped her mouth with regal flair.
“I’m not into guys either.”
There was a full three-second pause.
“I didn’t know you were gay.”
“I didn’t know you were straight.”
They both said at the same time.
They stared at each other, offended and stunned, like two people who just found out they were adopted by the same circus.
They both turned away, pretending to look at trees and not reflect on their entire public vibe.
Celina slowly reached for a phone.
The guy walked away, very confused.
After the Great Duolingo Birthday Debacle, there’s been a… shift.
Suddenly, Han Jisung is everywhere.
Walking you to class.
Sitting beside you during lunch.
Stealing your fries like he pays rent in your stomach.
Wearing your skirt like it was a declaration of war against personal boundaries.
And every time you ask, “What about your girlfriend?”
He just… shrugs.
“She’s chill.”
“She’s not jealous like that.”
“She’s mysterious. Like a raccoon, if it wrote poems.”
You squint. “...So she’s okay with you being this close to me?”
He shrugs again, like you’re the weird one for asking.
It happens during practice.
You’re drenched in sweat, chugging water when Celina jogs up, breathless and absolutely vibrating with drama.
She whips her phone out like it’s a weapon.
“I’ve got tea. No. I’ve got espresso. STRONG.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What now? Did Minho get banned from the mascot pit again?”
“No,” she gasps. “It’s about Jisung. And it’s juicy.”
You put your bottle down.
Celina holds up a screenshot—a group chat that Jisung accidentally left open on his phone (you don’t ask questions)—and shows:
[Seungmin]: bro she’s ur crush??
[Jisung]: idk man maybe the mystery girl is y/n
[Jisung]: she does know i cry in the stairwell over verb conjugations
[Jisung]: and she gave me her skirt
[Hyunjin]: what.
[Jisung]: it’s romantic. shut up.
You stare.
Celina looks like she just caught you winning an Oscar.
“So… HE THINKS YOU’RE HER.”
You blink.
You blink again.
“But I’m not?”
The next morning, Jisung waits outside your class. He’s got two iced coffees and a paper flower crown he made during the Fest’s Origami Wars.
He plops it on your head.
You blink up at him.
“You look like a fruity queen,” he grins.
You turn. He’s holding his phone, looking nervous. That same pencil skirt on, wind messing with his hair.
He’s serious now. That soft Jisung seriousness that only appears once in a blue moon—usually when he’s about to bomb a test or confess something big.
“Can I ask something?”
“Yeah,” you say, softly.
He breathes in. Swallows. Then—
“Is it you?”
You blink.
“What?”
He smiles a little. “The girl I’ve been texting. It’s you, right?”
You pause.
He leans in, hopeful. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. I get it. You were shy. Maybe scared. But listen, I like you. A lot.”
You flinch.
He laughs nervously. “You’re not denying it. That means I’m right, right?”
But you’re still frozen.
You glance at your phone in your hand. Slowly, you hold it out.
“Jisung… listen to me. Like really listen.”
“Okay…?”
“It’s not me.”
His eyes shift.
“Y/N—come on—”
“I like you too, really, very much, but, Its not me. Really. Check my messages.”
He hesitates. Then takes it. Scrolls. No DMs.
Silence. Cold. Sharp.
“You’re not joking?”
You shake your head. “I never texted you, Jisung.”
He just stares.
“But—Celina said—and the skirt—and the timing—”
“I never said anything because I thought… maybe…”
Jisung steps back, like he’s been physically hit.
“Oh my God.”
His face falls. The truth settles.
“I need to go,” he says, voice cracked and shaking. “Forget I said anything.”
“Jisung—”
But he’s already running.
You sit back down, phone heavy in your lap.
You just… let your shoulders slump. Let the wind ruffle your jersey. Let the heartbreak sit quietly between your ribs like an old friend who’s overstayed.
You glance up.
In the distance, you spot Celina. Laughing with Minho under a vending machine light.
He’s smirking. She’s play-punching his arm.
Something about the world feels crooked.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Of course it did.
Tuesdays are the dumbest day of the week—stupid, middle-child energy with nothing to offer but drama and cafeteria hashbrowns.
Han Jisung was in his room, guitar half-balanced on his knees, still recovering from emotional damage when it happened:
[Mystery Girlfriend]: i’m in the cafeteria!! come find me~ 🤍
He stared.
Blink.
Blink.
OH MY GOD.
He yeeted his guitar across the bed, nearly knocked over his fan, and flung open the door like he was starring in an emotional indie short film.
“FINALLY,” he wheezed as he sprinted.
“IT’S HER—IT’S REALLY HER—”
he shouted at absolutely no one in the hallway.
He bursts through the cafeteria doors, panting dramatically, chest heaving, skirt swaying (yes, he wore yours again—comfort skirt, okay?).
And then—
He looks around.
No girl.
Just—His friends.
Sitting together. All of them.
Sipping sodas. Looking at him like they’re in a courtroom drama and he’s the surprise witness.
He stares. They stare.
Jisung frowns. “Where… where is she?”
Seungmin sips his juice box and calmly goes,
“She couldn’t make it.”
Jeongin waves. “Hi! Munchkin”
Minho does a little golf clap.
And Hyunjin, beautiful bastard that he is, leans back in his chair with the smirk of the century and says,
“Jisung. Baby. Sit down.”
“You—”
His voice cracks.
“You’re saying… this whole time… it was—”
“Us,” Hyunjin confirms cheerfully. “Mostly me. But Seungmin wrote the early messages. Jeongin handled the flirty emojis. Minho curated the vibe.”
Minho grins.
“But… the timing—” Jisung clutches his head. “I thought it couldn’t be Y/N because she never texted me when we were together in class—”
Hyunjin raises his brows.
“I was beside you, you dipshit.”
“—and she didn’t text when she was playing matches—”
“I was beside you then, too.”
Jisung stares. Mind crumbling. Spirit flatlining.
“You faked—for wha—”
“For art,” Hyunjin says.
“For boredom,” Seungmin corrects.
“For your own good,” Minho shrugs. “You were in love with Y/N and too much of a coward to say anything.”
Hyunjin beams. “And you confessed! Congrats, idiot!”
Jisung’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens.
Jisung throws his head back in dramatic agony. “I APOLOGIZED TO A VENDING MACHINE ONCE BECAUSE I THOUGHT SHE WAS MAD!”
Jisung had been under his blanket since 5PM.
It was 9:47PM.
He’d moved only to pee and replay every second of his humiliation on loop.
Until his phone buzzed.
[Y/N]: “hey. u okay now?”
His thumb hovered. He stared at the message. Then he teleported out of bed.
He called. It rang once.
“Hello?”
It was your voice.
Real. Warm. Actual.
Not Hyunjin’s dramatic voice-changer nightmare.
Still—he wasn’t taking chances.
“Say your full name.”
“Jisung—”
“Say it!!”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Okay. Okay. And the name of my band?”
“3RACHA.”
“Spell it.”
“You think Hyunjin couldn't spell it?”
“…fair.”
He sat down. His heart was racing. His fingers shaking.
“So you… really… meant it? You like me back?”
Silence.
“Yeah. Idiot.”
He physically shrank. Like a soda can. He curled up like a shrimp.
“OH MY GOD.”
You giggled.
That sound should be illegal.
“Okay. Cool. Uh. Yeah. Great. Wait—no. Not cool—I mean. You like me? As in? Actually?? Me-me??”
You hummed, almost smug. “You gonna run off again?”
He made a noise like a deflating balloon. “No. No. I’m staying. I'm—committing.”
Silence again.
“...I mean, I know I’m not that good for you. You’re like, leagues above me. But and so, please don’t make it easy.”
“Why?”
He inhaled deeply like he was about to propose on live TV.
“Because—I need stories to tell our kids. How much their dad worked for their mom. How he did movie-myth-level chasing. How he brought flowers and colours every day. I’ll try crazy ideas. Big stupid romantic shit. I’ll be hell bent. On you.”
“Oh…”
“I want to be a strong husband, okay?! I need to be remembered as an effort guy. Imagine our kid going around telling their friends 'my dad wrote my mom's name on every shirt he owned so everyone can see who he belongs to' sounds dope, right?”
“You’re—Jisung—”
You were too stunned to speak.
“So please make it hard for me. Like, emotionally. Not illegally.”
You short-circuited.
Your voice came out barely audible. “Okay. Uh. Good night?”
“Good night,” he whispered back. “Dream of me. Legally.”
“BRO,” Jisung screamed at 11:08PM, pacing the dorm barefoot in a hoodie and boxers, phone on speaker.
Seungmin’s voice on the other end was dead inside.
“What now.”
“I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND WHO LIKES ME,” Jisung screeched. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! SHE. LIKES. ME. SHE WANTS TO TOUCH ME MAYBE.”
“Good for her.”
“No. Not good. Great. Excellent. I’m gonna explode. I need to see her. I need to talk to her. I want to hold her face. And she likes me.”
“Jisung, you sound like a hallucinating frog.”
“I want to take selfies with her. And praise her. And—even when she scolds me—I have to tease her and annoy her just enough so she rolls her eyes but secretly laughs—”
“You need to sit down.”
“I want to smell her.”
Silence.
“Like just—her shampoo. Her presence.”
Another pause.
“Are you a dog?” Hyunjin says, entering from the hallway with a mug of tea.
Jisung clutches his chest like he’s been offended by the truth.
“You don’t understand. I’m in love. I’m in emotional heat. I have cuteness aggression and I need to bark.”
Hyunjin closes the door on him mid-rant.
The next morning, you're trying not to fall asleep on your textbook.
Class hasn’t even officially started, but your teacher, Mrs. Palepu, has that “I drank my filter coffee and will now ruin lives” glint in her eye.
“Ahem,” she says, clapping her hands. “Class. I have news.”
Everyone continues to not care.
Minji is taking mirror selfies in her front cam.
Hyunjin is sketching that exact same dragon he’s been drawing since eighth grade.
Celina is sending you TikToks with the caption: “this you.”
And Jisung—
Jisung is currently doing Duolingo French like it’s a blood sport.
“Class!” the teacher says again, louder. “As you know, we’ve arranged a guest lecture today. A student-favorite, beloved by the youth, someone you all know very well.”
That gets a few sarcastic groans.
Everyone sat slouched. Phones out.
Zero expectations.
Vibes: rotting.
Jisung was aggressively losing his sanity at the back of the class.
He had his phone tilted low under his desk, furiously typing in French, eyes twitching.
“Je suis… un garçon… avec des—”
[Incorrect! Try again, Heesung! 💚]
[Also, you’re falling behind Duolingo! Heesung, send him a nudge! 👀]
He stabbed the nudge button.
He nudged again.
And again.
And again.
“Bro,” Jeongin whispered, peeking over. “You’ve sent the owl guy like 16 nudges.”
“I AM THE OWL GOD NOW,” Jisung hissed, wild-eyed.
The app dinged again:
[Heesung, you’re back on track! You’re just 5 XP behind @Duolingo! 🔥]
[Also, your French is adorable. 🥐💚]
Jisung screamed.
"TO HELL WITH THIS DAMN HEESUNG!!!"
The whole class froze.
Heads snapped up like meerkats sensing danger.
Even Celina looked up from her doodle of a raccoon with a pride flag.
You—two seats away—choked on your water.
Everyone gasped harder.
Jisung blinked. Looked up. And saw it.
A man. Tall. Black hair. Flawless skin. Soft features. Idol presence.
Wearing a high-end jacket.
THEE HEESUNG.
Of ENHYPEN.
Of “Fever.”
Of That Twitter Meme Where Duolingo Confessed To Him.
Standing. Right. There.
“Oh,” he whispered.
“Oh, I’ve died.”
He tried to slide under the desk.
Celina was already filming.
Minho was crying from laughter.
Seungmin simply said, “Say bonjour, bitch.”
Heeseung smiled at everyone sweetly and he didn’t seem to mind what happened at all.
everyone started screaming. And running.
Then he looked at Jisung directly.
“Nice to meet you… Heesung?”
His tone: sugary. Deadly. Iconic.
Jisung exploded. “I SWEAR I DIDN’T NAME MYSELF AFTER YOU. IT WAS AUTOCORRECT. I—I—DUOLINGO DID IT—”
Heeseung laughed softly, but had a sass expression on his face.
“I’ve heard worse. But the Duolingo thing seems to be getting out of hand, haha”
“IT WASNT INTENTIONAL!,” Jisung was ranting, still shaken from his public emotional beheading by Heeseung, “the person with the Duolingo username Duolingo keeps nudging me every day—EVERY. DAY.—competing with me like it’s the Olympics, and it’s so annoying! I feel like I’m being hunted by a green bird with real beef!”
You’re not gasping because the Heesung is standing in front of you.
You’re gasping because—
Wait a second.
You fumble your phone out of your lap, pull up Duolingo, and scroll.
That name. That same annoying, passive-aggressive username that’s been haunting your notifications every morning at 6:02 AM.
“@ Heesung has overtaken you in French progress!”
“@ Heesung kept their streak. You did not. Disgraceful.”
You. Have. Been. At war.
With Han Jisung.
Your head snaps around, and you stare at him like he’s grown six heads.
“Jisung.”
He’s trying to disappear into his hoodie. “Don’t talk to me. I’m going to another universe.”
You grab his sleeve.
He peeks out with a whimper.
“…You’re Heesung on Duolingo?”
Jisung blinks.
Your heart is racing. “I’m ‘@ Duolingo’!”
His jaw drops.
“You’re Duolingo?!”
“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO KEPT NUDGING ME TO STUDY!”
“You NUDGED ME FIRST!”
“YOU TRIED TO REPORT ME FOR ‘STREAK ABUSE!’”
You’re both standing now, yelling in full dramatic chaos while the rest of the class watches like it’s a soap opera.
Real-life Heesung clears his throat. “Uh… should I leave?”
Neither of you hears him.
Because the room suddenly goes quiet—not because the fight’s over, but because of how you both go quiet.
Your eyes meet.
You blink.
He blinks.
And then—
“Wait,” Jisung says slowly.
You stare.
You’ve been in a long-distance slow-burn Duolingo rivalry-ship for months.
And you were in love this whole time.
“…That’s kind of hot,” Jisung whispers.
The announcement comes during homeroom.
Mrs. Palepu, beaming like she personally trained him herself, says:
“Heesung has graciously agreed to play an exhibition basketball match with the girls' team during Friday’s sports fest!”
The room ERUPTS.
People scream like they’re at a BTS concert.
Minji is already tweeting “heesung dunk me daddy” from the back.
She grabs your shoulder like she’s gone into labor.
“YOU GET TO PLAY WITH HEESUNG—AS IN—ON THE SAME COURT—AS TEAMMATES—DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE HISTORICAL IMPACT—”
You’re laughing, embarrassed. “It’s just a friendly match—”
Celine seems to be cooking something in her small brain.
Across the room, Han Jisung slowly lowers the juice box from his lips like he just witnessed betrayal in 4K.
You’re in your team jersey.
Heesung shows up on court in black joggers, a sleeveless tee, and a sweatband.
The crowd collectively loses consciousness.
Even you can’t lie—he looks really good dribbling. Graceful. Confident. Effortlessly charming.
Jisung is in the bleachers. Wearing your jersey number on a paper hat he made himself.
Cheering with a poster that says “Y/N, DUNK MY HEART 💘”
But also muttering like a grandma watching a villain soap opera.
“Okay, so Heesung’s hot, whatever. Probably uses three-in-one shampoo. Probably can’t even spell ‘offense.’ Probably—”
“Jisung,” Hyunjin says next to him, eating popcorn. “You’re foaming at the mouth.”
“I’M CHILL.”
The game begins.
It’s all fun—no scoring pressure. Just a celeb match to hype the fest.
You’re in your element. Fast passes, fun moves, high-fives.
Heesung? He’s shockingly good.
Even helps you block Minho’s pass and whispers, “Look at us—dream team.”
Jisung, watching from the bleachers, internally combusts.
“I’m gonna marry her today. I’m not letting this Heesung storyline continue.”
The match ends with you scoring the last point.
Crowd goes wild.
Heesung high-fives you. Jisung storms the court.
“NO OFFENSE BUT I’M GOING TO STEAL HER NOW THANK YOU.”
Heesung chuckles and bows dramatically, and leaves to explain a move to a girl.
He grabs your wrist and tugs you off-court, away from the crowd.
“Hey—where are we going?” you ask, laughing, breathless.
“To privacy!” he says dramatically, like a telenovela protagonist. “Where no one else can see me being embarrassing.”
You let him pull you behind the gym, near the stairwell where the sound of the crowd fades into buzzing cicadas and your own racing heartbeat.
Jisung lets go, turns to face you, and immediately looks like he forgot how to breathe.
“I almost died watching you and Heesung be good at basketball together,” he blurts.
You raise an eyebrow. “I thought you said don’t make it easy for you.”
“I KNOW. I SAID THAT. AND I REGRET EVERYTHING.”
You laugh, crossing your arms. “Poor baby.”
“Don’t call me that when I’m already on my knees in spirit.”
You tilt your head. “So what do you want?”
He stares.
And then:
“I want… to take theme selfies with you.”
You blink. “What?”
“Like—themed ones,” he says, hands flailing. “Like beach filter. Rainy day filter. Birthday hat filter. That weird one where our faces get swapped and I look like a cursed gremlin. I want to do them all.”
You try not to laugh, but it’s already bubbling in your throat.
“I want to text you good morning with coffee gifs I find on Pinterest. I want to accidentally call you my wife when we’re ordering fries. I want to sit next to you in class and fight over one airpod. I want to give you my hoodie even though it’s two sizesbigger than yours. I want to—”
“Jisung.”
“I want to record duets with you and send you every sad song and be like ‘us’ even if it’s about divorce. I want to—”
“Jisung.”
“I want to tell people we met in Duolingo war and won in love. I want to look at you every day and think wow she could crush me like a tin can and I’d thank her. I want to—”
“Ohh you’re an artist? Very nice,” I say, as if I’m not already spiraling into a romantic montage in my head where we live in a shoebox apartment full of paint stains and trauma. I’m already naming our hypothetical dog ‘Kafka’ and planning the playlist for our road trip where we definitely argue in a gas station parking lot but kiss about it later.
I don’t even know your last name but I’ve decided to take it. For the aesthetic.
I decide to share with you the spoilers of the book i'm writing in my head(specially the book 6th ones, they're exclusive), the one which i didn't yet start writing.
I mentally write our wedding vows, dedicate my next novel to you, and start drafting the chapter where we argue over furniture but make up passionately by page 47, first and foremost.
Single dad! Photogrpher Lee Know x Traumatic amnesia suffering, pilot! Reader
Note: Reader is the mother of his daughter, this is part 1.
Part-2, Part-3
[trope: love at first sight, cuz it's unreal]
Lee Minho, adjusted the strap of his camera bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of his studio.
It was a little past four. Time to pick up his daughter.
Hae-soo was six—sharp, talkative, and curious to a fault. Born with a storm in her lungs and the resilience of her father’s silence, she had Minho’s eyes but her mother’s laugh—not that she knew what her mother looked like, or sounded like. There were no pictures. No letters.
Minho waited near the gate like always. Parents around him made small talk, but he barely responded, eyes sweeping over the sea of uniforms until he saw her.
Ponytail slightly crooked. A blue pencil pouch clutched too tightly. No skipping steps. No running into his arms today.
Odd.
She walked past him without a word.
Well… that’s new.
Back home, their apartment smelled of mint tea and grilled garlic—the signature of Minho's uncle, Hyun-chul, who had raised hae-soo with Minho after her mom wasn't there anymore. He had been there through everything, the career, the heartbreak, the child. Not by blood, but by bond. A kind-eyed man who wore aprons like a badge and scolded them when they skipped meals.
“Welcome back, my babies” Hyun-chul grinned, handing Minho a bottle of water. “How was school, Hae-soo-ah?”
Silence.
She kicked off her shoes quietly and padded into the living room, plopping onto the couch. She didn’t reach for the cats as well.
Dinner was unusually quiet, chopsticks clinking and soup bowls steaming.
Minho leaned closer to Hae-soo, brushing her bangs aside. “Alright, little fox. Tell us. What’s eating you?”
She looked up, lips trembling in dramatic indignation.
“There’s this guy in my class...”
Minho’s brows shot up.
Hyun-chul blinked. “Guy?”
Minho leaned sideways and whispered behind his hand, “Is this the age where she starts thinking about guys?”
Hyun-chul was about to reply when Hae-soo slammed her spoon down.
“He got 1% more than me on the math test, and now he won’t shut up about it!”
Minho sighed loudly, leaning back in relief.
“Oh, You misunderstood.” he says to Hyun-chul, as he scoffs, saying something like you did, idiot.
“Sweetheart, it’s just one mark. You’ll beat him next time.”
“I know” she mumbled, pouting. “But still.”
Minho hides his grin behind his glass of water. She’s so much like someone else.
That night, tucked under lilac bedsheets in a room dotted with star stickers and glow-in-the-dark planets, Hae-soo waits, hands under her chin. Minho settles beside her, legs folded, in pajama pants and a sleepy hoodie.
He runs his hand through her soft, dark hair. It’s a ritual. The bedtime story.
“Okay” he says softly. “Once upon a time… there was a king.”
Her eyes light up. “You’re the king!”
He chuckles, “The king had a beautiful daughter.”
“Me!” she says, grinning.
“Of course. You. And the king had three guards who protected the princess and made her laugh when she was sad.”
“Who?” she whispers. “Who do I imagine?”
Minho tilts his head. “What about… Soonie, Doongie, and Dori?”
She gasps, delighted.
He goes on, voice gentle, threading together a tale of mischief and kindness and cats saving her from imaginary monsters.
But when he finishes, when he says “The end” she doesn’t clap like she usually does.
She just lies there. Quiet again.
“Appa?” she says.
“Yes, baby?”
“There was no queen in this story.”
He stills.
“And last night’s story didn’t have one either,” she adds, a little sharper now. “None of the stories you tell ever have a mom. Do I not have a mom?”
His heart tightens. His hand falters where it’s been stroking her back.
He smiles faintly. “Some stories are like that, Hae-soo.”
“But… all your stories are like that,” she whispered. “There’s never a mom.”
she says. “All my classmates have moms. They ask me what my mom looks like. What do I say?”
There’s a pressure behind his eyes now. He exhales slowly.
She folds her arms. “Then I won’t take my tablets.”
“Yah,” he says gently. “Hae-soo…”
“I mean it. Unless you tell me a story about my mom.”
He pauses. Then leans down, kissing her forehead. His voice is low. “If you score higher than that boy in the next test.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Promise?”
“On all three cats,” he said smiling small.
She opens her little pill box. Cystic fibrosis medication — several of them, multiple times a day.
He sat there a while longer, staring at her small frame, listening to her breaths over the hum of the humidifier.
It’s 11:47 p.m. by the time Minho returns home. The studio had run late — a celebrity shoot, followed by last-minute lighting changes, a stubborn makeup artist, and endless calls from sponsors. He’s tired.
His body ached, jacket half slipping from one shoulder as he nudged open the door to Hae-soo’s room, expecting her to be out like a light, wrapped in her burrito-style strawberry blanket.
But she wasn’t asleep.
Not even close.
She sat upright, legs crossed, her face glowing with a kind of anxious excitement.
“You’re not asleep yet?” he asked gently, unzipping his coat, dropping his camera bag softly onto the chair.
She didn’t answer.
She just held up a piece of paper.
Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly. He took a step forward.
He took the sheet from her and scanned it—and there it was.
A perfect 98%.
Top of the class.
Mathematics.
English.
Even Science, despite the breathing breaks she needed to get through lessons.
Minho let out a dramatic gasp, paper fluttering in one hand as he reached forward with the other and scooped her up.
“You did it!” he spun her around, careful of her lungs, mindful of her joints—but it didn’t stop her from shrieking with laughter, her giggles bouncing off the walls.
“I told you I would!” she puffed her cheeks. “And now… the mom story. You promised.”
Minho hesitated for a second.
She was still in his arms, her tiny fingers curled into his coat, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She sounded so hopeful. So sure that he would finally break the one silence in their home that even the cats avoided.
His smile faded just a little.
“I’m really tired today, sweetheart” he said softly, setting her down.
“But dad—!”
“You promised! You said—!”
“I said I’m tired.” His voice snapped slightly, sharper than he meant it to be.
She flinched.
Minho regretted it instantly, but he didn’t know how to take it back. So instead, he walked to the door. Paused. Turned away.
Outside, leaning against the hallway wall, stood his uncle.
The old man had been there for the entire exchange—his hearing may have weakened, but he never missed things when it came to Minho or Hae-soo.
“You can’t hide from her forever,” he said quietly, his voice soft like cotton soaked in old sorrow.
Minho didn’t reply. Just sighed, dragging his feet toward his own room.
By morning, the storm had passed.
Or so Minho thought.
No Doraemon playing from the living room. No squeals of cats being over-cuddled. No Hae-soo singing baby shark lyrics off-key while brushing her hair.
Minho walked into her room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Empty.
The bed was made. The blanket neatly folded.
She was gone, so was soonie.
Minho stood frozen for a second before yelling, “uncle—! She’s not in her room!”
Hyun-chul, who had just started heating some soup in the kitchen, dropped the spoon. “What?”
“She’s not here. Not anywhere in the house.”
“She wouldn’t—she couldn’t have—” The old man’s breath hitched.
Minho’s jaw clenched. “She could. You know she could.”
Because running away when her wishes didn’t come true—that wasn’t just Hae-soo.
The next few hours were chaos.
Minho drove like a madman—rushing to her school, scanning every classroom, the playground, even the security footage. Nothing. No one had seen her arrive.
He called her classmates’ parents. Three of her closest friends. No luck.
Hyun-chul stayed home in case she came back. Every twenty minutes, he called again, his voice sounding increasingly shaky.
But Minho was spiraling.
She could barely walk long distances. She had a specific dietary routine. Her medications. What if—what if she—
His phone rang.
He picked it up mid-drive, engine growling beneath him.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was unlike anything he expected.
Calm. Warm.
“Is this Mr. Lee Minho?”
“Yes—yes, this is Minho—who is this?”
“Your daughter, Hae-soo, is here with me” the woman said gently. “She’s safe. We’re at Café Bae in xyz. Please come pick her up.”
Just the sound of her voice felt like exhaling after being underwater.
Minho blinked, gripping the steering wheel.
His heart finally began to beat normally again.
“I’m on my way.” he says, heart pounding. “Thank you. Please… please stay with her.”
Café Bae sat right under the shade of a ginkgo tree whose yellow petals were dancing across the entrance. It was too early for lunch but late enough for caffeine emergencies, and his heart was still somewhere around his ankles as he pushed through the glass doors.
Then he saw her.
Not Hae-soo.
You.
And beside you, his daughter—with her bright pink cheeks, sipping a neon-blue drink from a tall straw, giggling like she hadn’t just made every cell in his body burn with panic.
You sat in front of her, posture straight, one arm resting across the back of your chair. A pressed pilot uniform hugged your frame—white shirt and a black and an obvious airline uniform blazer on the table corner. Your hair was tucked behind one ear, a pen clipped into your lapel.
Hae-soo was beaming.
Even Soonie—his grumpy, shy, emotionally selective cat—was on your lap.
Minho almost tripped.
Soonie did not seem to forget. He's 98% sure soonie is the one who dragged you to Hae-soo.
Then you laugh softly — something offhandedly sweet — as Hae-soo pushes a napkin toward you.
“Sign it, please!” she demands. “You’re so cool! You fly planes!”
You raise an eyebrow, amused, tugging a pen. “I fly people,” you say with mock severity, scribbling your name. “But thank you, co-pilot. Next time, bring me a boarding pass, not a stolen cat.”
“She’s not stolen!” Hae-soo pouts. “She just… walked with me.”
You glance at the cat now lazily draped over the booth divider and whisper, “Traitor.”
Then you sense the new presence behind you.
“Hae-soo.”
His voice makes you look up.
The man standing near the booth wears a black coat over a grey sweatshirt, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, his features carved with tension and a worry that hasn’t quite left his shoulders.
You stand.
She beams. “this is dad.” she says to you.
He walks closer, nods once at you.
You reach out first, polite, practiced. “Hi, Dad.”
“Minho” he replies, shaking your hand — firm, steady.
You offer a soft smile. “Y/N. And you’re welcome. She’s a fighter. Also, she’s been trying to convince me to adopt her for the last thirty minutes.”
You’d just gotten back from a red-eye Seoul-to-Tokyo route. Two cappuccinos and a rebellious cat had barely kept you conscious.
But when you’d seen the girl crying on the steps outside the bookstore, shivering, and a cat that approached you first, dragging your pants towards the child, you crouched immediately.
“Thanks for taking care of her” Minho said, brushing Hae-soo’s hair back with a mixture of relief and affection.
“She’s surprisingly easy to talk to,” you said, then looked down at the girl. “When she’s not screaming about being motherless in public.”
“Yah,” Minho muttered under his breath.
“I won’t leave, Appa,” Hae-soo declared, arms crossed, mouth still ringed blue from her drink. “Not unless you tell me the story. Now.”
“Sweetheart,” Minho tried. “Let’s go home, hmm? I’ll tell you in the evening. I promise—”
“No!” she whined loudly, stomping her feet under the table, making Soonie’s ears twitch. “You said that yesterday!”
You leaned back, arms folded. “To be fair, she said you use that excuse a lot.”
Minho gave you a look—half amused, half exasperated. “You told her everything?”
you said innocently. she told you everything. Down to his card PIN.
“I’m serious, Hae-soo” he says, voice patient. “Can we not talk about it here?”
“I’ll cry.”
“You can’t use tears to blackmail—”
She starts blinking very fast.
You cough lightly and sip your coffee. “I’d let her win, if I were you.”
He glares at you. “You’re not helping.”
“I flew a cargo-laden boeing across Japan this morning. I think I’m allowed to stir a little emotional drama.”
Minho groans under his breath.
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve really inherited the dramatics.”
“She’s six” you shrugged. “And probably smarter than half my flight deck.”
Minho gave you a long, almost suspicious glance. “And you’re really a pilot?”
“Last I checked.”
“Okay,” he finally said.
And then he begins.
Minho’s voice is quieter now. A little rough.
“About ten years ago” he says, brushing Hae-soo’s hair gently to the side, “I wasn’t like this. I mean— I wasn’t ‘Lee Minho, Studio Owner.’”
You tilt your head, resting your elbow on the table. There’s something in the way he speaks — like each word is walking barefoot over gravel.
“I was just a guy with a second-hand camera, a half-broken lens, and this internship that didn’t pay enough to cover even my rent,” he continues, eyes slightly distant now. “One of our assignments was to go to Gangwon and capture images of movement. Real, raw movement. Machines.”
Hae-soo is practically bouncing. “Like trains?”
He nods. “Exactly. So I went to this tiny station. No one around. Just fog, rust, and the distant rattle of wheels. Jisung was there, with an umbrella as it was raining.”
You imagine it — grey skies, empty benches, a younger Minho in a faded hoodie with his camera hanging loosely around his neck, eyes squinting through the viewfinder. Another guy, holding an umbrella for him in the rain.
“And while I was taking pictures of the train as it stopped, a woman, your mom, stepped down holding a—”
“Wait!” Hae-soo interrupts, shooting her hand up like a student in class. “Who do I imagine as mom?”
Silence falls.
It’s the kind that folds itself tightly into the corners of the café, the kind that pulls the air inward like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
Minho stills. His gaze drops to the table.
Even Soonie, who had been nuzzling your shoelace, seems to pause. A soft nudge to your foot, like he knows something deeper than he should.
And then…
You clear your throat.
You don’t even look at Minho.
You just say it. Softly. Kindly. “You can imagine me. It’s okay.”
Her eyes turn to you, surprised. Not because you offered — but because you didn’t hesitate.
Minho kind of chokes.
Somewhere between Seoul and a little nowhere town filled with flowers and fog, it happened.
Minho’s shoes were soaked, his jeans cuffed sloppily at the ankles, and his half-worn beanie kept sliding backward from the weight of his messy hair.
“Hyung, hyung, hyung!” came Han Jisung’s panicked voice from behind, one hand on Minho’s back, the other above his head holding an umbrella like his life depended on it. “Your camera, man! If that gets water damage again, your internship’s dead! Your career’s dead! I’m not paying for another one!”
“Just five more shots!” Minho yelled over the wind, trying to get the perfect frame. “Look at that lighting! It’s like a movie poster!”
As Jisung leaned further out, Minho suddenly snapped the shutter again—and paused.
“Wait.”
“What.”
“Who… is that?”
You had just stepped down from the train for a two-minute halt, your yellow umbrella blooming like a sunflower against the rain. The station was empty, mist curling under benches, the signage blurred. You walked across the platform, letting the rain touch your boots, face tilted upward.
Minho lowered the camera.
“Bro…” Jisung groaned. “Don’t say it.”
“She looks like a goddamn angel.”
“There it is.”
Minho raised his camera and clicked.
Once. Twice.
Again.
Then kept going.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each frame framed you—feet splashing in puddles, your umbrella turning slightly in the wind, your head tilting, your smile at a passing dog.
Jisung peeked over his shoulder and blanched. “Hyung! No! That’s a person! A woman! You’re literally photographing a woman without her consent! That’s, like, lawsuit grounds! That’s creepy!”
“I’m not being creepy,” Minho murmured dreamily. “I’m capturing… serenity.”
“You’re capturing a restraining order!”
“She’s not the subject,” Jisung hissed behind Minho, eyes squinting. “Don’t you dare zoom.”
Minho didn’t respond. He was already following you — carefully, casually, through the lens.
“She’s just a person, bro. A very umbrella’d person. Not your muse.”
“But look at her movement,” Minho said, mouth slightly open.
“She’s just walking.”
“Exactly. But look at how she walks.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
You wandered further down the gravel path that hugged the coastline. The train hissed behind you as it settled to a stop. The umbrella kept dancing above your head like it had its own personality.
Minho wasn’t stalking, not exactly.
He was documenting.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
He took three more shots as you passed the station sign. Then two more near the curve in the track. Then one when you spun briefly to let the wind hit your face.
He couldn’t explain it.
He fell in love. The rain was a witness.
You weren’t even looking at him.
But your presence in the frame made it feel like the scene finally made sense.
“Hyung, this is literally what professors warn us about in class” Jisung hissed beside him, umbrella now tilted sideways as he tried to peer through Minho’s camera. “No model release form. No consent. No plan.”
“I’m not publishing it” Minho muttered. “Just… capturing it.”
“You’re capturing a person like she’s a butterfly in a jar.”
“She’s not a butterfly” Minho whispered, already adjusting the focus again.
You had paused near the edge of the platform, your yellow umbrella resting on your shoulder, eyes closed, like you were soaking in something no one else could see.
“She’s the beginning of something.”
Jisung groaned dramatically. “Oh my god. You’re down bad already.”
But Minho wasn’t listening.
Because in that moment — mist curling around the tracks, wind teasing at your scarf, his camera breathing quietly with every shutter — he thought maybe he’d already met the woman he would fall in love with.
Even if he didn’t know your name yet.
Even if you hadn’t looked at him once.
Even if the only thing between you and him was a yellow umbrella and about a thousand questions.
He clicked one last photo as you turned, briefly meeting his gaze from across the fog.
You had felt it. The subtle “click” through the rainfall.
You turn slightly, the yellow umbrella spinning on your wrist, and spot two drenched idiots about fifteen feet away. One — tall, soft features, camera plastered to his face like a fifth limb. The other — shorter, dramatically holding an umbrella over the first one, dressed like a K-drama sidekick who was done with life.
You squint. The taller one is staring directly at you.
You raise a brow.
He’s not blinking.
Just… snapping. Again. And again.
You frown. He’s cute, sure. But he’s not invisible.
You adjust your scarf, stomp toward them, your boots making little squeaks—
“You a pervert?” you bark, stepping back with Minho’s cam in hand. “Clicking my photos without asking? I’ll report you to the cops.”
Minho blinks, mouth open. He hasn't said a word. Still hasn’t. Still staring. Like his entire soul just walked out of a train in the rain, insulted him, and stole his heart (and also his camera).
Minho blinked at you, mouth opening to protest—until he saw your eyes.
Sharp. Alert. Furious.
“You’re taking pictures of me, aren’t you?” you snapped, holding the camera up like evidence. “You freaking creep. I will report you.”
“Okay, okay, first of all — he’s not a creep, alright? He’s… just brain-dead right now.”
“Clearly,” you mutter, glaring at the tall one who’s currently blinking like a deer caught in hi-def.
“He’s interning for a photography course,” Jisung explains. “The project is on movement. Nature. Emotion. Not… stalking.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s what every stalker says.”
“He didn’t even notice you at first,” Jisung continues. “He just said, ‘train, train,’ like a Pokemon. If you want, check the photos. They’re all on movement. The sky, the fog, the wheels. Nothing inappropriate.”
Minho opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His brain had short-circuited. This close, you were even more stunning. Even your anger had symmetry. Your eyebrows furrowed at a perfect 32° angle. Your umbrella was dripping on his shoes.
But all he could think was: Whoa.
“I–uh–I–” he stammered.
“Ma’am,” Jisung stepped between you two, hands raised in peace, voice pitched higher in panic. “I swear, Minho’s not a creep. He’s a photography intern. He has a mentor and everything. He was just clicking nature, okay? No vulgar sho—”
You look at him, then at the camera.
“He has a name?” you snapped, flipping through the pictures. “Minho? Okay, Minho. Still. You ask before photographing people. That’s basic human decency.”
Then—you start flipping through the screen.
And okay… okay, yeah. It’s… good.
Actually, it’s insanely good.
There’s a shot of the tracks before the train, one with the wheels in motion — and yes, two, three zoom-in clear images with you in them. But they’re... artistic. Captured like a color or an emotion, not like a girl with a body.
You cross your arms. “That’s fine. But you still ask before clicking someone, don’t you?”
“You’re right” Jisung says quickly, nudging the frozen Minho. “Tell her, bro. Say sorry.”
Minho looked at you.
Still silent. Still completely gone. Still love-struck.
“I like you. Marry me.”
Dead silence.
You stare at him.
Jisung lets out a sound like someone choking on rice. Then he moves to stand protectively in front of you.
“Ma’am, I didn’t know he was like this. I have nothing to do with him. You want to complain? I’ll be your witness. I’ll even drive you to the station myself. I am so sorry. I don’t even like this guy, honestly. We just met today. I thought he was mute until two seconds ago. He may need psychiatric help.”
You’re gaping now. “You want me to—what?”
“Marry me” Minho repeats, calm now. “I mean, maybe not today. I’m broke. But like. In the future. If you want. You don’t have to, obviously. It’s just… a thought.”
You stare at him.
Then at Jisung.
Then at the camera in your hand.
You scowl, brow crunching, nose scrunching with disbelief and a kind of offended disbelief that someone just proposed to you without knowing your name.
Minho just smiled like he’d won the lottery. “You look beautiful when you’re angry.”
Jisung slapped his forehead.
Minho is staring at the crunch of your brow like God spent a little extra time sculpting just that particular expression.
You turn around and walk, with the camera still in your hand.
“Wait—HEY—” Jisung stammers. “She took the camera!”
Minho watches you go.
Your yellow umbrella bobbing above the sea of fog..
You, muttering to yourself about weirdos as you disappear down the platform with his most expensive gear.
Jisung slaps Minho’s arm. “Dude?! Your CAMERA?!”
Minho smiles dreamily.
“It’s okay.”
“…WHAT?”
“It’s with my wife.”
The platform still echoed with your footsteps long after you left, his cameras swaying on your shoulder like spoils of war. Minho blinked. Once. Twice. Then took a step to chase you.
That’s when Jisung tackled him from the side.
“I’m following her.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Jisung, let go.”
“I am letting go. Of my dignity. By being seen with you in public.”
“I’m going after her—”
“She has your camera, hyung. Not your soul. Don’t run after her like some tragic k-drama lead with debt.”
“Let me—”
Jisung latches onto Minho’s collar like a leech. “You’re gonna get banned from the station. BANNED. We still haven’t submitted your damn movement assignment. Let’s go.”
Minho scowls. “I just proposed to my future wife, and you’re talking about assignments?”
“I’m talking about prison time. For unsolicited photography.”
Minho sighs dramatically, but follows, mostly because Jisung is now crying loudly about “career suicide.” They trudge through the light drizzle, Minho still craning his head back toward the direction your umbrella disappeared.
Minho burst into the lobby just a minute late, hair wind-tossed, shirt wrinkled, panting.
Jisung is just about to drop another comeback when he freezes mid-step.
“…Hyung.”
Minho walks into him. “What?”
“Bro. Don’t. Look. Left.”
“brodontlookleftbrodontlookleftbrodontlookleft”
Minho turns his head.
And saw you.
His thief.
You were standing—casual as anything—laughing with his boss, holding his camera in your hand like it was a soda can. Your umbrella leaned against the chair beside you, dripping politely onto the tiled floor. Your bag hung across your shoulder. And the minute Minho entered, your eyes flicked toward him.
Jisung gaped.
“Oh my god,” Jisung whispers. “You’re dead. You’re actually dead. This is a revenge arc. You messed with the niece of the boss. You’re gonna get kicked out of the program. Fired. Blacklisted.”
Minho swallows. “I didn’t know—”
“You called her your wife, bro. I am no longer emotionally invested in your survival.”
“Boys!”
Both boys jump.
Boss Kim waves him over.
Minho walks forward like a soldier to war. Jisung hovers nearby, muttering prayers under his breath.
“You’re good at printing, yes?” Boss Kim says. “Help my niece with the printer. She needs copies of some files.”
Jisung immediately points to Minho like he’s testifying in court. “This hyung can print in ten formats. TIFF, JPEG, RAW, Excel, Word, even power point.”
Minho looks at Jisung a bit betrayed, and Jisung whispers, “He said boys, I'm a man” back.
“Minho! Great, you're here. Help Y/N with printing some photos.”
Minho blinked.
“P–pardon?”
His boss pointed at you like it was nothing. “She needs the printing room. Help her with format settings and all that boring junk. It’s her first time here.”
Jisung was already scooting away like a crab.
You hand him the camera, coolly. “Printer?”
“This way” he mutters, leading you down the hall.
The printing room was silent.
Minho held the door for you. You didn’t say thank you. He smiled nervously and followed you in.
You sat by the monitor, inserted an SD card, then leaned back, arms folded, as the preview screen opened.
His stomach dropped.
They were all photos he’d taken. Of you.
The umbrella. The station. The yellow. The rain.
That moment when you smiled at the stray dog.
The shot where you were squinting at the cloudy sky.
You turned to him slowly, eyes glinting.
“My uncle said your compositions are nice,” you murmured. “But you should ask for permission next time.”
“Your… uncle?”
“Boss.”
“Like blood uncle? Real uncle?”
You nodded, clicking Print on one of the images.
The printer hissed and started whirring, slowly birthing out a photo that had consumed all of Minho’s heartbeats in the last twelve hours.
“I wasn’t being creepy” he said quietly.
“I know,” you replied. “That’s why I didn’t smash your lens.”
Minho smiled faintly. “Thanks.”
You turned to him with narrowed eyes. “But still, you said, and I quote—‘I like you. Marry me.’”
He coughed into his sleeve. “I was… under the influence.”
“Of?”
“Your face.”
You blinked. “You’re so weird.”
“I’m aware.”
Another photo slid out of the printer.
You picked it up, stared at it.
“…you do have good angles. Even though, they seem a bit lonely.”
Minho took the compliment like it was his Pulitzer prize.
Then, as you gathered the photos, you tossed him his camera back.
Then, after a beat— “Wait. We’re not even friends?”
You glance over.
Minho blinks. “Can we be?”
You raise a brow. “You want friends?”
“I want marriage, actually.”
You shake your head.
He raises both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. Friends.”
“I have two weeks left in Seoul. Then I head back for exams. So, if you press pause to your love story, then we can be friends.”
She said pause, not end, right?
Three days into the Pause
It was supposed to be simple.
Hang out. Walks. Coffee. Art exhibits. Maybe a photography trip or two.
What Minho didn’t account for was Soonie.
The world’s most dramatic, most demanding, least affectionate rescue kitten.
And how he immediately hated you.
Minho had found him crying in an alleyway three days ago—fur soaked from the rain, limping, crying like a siren.
You’d been with him when minho spotted him. While Minho knelt and cooed and pulled off his hoodie to wrap him in, you’d stood there looking unimpressed.
“That’s a stray.”
“he’s a baby.”
“he might bite.”
“he needs love.”
“he needs shots, Minho.”
“he needs a name.”
You paused. “he looks like a grumpy Ajhumma.”
“Okay, I love animals,” you said, sitting cross-legged in Minho’s living room, a green tea in your hand, “but this one’s got a personal grudge against my soul.”
Soonie, the tiny gray tabby with judgment in his eyes, hissed once and then retreated behind the couch like a soldier in trench warfare.
“he doesn’t hate you,” Minho lied. “He’s just shy.”
“Bro, he literally tried to slap my leg like I owed it rent.”
“he probably does that when he senses someone equally independent.”
You glared.
Soonie glared back from under the curtain.
It was war.
Later that night, after you left, Jisung flopped onto Minho’s couch, Soonie curled up on his stomach as if to spite Minho.
“he hates your girl,” Jisung whispered.
Minho, staring at the door you just walked out of, sighed dreamily. “She’s not my girl.”
“Bro, you said she’s your wife when she stole your camera.”
“I meant it.”
“Minho, she roasted your entire existence, threatened you with police, and insulted your cat.”
“She’s perfect.”
Jisung patted Soonie’s back. “You’re gonna have to up your game, my little furry niece.”
The problem with loving someone like you was that Minho hadn’t realized how much noise you were surviving in silence.
By the time he’d spent two weeks trailing behind your footsteps like a camera-smitten cat—buying you canned coffee after class, racing you to street food stalls at night, bribing Jisung with gimbap so he could third-wheel without sulking—he thought he’d seen every shade of your world.
He knew how your laughter curled when you were amused.
He knew how you chewed on straws when you were thinking.
He knew how you kicked vending machines when they refused your coins.
But he didn’t know that when your phone rang at 7:42 PM every night, your entire body tensed.
He didn’t know that your eyes darted out of focus.
Or that you always turned your back and whispered, “I’m busy, mom. Please—please, not now.”
He didn’t know that you always cut the call just before your brothers voice began crying on the other end.
You’d had a long, ugly phone call with your parents. The kind that leaves your hands shaking and your voice hollow.
Minho, blissfully unaware, found you on the rooftop terrace of his apartment building, watching the skyline blur.
He walked up grinning, two corn dogs in hand.
“Guess who got offered a spot in a photography panel and a free tripod.”
You smiled weakly.
He paused, then slid in beside you.
“…so,” he said, nudging your elbow, “we’re past friends now, right?”
You blinked.
“Like, officially. So can I officially say... we’re getting married next?”
He laughed lightly, half-joking, half-serious.
You didn’t laugh.
“Marriage” you repeated.
He blinked. “I mean—yes? Not now, not this second—but eventually. You know.”
You stood up.
“Kids, too?” you asked. “Just throw it in there, why not?”
Now he was worried.
“…Y/N?”
You were trembling. Your hands shook even as you shoved them into your hoodie.
“You know what happens with marriage, Minho?” Your voice cracked. “People scream. People break things. People leave. Even when they say they won’t.”
He stood. “What—?”
“They say I love you and then they throw cups at each other the next month. They stay for the kids and then blame the kids.”
Minho’s brows knit. “What’s—”
“Every time I come home, it’s like war. And my brother’s crying. And I’m the one holding him while my parents scream about us like we aren’t even human beings—”
“Y/N—”
“I don’t want marriage. I don’t want love. It NEVER. ENDS. WELL—!”
And then—
CRACK—CRACK—POP!
Firecrackers.
Someone downstairs had lit them early. Golden sparks burst behind the buildings, loud and sudden.
You dropped to your knees.
Minho dove forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, his hands flying to your ears.
“Shhh, shhh—Y/N, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just fireworks. Just stupid kids—”
You were crying now.
“I hate loud things” you whispered. “Everything’s always loud.”
Minho leaned closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Then we’ll be quiet,” he murmured. “From now on, I’ll be the quiet.”
You sniffed. “What kind of line is that?”
He smiled softly. “The kind you write for your wife.”
You looked up at him, red eyes and tear-lined cheeks.
“…We’re not married.”
He nodded.
He pulled you closer into a slow hug, your face pressing against his shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your spine.
Two days later.
The problem with warming up to someone was that it always came with a side effect: vulnerability.
And you, who had trained your heart into a vault, had started to… melt.
It was subtle at first.
You no longer flinched when Minho looped your pinky in his for no reason while walking.
You had started texting first. Even dumb things—“Your shoelace was untied today. Fix your life.”
And Soonie.
That tiny demon with a food complex and a jealousy problem. The kitten you once side-eyed like he was a rat in disguise.
Now? You’d sneak treats into your hoodie pocket for him.
You let him curl against your legs when you studied.
You even whispered “don’t scratch me today, thanks” like he was your coworker.
Minho bounced into the studio with a wide grin, waving his brand-new tier DSLR camera like it was excalibur.
“Look what I got! Look at this beauty!”
You glanced up from the corner where you were editing some shots. You smiled faintly.
“New toy?”
“New future!” he beamed. “It cost, like, half my soul. But worth it, right?”
Jisung was at the coffee machine, suspiciously quiet.
You frowned.
“What happened?” you asked.
Minho turned to Jisung. “Tell her! Tell her how cool it is!”
Jisung stirred his coffee slowly.
Then turned to you with a plastic smile and said, “Oh nothing. He just sold Soonie, that’s all.”
Silence.
You blinked.
“What?”
Minho laughed awkwardly. “Not sold. he’s with a rich couple who love cats. he gets air-conditioning and filtered salmon! he’s living better than me!”
You stared at him.
“What if he doesn’t want that? What if he wants us? What if he waits by the alley for you every night?”
Minho hesitated. “I mean—he’s a cat, Y/N—”
You stood up slowly, eyes dark.
“Do you know how rich I am, Minho?”
Minho blinked. “Huh?”
“I’m rich. But rich isn’t everything.” Your voice cracked.
“I was dumb, Minho” you whispered, eyes burning. “Dumb to believe that for once someone could stay.”
Minho’s jaw tensed.
“Will you leave me the way you left Soonie?” you asked. “When you realize you can’t afford me?”
“No—”
“Will you give me away to someone richer too? Someone with more cameras? More tuna? Is that what love is for you? Just trade when you can’t provide?”
“Y/N, stop—”
“You’re stubborn, Minho. I know that. But you’re not responsible.”
His face went pale. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened and closed like he couldn’t find which sentence to start with.
But you were already turning.
6 months later.
You hadn’t planned to walk that way.
Honestly, you thought he wouldn’t even remember.
You were just tired after your exams, dragging your suitcase through the familiar streets after an exhausting train ride, the breeze crisp with cherry blossoms. The campus break was long this time—an extended semester with project work and portfolio submissions. You hadn't texted him once. You didn’t know what you’d say.
And yet, there he was.
Right where he used to wait.
By the same platform where he took his first ever candid shot of you.
Standing awkwardly, like someone unsure if his love was still allowed.
And in either arm, a cat.
You tried to turn.
Tried to walk right past.
Pretend the last six months hadn’t existed, that your heart didn’t skip and your lungs didn’t tighten.
But Soonie jumped off his arm.
Ran right to you.
And you just—
You dropped your bag, crumbled to your knees, and wrapped your arms around the little furball.
he purred.
You buried your face in his fur and cried. Not hard, but like a kettle slowly releasing steam, soft sobs pressed into the tiny warmth of the cat that somehow meant everything.
“Hey,” came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned slightly.
Jisung.
He knelt beside you, smile small, soft, knowing.
“He brought him back that same night, you know?” Jisung said, brushing Soonie’s back like he was an old friend. “I went with him. The rich folks were mad, but he wouldn’t leave without him.”
Your lips parted.
Jisung leaned closer, whispering, “He didn’t sleep that night. He just sat with him and cried. Like a loser.”
You laughed wetly through your tears.
From behind you came the sound of a camera shutter.
Minho.
Camera in hand.
You turned.
He lowered it slowly.
“I… I’ve been waiting to take that picture,” he said.
He took a few steps forward.
Then gently said, “I gave the money back. Every cent. The rich couple didn’t even need it, but I made sure they took it. And… this—” he lifted the DSLR in his hand, “—this one I bought with what I earned in six months.”
You stared at him. He looked different. Not drastically. But there was something in the way he stood. Still reckless. Still hopeful. But now…
PRESENT DAY – THE CAFE
“Then?” Hae-soo sniffled, mouth still blue from her butterfly lemonade, face flushed with stubborn tears. “Then what happened?”
Minho leaned forward. “After a long time, we got married, her mom didn't like it and then— you were born, she didn't want you, so she left. Thats what happened.”
Maybe because he said it so intently that you—unfortunately, imagined to be her mother as well and it just doesn't add up, why would she leave him? why would she—
Hae-soo sniffled, angry tears clinging to her lashes. “You’re not even my mom.”
Minho, calm but clearly frayed, crouched and tried to soothe her. “Hae-soo, don’t say that—”
“She left us” she sobbed. “She—” she started sobbing.
You tried to soothe her when she pushes your hands away, rude.
“I should go” you said softly. “She’s overwhelmed.”
Minho stood, lifting Hae-soo into his arms as she wiped her nose against his shirt.
“I’m… sorry, she did that because she imagined you as her mom, thats all” he said, voice thick.
Outside, you followed them—just a few steps behind.
As Minho tucked Hae-soo into her booster seat and adjusted her straps, you hovered awkwardly near the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly like they were holding something fragile inside you.
You stood awkwardly, hands wringing.
Then, with a quick glance, you said, “Please call me when she’s fine. I… I gave her my number. Just in case.”
Minho nodded once.
And then, just before he turned, he looked at you properly for the first time since he started telling that story.
Your eyes gave you away.
You hadn’t even realized you had water in your eyes.
He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his own voice.
“Please…” he said, voice low “…don’t cry.”
“I don’t know why,” you said honestly, swallowing, brushing your face, “I just—when she cried like that… I just—”
Minho gave a tight nod, as if saying he understood.
he picked up Soonie, who was nuzzling shamelessly at your boots like he wanted to stay.
You looked up just as the car pulled away.
Just as he drove into a night you weren’t part of.
And the moment the taillights disappeared, you exhaled.
Your heart didn’t feel heavy.
It felt confused.
The driver pulls into your apartment complex.
Your co-pilot texts you. “Wheels up at 0400”
You look down at your phone, and find that message from a girl named “Hae-soo's dad” still sitting in your messages.
It reads:
‘I hope you ride safe always. Please dont forget me. im soryy I behaved rude with you.’
You should forget her.
She’s not your child.
Minho stepped into the study, needing to distract himself from the sudden throb in his chest.
He dusted off his old laptop—the one he hadn’t touched in years, not since his early photography days, back when all his dreams still fit into unpaid gigs, coffee-fueled edits, and your laughter echoing in hallways.
The screen flickered to life with a gentle hum.
And then—his breath caught.
The wallpaper loaded slowly. A woman with a yellow umbrella in the rain.
A little blurred by time, but still there.
Still her.
Still you.
The Next Morning
The table was far too quiet for three people and a plate of kimchi pancakes.
Minho sat on one side of the table, sipping his black coffee without a word.
Hae-soo had her spoon in her cereal, poking at the same soggy flake for the past seven minutes.
Across from them, Jisung blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then cleared his throat.
“So…” he said, drumming his fingers. “Y’all fighting or…?”
Nothing.
Hae-soo picked up one cornflake and stared at it like it had betrayed her.
Minho didn't even look up from his cup.
Jisung shifted in his seat. “Okay, cool. Cold war it is. Just say the word if we’re throwing nukes or eggs.”
Still nothing.
He tried again.
“Two breakfast diners walk into a silence—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell cut through the room like an actual miracle.
“THANK GOD,” Jisung groaned, getting up and half-jogging toward the door. “It’s probably the mailman. Or even better—a traveling mariachi band here to save my sanity—”
He opened the door.
And froze.
His face went from peach to ghost-white in one second flat.
Standing in front of him was you.
Your pilot jacket was draped neatly over one arm, your hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. The sun bounced off your eyes just right—enough to make Jisung’s jaw fall slightly slack.
“Jisung?”
You tilted your head.
He blinked. “Y/N?”
His mouth opened and closed, he clutched his heart. “H-How do you know—”
You laughed gently. “Relax. When he told her about… her mom. I imagined the whole thing, you were very animated in my head.”
“Ohhh…” he said, hand on heart like a pigeon just flew into it. “That story. The traumatic memory-dumpster of a story. Cool. Cool cool cool cool.”
You laughed. “So how do you know me?”
And before he could answer, Minho appeared behind him, eyes wide and alarmed.
“Y/N?” he asked, already reaching for your elbow to gently usher you away from the doorway. “Why are you here?”
You held up the inhaler. “Hae-soo forgot this with me. She said she needed it every morning.”
Minho exhaled. “Right. Thanks.”
You hesitated. “Also... I promised her something last night. A small party. I’d like to take her out tonight. Just something light—ice cream, maybe a bakery stop. Kids' pilot-themed café I know in town.”
Minho stiffened. “No.”
Your brows lifted.
“I said no” he repeated, firm. “She’s not going.”
You blinked, surprised. “I’ll ask her myself, then.”
He stepped in front of you. “Y/N. No.”
You gave a dry smile. “Right. Okay.”
For one small second, he relaxed.
Then—bam. You slipped past him.
Straight into the house.
“Hae-soo!” you called.
She looked up from her cereal—and her entire face lit up.
“Y/N!!”
She scrambled down the chair, nearly knocking over her bowl.
You knelt to catch her as she jumped into your arms.
“I’m sorry for last night,” she said immediately, muffled into your shoulder. “Can I have your autograph again? I smudged the last one.”
You chuckled. “Of course.”
You pulled a pen from your bag and signed the back of the airline brochure on the table. She looked at it like it was a lottery ticket.
Meanwhile, Jisung stood there, quiet now, watching you in uniform, as you put your coat on the table.
But before the moment could soften—
“OH NO!” Hae-soo all but shouted.
Your eyes dropped to your coat.
Your very expensive, airline uniform blazer—
Now covered in chocolate cereal milk.
“Ah.”
Jisung let out a gasp like he was watching a historical tragedy unfold. “That jacket costs, like, what—?”
“About as much as your liver” you muttered, eyes wide.
Minho stood in the doorway, horrified, watching the entire chaos play out.
You slowly turned to Hae-soo.
She looked up at you, lower lip trembling. “I’ll give you all my pocket money for the next four years.”
Minho looked like he was about to cry.
The spill wasn’t a big deal.
At least, that’s what you kept saying out loud, even as you tried very hard not to cry over your extremely limited-edition, regulation-fit aircraft uniform jacket now looking like it’d been attacked by a milk monster.
You’d left it just for a moment. One second. But that was all it took.
“Oh my god—oh my god,” Jisung had been muttering in the background, pacing like you were about to detonate. “This is a government property situation. This is a uniform. Do we have insurance? Minho-hyung, do we have—”
You patted Hae-soo’s head when she looked up at you with eyes like shattered glass.
“I’ll tell my future kids never to touch cereal,” she mumbled solemnly.
Minho stood by, eyes locked onto the scene like he was trying to calculate damage control.
“I’m so sorry” she whispered again, panic in her little voice.
“Hey” you soothed, placing your hands on her cheeks. “It’s okay. No emergency. My assistant’s nearby. I’ll have her take it back to base.”
“You’re still… planning to take her out tonight?” Minho asked, voice quieter now. Less defensive. More guilty.
You stood. “Of course. It’s just a little cake-and-balloons party. She’s been looking forward to it.”
Minho hesitated.
Hae-soo looked up with wide, begging eyes.
He sighed. “Fine. Okay.”
You blinked. “Wait, really?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just… text me the location. I’ll drop her.”
And with that, you waved goodbye and stepped out.
MINHO – FIVE MINUTES LATER
He slammed the laptop shut. Grabbed his wallet. Pulled out his phone.
“Jisung,” he said, not looking at him, “pack a bag.”
Hae-soo squealed. “Are we going to the party?”
“No. We’re going to Jeju. Iam not letting her go.”
Jisung almost choked on air. “WHAT?”
Minho’s eyes were steel. “Now. Tickets. Tonight. I don’t care how.”
Minho, Jisung, and Hae-soo touched down in Jeju just as the sun dipped into orange.
“Hyung” Jisung muttered, as he dragged two suitcases through the terminal. “You are either the most brilliant genius or the worst dad alive.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re actually fleeing the city just to avoid a children’s party. That’s commitment.”
Minho shot him a glare.
“I don’t want her… getting closer to someone who’s going to leave again.”
Hae-soo walked quietly between them, holding Minho’s hand.
She hadn’t cried. Not really.
But she hadn’t smiled, either.
“I wanted to go…” she mumbled. “She promised…”
Minho gently squeezed her hand. “We’ll have a party here. Beach cake. Balloon shells. Right, Jisung?”
“Yup,” Jisung forced cheer. “And—if we’re lucky—I’ll do the dolphin voice.”
Hae-soo blinked. “That’s a punishment.”
But then—
From the front of the arriving crew tunnel
You stepped out of the cockpit.
In a new uniform.
Hair neat, steps sharp.
Behind you trailed three assistants, a co-pilot, and a crowd of people. A few kids from the plane even rushed up asking for autographs, and you signed them all patiently.
Jisung turned slowly to Minho. “Did she just… pilot the plane we flew in?”
Minho grabbed Jisung’s sleeve. “Don’t make eye contact.”
But it was too late.
“Y/N!!”
Hae-soo wiggled out of Jisung’s arms and ran.
Straight to you.
You caught her effortlessly, lifting her off the ground with a laugh. “Whoa, whoa, what are you doing here?”
Her arms wrapped tightly around your neck. “I missed you!”
You blinked. A warm smile stretched across your face.
“I… missed you too, kid.”
Behind you, Jin-ah raised an eyebrow. “Captain. Are you collecting children now?”
“I have no idea what’s happening” you muttered, still smiling.
When you turned—still holding Hae-soo—your eyes met his.
Minho, dragging a suitcase, standing behind a wide-eyed Jisung, who looked like he’d seen two ghosts.
You stared at Minho.
He stared back.
Minho approached, defeated, Jisung trailing behind like a man being sent to the electric chair.
“Hi, I was just about to text you to postpone the party as I had an emergency flight. Such a pleasant surprise, right?” you said.
“Hi, yes, of course.” he sighed, still in shock.
By the time they reached the resort lobby, Hae-soo had already climbed into your arms again—legs swinging from your hips, arms around your shoulders like she belonged there. Like she had never belonged anywhere else.
You didn’t mind. You held her with the same careful balance that you used when taking over an aircraft in turbulence.
She fit.
Inside, the receptionist bowed and handed over keycards to Minho and Jisung.
Minho was still rattled, trying not to show it.
You saw it in the way his fingers flexed tightly around the handle of the suitcase. How his jaw twitched when Hae-soo tugged your jacket and said, “Y/N, will you stay for dinner too?”
You smiled gently at her. “Let’s see, hm?”
Jisung was still mumbling to himself like a conspiracy theorist. “We fly to Jeju to escape you, and somehow you pilot the actual plane. What kind of final destination sequel are we living in—”
Minho glanced sideways at you, then finally said it:
“So, uh. Where are you staying?”
You blinked. “Here.”
They stared.
“What, you mean here here?” Jisung narrowed his eyes. “This exact resort?”
You nodded, unfazed. “I own this resort.”
Both men blinked.
“You what.”
The days in Jeju were quieter than you expected.
Not quiet like loneliness.
Quiet like… pause.
The kind where time stretches gently between waves and sunlight, and suddenly, you don’t feel the rush to be anything but present.
Even the little girl, Hae-soo, had begun climbing your limbs like you were born to be her treehouse. Her curls often caught the wind, her laugh sometimes tangled in your jacket, and you had no idea how she’d managed to burrow under your skin so fast.
She liked pressing her cheek to your shoulder during sunsets.
She liked hiding her whole face when she sneezed.
She liked holding your pinky when she was sleepy.
You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you liked things.
You and Minho didn’t speak much at first.
Just greetings. Nods. Half-smiles when Hae-soo latched onto you like you were gravity.
But by the fourth evening, it was different.
There was a pillow and a striped mat spread out near the shore. Someone had brought snacks. Soonie kept switching laps like he couldn’t decide who was his favorite anymore.
And you…
You weren’t in your uniform today.
You wore a soft white beach shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, tucked into cream shorts. Your feet were bare. There was sand on your knees from where Hae-soo had pulled you down to build a pathetic sandcastle.
Minho was watching from the balcony for a while. It's just been so long since he's seen you in comfortable clothes.
“You know” you said, half-laughing as you wiped sunscreen off your nose, “I used to hate sand.”
Minho chuckled. “Still do?”
You shook your head. “No. Now I think I just hate wet socks.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t the kind that faded fast—it was the kind that stayed.
And the way the evening sun bounced off your cheekbones as you spoke about completely normal things, like airline food and your weird fear of inflatable animals, made something ache in his chest.
Jisung noticed it.
Which is why he took Hae-soo away with a dramatic “I need help picking out beach sticks for tomorrow’s sand sculpture. Only you can help me, kid.”
She bolted.
Because sugar. Because Jisung.
And then, it was just the two of you again.
Like before.
Like always.
You turned your face toward him, folding your legs on the mat.
“Can we be friends?” you asked softly. “Normal friends? I… want to be close to Hae-soo.”
Minho met your eyes, and for a moment he looked too young, too tired, too full.
“She makes everything else disappear,” you admit. “Things have been… hard at home.”
He blinked, nodded once, and gave you a smile so soft it almost broke.
“Yeah. Of course,” he said. “She already loves you.”
“She told me she wants to become a pilot” you added, laughing.
He grinned. “I’m doomed.”
The silence returned, warm like a blanket.
You picked at the loose thread on the pillow. “Your love story though… it doesn’t really… add up.”
He turned to you slowly.
He glances sideways, blinking more than once.
“We got married after a bit of.....issues,” Minho said softly. “Not much of a plan. Just… hope.”
You nodded, drawn in.
“Then,” he continued, “we fought a lot about kids. She wanted to wait. I didn’t want to. Then I apologized, said I’d wait however long. She changed her mind first.”
You smiled.
He chuckled. “Yeah. Then Hae-soo was born.”
Your eyes sparkled. “That part I do like.”
“But she had a condition. Cystic fibrosis.”
You froze for a second. “eh, wha—65 Roses?”
His head snapped toward you.
Minho chuckled—really chuckled—for the first time in a while.
“She said the same thing” he said. “My wife. The first time the doctors explained it to us.”
Your throat tightened.
“She cried for hours,” Minho continued, eyes unfocused. “Because she had it. Mild, but genetic. Blamed herself as Hae-soo's was an inherited one.”
You don’t interrupt.
“Then an accident happened... She was on a transplant list already, but… her lungs were too damaged, she had a lung transplant, but after the surgery, when I ran to her to show that they took Hae-soo out of the incubator and we can finally take her home, her mom stopped us and asked us to stay away because she doesnt remember anything, and trigerring any memory might be dangerous, and blah blah blah. we were out of her life for good.”
You know what he means even before he says it.
“Her mom told me never to come again. Said she wanted a divorce. Said she’d mentioned it before. But I don’t believe that part.”
He looks down and runs a thumb over his palm like he’s trying to erase a scar.
You nod slowly. Then reach behind your neck and gently pull your hair to the side.
“There was an accident,” you say. “For me, too.”
He looks at you then. Properly.
“I forgot everything. Woke up with stitches down the back of my neck. And dreams I don’t understand. Nothing else.”
He shifts closer on instinct, fingertips brushing the scar as you turn your back to him slightly. he traces the line gently, and he doesn’t speak. Just breathes.
“I used to have that too, that—65 roses, I never bother remembering how to pronounce it properly.” you add.
Minho lets out the softest hum. Of course you did, you were her mom.
“I still get weird dreams sometimes, no one at home tells me anything, dad's not even there, he's living somewhere else for his job.” you said, voice lighter than your bones felt.
Minho looked away and wiped at his eye quickly.
You pretended not to notice.
“So” you said after a pause. “It’s a good story.”
He looked at you.
You smiled. “Really. Wild.”
He didn’t answer, just looked at you.
Like he was staring at a house he built that someone else moved into.
He’d promised himself a hundred times over these past days: keep your distance. Let her live.
He told himself it wasn’t fair.
Not to her.
Not to the life she’s built.
Not to the new name she carries.
Not to a woman who doesn't remember the ache he’s carried like bone-deep scar tissue.
But that night?
He came anyway.
He didn’t even realize he was walking out to the deck until he was already barefoot, jacketless, holding Soonie like a warm excuse.
You turned toward him. Just slightly.
“Why do you keep running away from me?” you asked, suddenly. “We talk. Then you disappear.”
He stiffened. “I don’t—”
“You do” you cut him gently.
He looked at you then.
And what he saw was terrifying.
Because you—wrapped in a blanket, in soft linen clothes, hair curling at the ends, with a teacup that smelled like ginger and sleep—
looked exactly like you used to.
He’d sat too close.
He’d let the cats crawl over the boundary he swore to keep.
He’d let his shoulder brush yours.
Let his silence feel like permission.
Because if he didn’t—
He might take your hand.
He might press his forehead to your shoulder.
He might cry and kiss you senseless.
Instead, he stood. Quietly.
“I should go check on Hae-soo,” he said, not meeting your eyes.
You nodded. “Of course.”
You were in a small, sun-warmed house.
There was music playing faintly from a speaker in the corner. The light through the curtains was soft like milk, the smell of something fried was wafting through the air.
And you were laughing.
Because your belly was round and full and alive,
And the man with the shorter hair, wearing the faded black shirt with oil paint on the sleeve, had his lips pressed to the skin just beneath your navel.
“Appa is talking,” he said in a baby voice.
You giggled. You couldn’t help it.
“Appa says,” he continued dramatically, “that he is going to buy a better, more expensive camera. One that captures even moonlight. One that—” he paused, kissing your bump again, “—will take your pictures till you're a grandma.”
You reached down and carded your fingers through his hair.
“I’ll buy it for you.”
“I want to earn it,” he said, seriously this time. “I want her to see how her father chased dreams like a maniac for her and her mother.”
“You’re dramatic” you whispered.
He looked up at you and smiled, still resting his cheek against your belly.
You sighed.
“You know… one day, we should visit a glowing beach” you said softly.
He blinked up at you. “What’s that?”
“Some beaches glow sometime. Because of bioluminescent algae. It’s beautiful. Like… the sea turning into stars.”
Minho sat up slightly, eyes flickering with interest. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Wherever it glows.”
“Take a photo.”
“Take a hundred.”
Then he leaned forward and kissed you.
And you woke up.
Next morning, Hae-soo's birthday.
Balloons were being tied to beach umbrellas. Jisung was running around yelling about cake sizes and blowing a whistle to “control the chaos.” And you?
You were kneeling in front of a beaming Hae-soo, handing her a gift wrapped in blue.
“A walkie-talkie set?” she gasped.
You smiled. “Five of them. You said you don't have a phone to talk to me, so....”
“YES!” she yelled, throwing her arms around your neck. “Y/N, you’re the coolest!”
“One for you, one for me, one for Minho, one for Jisung…” you said, ticking your fingers.
“And one for Soonie!” she shrieked.
“Obviously.”
The cat was less impressed but allowed the small device to be strapped across his chest like a soldier reporting for duty.
“Testing! Captain Hae-soo to Y/N!”
You picked yours up. “Come in, Captain.”
“I like the gift, Over” she said, nodding officially.
You saluted back. “Roger that. Over.”
Your heart felt like it had found a piece of itself you didn’t know was missing.
That evening, after cake and sparklers and a round of musical chairs where Minho was forced to join by Hae-soo and got beaten by a seven-year-old, you were sitting again.
You were still in your light summer dress—hair pulled back with one of Hae-soo’s birthday clips—and Minho was beside you, knees drawn up, resting his chin on them.
“I’m getting married next week” you said casually.
You continued, voice gentler. “He’s a doctor. Very kind. Works a lot, but good with kids. Kind of introverted. I think Hae-soo will like him.”
“Right,” Minho said, clearing his throat. “That’s… good.”
One more week and I'm out of your life.
Minho’s jaw flexed once before he nodded. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
There was a long pause.
You traced circles on your knee, voice dropping softer. “Lately though… I’ve been getting this feeling.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that makes you afraid of things you were once sure of.”
Minho turned his head slowly, watching you. “Marriage?”
You nodded.
His hand hovered, then gently rested on your shoulder.
“You’ll be okay,” he said softly.
You smiled a little. “Do you think some people are just… cursed when it comes to love?”
He doesn't answer.
The evening rolled on.
The mat was shifted closer to the patio lights of the resort as darkness deepened. More people had joined—other vacationers from the hotel who had been enchanted by Hae-soo’s megawatt charm. There were conversations and soft music, some light dancing, and even a small talent show put on by a pair of kids from Busan.
At some point, Jisung took a yawning Hae-soo inside—her walkie-talkie now crackling unintelligible static from Soonie sitting on the windowsill.
You saw from the corner of your eye, Minho leaving somehwere else with his camera and a tripod.
your mind drifted…back to that dream.
You follow him, to see him setting up the tripod, near the shore on the side where it was alone and dark. The camera clicks softly into place, and he sits down beside it, drawing his knees up, arms resting loosely.
You stand for a while before sinking down next to him.
He doesn’t look at you.
His eyes are distant, somewhere far away.
“For a man with a camera,” you said softly, “you sure pick the loneliest angles.”
He exhaled, just a little. Not quite a chuckle. “Some rare nights, the sea glows blue,” he said, adjusting a dial. “Because of bioluminescent algae.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head, a bit intrigued. “Tonight’s one of them?”
“Maybe,” he murmured. “If I fall asleep, I’ll miss it. And I can’t miss it.”
You looked at him, the hard line of his jaw, the mess of his bangs above one eyebrow.
“So you’ll just sit here?”
“Yeah.” he said.
“Did your wife say that? about the glowing algae?” you whispered.
He finally looked at you.
Then nodded.
Then you shift a little closer, arms brushing.
“She must’ve been wonderful,” you whisper. “How did she look?”
His breath caught.
“You must’ve taken pictures, right?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“None at all?”
His jaw tightened.
“Show me please, Just one?”
He stood. Picked up the camera. Moved five paces away, into the darker part of the shore, where the sand had different shades.
You sat still. Then called, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just—”
He hesitates. A moment too long. You go to him, he lets you sit next to him.
Moments ticked by.
“No, wait,” you said, voice trembling yet firm. “At least describe her.”
Again, he stands.
Again, he starts walking away—further this time, past the rocks, toward another curve of sand.
You shoot up, brushing off your shorts.
“Hey! I said I’m sorry, okay?! I won’t ask again!”
But he doesn’t stop.
You frown.
“What? You forgot how she looks like? Is that it?” You yell after him, tone sharp, a little mean, desperate in its ache. “I bet you did!”
He turned slowly. Walked over. Eyes blazing.
You were good at rage-baiting.
He was close. Too close.
“No,” he said, through gritted teeth.
“Then what? Tell me.”
He looked angry, looking at the beach once more before saying;
“She had pretty small eyes.”
You smiled—victory glinting, cheeks coming out to hide your eyes. But then he looked at you. Not just at you, into your eyes.
“And her smile… it made her cheeks puff. Her eyes would disappear. Like moons.”
Your smile softened.
He pointed to a particular shade of sand.
“Her skin was… like this.”
You looked down. He looked at you.
He wasn’t angry anymore.
“And no matter how irked I was,” he murmured, “Just looking at her would make me feel good. She was a heart-melting sight.”
You let that sink in, a soft warmth blooming.
His voice is gentler now, almost fond.
“She used to wear this black dress sometimes… it looked like she smeared all the night sky on herself—” he smiles softly.
You blink slowly.
His eyes find yours again.
“After a shower, she wouldn’t dry her hair properly. Let it fall… wet and wavy, all hair on one side. She'd probably do it on purpose...”
He says while showing with his own hands, how she'd move her hair to one shoulder.
You can’t look away from him.
Then he pointed to your cheek. “There was a mole right here.”
Your eyes flickered.
“She hated it sometimes. I told her it was the full stop that ended all my sentences.”
Suddenly blue illuminates his face, he turns to the beach as you still stared at his face.
And then he gestures to the sea—and this time, finally, finally—it glows.
Tiny specks of blue. Like fireflies caught in water. The waves shimmer with bioluminescence, dancing in motion where the foam rolls, painting the dark sea electric. Glowing.
He whispers, comes closer.
“She looked as pretty like that.”
You look at the beach and gasp, then smile wide. Full. Bright. Honest.
He takes in your reaction and sniffs once. The glowing blue bounces off his face, making his cheekbones shimmer.
He turns back to the camera, hiding the way he wipes at his eyes.
Click.
A few photos. He doesn’t speak.
You step beside him, the light kissing both your faces.
“You know” you say softly, watching the glowing water, “I feel like… I might fall in love with her too.”
He doesn't answer.
Just stares through the viewfinder a few seconds longer, finishes the last photo.
And then, without a word, he picks up the tripod, packs it away, slings the camera over his shoulder, and walks ahead.
You follow, and the laughter of people drifts from the resort’s direction. Music. Someone yelling about night drinks.
You're not even that drunk. Not really.
Okay, maybe the room is tilting a little. And okay, maybe Minho’s voice is way too loud for someone sitting right next to you. But you are definitely, totally, completely in control of your memory.
“You fellow” Minho slurs dramatically, pointing at your face, eyes squinty and full of betrayal, “You deleted all your past and I’m the one suffering!”
You blink. “Whaaaat?”
“She’ll remember tomorrow, hyung,” Jisung chips in from the floor, where he’s cross-legged and nursing a half-finished bottle of soju like it’s a baby. “I read somewhere. Like dreams. You forget when you wake up—unless it's traumatic. So just traumatize her.”
“That’s not even—”
“She won’t remember!” Minho declares over you, gripping your shoulder, and shaking you hard. “You won’t, don’t lie! You’re lying!”
“I DAMN well will!” you shoot back, poking him right in the chest.
He gasps. “Huh? What?! HUH??” He turns to Jisung, then back to you, dramatic as ever. “Your mom ruined my liiiiife, maaah liiiiife—”
“What are you talking about?” you shout over his howling, eyes wide.
Minho lunges forward, grabs your shoulders again, very seriously this time. “You’ll remember this tomorrow?”
You nod, aggressive. “Yeah!”
“Okay. Wait.” He holds a finger up in front of your face like a magician about to perform a trick. “Wait five seconds. Just five. Count with me. Five—”
“Four—” you mumble, narrowing your eyes.
“Three, two, ONE!” he finishes, then leans in way too close. “Now. What did you say five seconds ago?”
“What?”
He smacks his own forehead and falls backward onto the mat. “SEE?! YOU DON’T REMEMBER FIVE SECONDS AGO. What’ll you remember about a whole night ago, huh?”
Jisung starts laughing so hard he chokes on his own spit and ends up coughing violently.
You glare between both of them, rage bubbling up with the alcohol. “Idiots! Idiots, both of you! You had a great-ass love story! You idiot! I imagined being your wife, stupid! It’s all—stupid! Now I can’t—I’ve never—I mean sure I’ve never, but now I can’t even try to like my fiancée!”
Minho stares at you, mouth parted.
You gasp. “And I dreamt of being pregnant! With you! And I was telling you about some algae and you were crying and—ugh!” You dramatically flop onto the mat next to Minho.
“Did she say algae?” Jisung whispers.
Minho just murmurs, “Pregnant…” and then, like some puppet with cut strings, collapses beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
And that’s how all three of you pass out on a woven mat that smells faintly of the sea and seaweed snacks.
The Next Morning
There’s a rustle. Then a groan..
Minho's head hurts. His shirt is crooked. And your forehead is tucked right against the curve of his throat, breathing slow, arm accidentally draped across his waist.
“Bro…” Jisung whispers, already awake, staring. “She’s like… still asleep. But real question: is she actually remembering stuff or nah?”
Minho’s quiet. His arm’s around your shoulder, and he didn’t even realize until just now. Carefully, he tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times in the past, and yet, not recently at all.
Jisung’s eyes light up. “Hyung. You can be together again. Right? You. Her. Hae Soo. Like, actually happy.”
Minho lets out a soft scoff. “No chance. Yesterday night I was at the beach. I took photos. Must’ve triggered something. That’s all.”
Jisung’s still sparkly-eyed, like some anime character full of hope and tragedy.
“She’s getting married next week.”
Jisung’s jaw drops. “WHAT?!”
He SCREAMS it, like a banshee’s final cry—enough to wake the entire resort and possibly startle a few birds off palm trees.
Your eyes fly open. Minho freezes. Jisung clamps his hands over his mouth.
Jisung is still whisper-screaming into his palms: married next week? MARRIED NEXT WEEK??
A older,(about 30)!reader x 26,(crushing on you since long)! Felix
A two shot, part two will be coming soon[in prob next 2 days].
Plot, plot with romance, final part, Long?
warning: murder,violence, sort of love at first sight, kind of broken parent-child relationship, and humor.
the final part!
Part-1
It started a day after Mimiko.
The sensation: Being followed.
You’d feel it on the way to the car, on the elevator’s closing doors, or walking into your building’s bathroom, reflexively checking under the stall even though it was empty. There was no one. But something coiled in your spine still tensed.
You were being followed. Or maybe not.
But maybe.
When Chan’s assistant told you to come to his office, you just closed your file, stood up, nodded once at Seungmin—who blinked rapidly like he wanted to say good luck—and went.
Bang Chan’s office was colder than the rest of HQ. Minimalistic. The kind of place where emotions came to die politely.
He was staring at a document when you entered, posture casual but his hands death-gripping a pen.
“You called?” you asked.
He looked up, smiling.
“Yeah. Just a regular follow-up. Have a seat.”
You didn’t. Just leaned against the doorframe.
“I’m fine.”
Chan tapped his pen once. “That’s not what I asked.”
You tilted your head.
Silence.
He smiled again, more tense this time.
“…Are you sleeping alright?”
“No.”
“Appetite?”
“...”
“You… okay with what happened?”
You blinked once.
“Which part? the murder or the uploading?”
Chan chuckled. You didn’t.
He closed the folder and set it aside. “The meetup date’s been revealed, hasn’t it?”
“30th. six days from now.”
His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the armrest. “You’re sure you’re still good to go?”
“I haven’t bled out yet, so yeah.”
You turned.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bang. They’ll expect tailing. Stalking. Bugs. Maybe even team formations around me or anyone who goes. So no, no one else should come. Just me.”
And you left.
Outside, the mood in HQ was sticky. Like wet cotton. Everyone was tense.
Yeji leaned against the vending machine, sending a meaningful glance toward Hyunjin. He just raised his eyebrows and chewed on his straw. Seungmin stood at the end of the hallway, shuffling files, eyes flicking between the team and your back.
Somebody should talk to her.
Not me. She’ll bite.
Hyunjin, she likes you.
Bro, she almost killed me once because my phone rang during a meeting.
Eventually, they gave up trying to send a soldier into your warpath.
You? You sat at your desk, feet up, coat still on, scrolling your phone with the most dead-eyed, battered-soul expression imaginable.
Your thumb moved like it had lost hope years ago.
Yeji peeked over her monitor, wide-eyed.
"You're on nyxnet?"
You didn’t even look up. “Can’t upload a murder video and die single. That’s just lame.”
Hyunjin’s voice from a distance “You scare me”
You look at him
“I mean—I love that for you.”
You locked your phone and stared blankly at the wall.
Seungmin, though, steps forward.
“I want to come with you on D-Day.”
You raise a brow. “What?”
“I mean it. I don’t trust anyone else to cover your back.”
You study him for a moment. You sigh, shake your head, dig through your folder and hand him a form.
“Your niece’s annual function is on the 30th, right?”
He blinks. “Yeah…”
“Then go.”
You decide that your father needs to go.
Not in the way you’ve sent others off, of course.
One that keeps him alive and breathing and far away from this.
Far away from you.
You hear the clatter of a spoon before you see him.
He’s hunched on the floor mat, watching the TV at a volume high enough to wake the next flat. Rice bowl balanced on one knee, the news anchor’s monotone droning into the leftover soup. You wordlessly lower yourself beside him. He glances sideways like you’re a raccoon that wandered too close.
“You sat.”
You blink. “Is that a problem?”
“No” he says, suspicious.
You sit for a moment. Your dad stabs at his food like it personally wronged him, mouth chewing mid-scowl. The news flashes a grainy image from the forest.
BREAKING NEWS: TREKKER DISCOVERS BRUTALLY MUTILATED BODY—SECOND THIS MONTH INVESTIGATIONS UNDERWAY
You lift your bowl and sip quietly.
Your dad, of course, must comment. That’s the man’s life mission.
“Tch. What’s happened to people these days?” he mutters, stuffing rice in. “No morals. Just chopping people like onions.”
You hum.
He continues, undeterred. “It’s the phones. And those apps. Tinder, Instabook—whatever. That’s why people are like this.”
You clench your spoon just slightly.
“They said the body was hanging upside down. Who does that? Looks like beef in a butcher’s shop. Must be some fellow with a loose screw—”
“If the upbringing goes wrong” you say quietly, your voice cutting clean through his, “then humans do turn out like that.”
He gives you another side-eye.
You don’t look at him. You just swirl your soup, eyes fixed on the steam.
“I—I was joking! Obviously! Just wanted to lighten the mood, heh.”
You say nothing. Just chew calmly.
He chews, then points at the screen. “See this? This is why I say you need to get married. Settle down. Normal people don’t have time to kill others—they're too tired from fighting with their wives!”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your take?”
“It’s true!” he declares. “You know how your mother is. You’d rather hang yourself than another person if you had to live with her for twenty-four hours.”
A pause.
You reach for the remote, mute the TV, and turn to face him fully.
“I think you should move in with her.”
He almost drops dead on the spot.
“What?!”
“Stay with her for a few months. Rebuild the bond. Like you said—married people are too tired to kill.”
He stares, stunned. “You’re joking. You’ve never even liked seeing us in the same room!”
You shrug. “Maybe you’ll tire each other out and leave me alone.”
He squints suspiciously. “Are you... planning something?”
“Always” you say.
He groans, wiping his forehead. “Your mother will murder me in my sleep. I’ll wake up with curry in my ears and a slipper lodged in my throat.”
“That’s assault, not murder” you correct.
“Same difference!”
You finish eating and rise. He watches you like you might flip the mat with him on it.
“I’ll tell her you're coming Friday” you say, already halfway to your room.
“No! Wait! At least let me die naturally!” he shouts after you. “I can change! I can improve! Let me live with you!!!”
You slam your door shut with a satisfied smirk.
Inside, your room is dim.
You toss your phone on the bed, then sigh. The screen lights up.
You hadn’t checked Felix’s chat in a while.
lix
hey sorry 😭 things have been hectic, i had to go back to my academy for alumini event the moment work was done
promise i’ll make time after the event is done
don’t forget me alright??
That was... four days ago, before you killed Mimiko.
You scroll up.
The last few conversations were brief. Short replies. Nothing deep.
You didn’t respond to that one.
You didn’t want to lie.
You didn’t want to pull him in, either.
So you left him on read.
You lock your phone.
You lie down, stare at the ceiling. From the living room, your father starts a loud phone call, probably already crying to your aunt about being "sent to the battlefield" that is his wife.
You smile to yourself, bitter amusement in your chest.
[Nyxnet Notification]: Your video has reached 1,000 saves. Congratulations. Welcome to the elite tier. New folders unlocked.
The nyxnet homepage flickers in dull resolution on your screen. Your video—your video—is right at the top, above rows and rows of snuff edits and murder fancams, captioned with a font that reads:
"Efficient. Elegant. Real."
Pinned by the admin.
There's a like button.
There’s a comment section.
A post down below says:
"New drop: virgin transport – Korea branch expanding."
The accompanying image is just a warehouse. But the comments under it are what churn your stomach.
Then there’s a folder titled "Child Play" —empty.
But not for long, probably.
You grimace from disgust, thumb scrolling through the feed like you're checking the weather, because that’s all this has become now. Rot in high definition.
The community is disgusting—and alive.
People have profiles on this site. Avatars. Statuses.
Some post daily logs of what they wish to do. Some post domestic violence.
Some review each other’s videos like it’s an award show.
All of these people killed two, to get a membership, and most continue so.
And under your pinned video?
user5891: “she didn’t even flinch. look at the wrist flick. pro-level.”
user2129: “dope setup. camera angle fire.”
admin: [⭐ pinned your post] “a clean kill. precise. efficient. she's going places.”
You stare at that last line longer than you should.
Three days to go.
You step back into the office as if you hadn’t just spent the past few days murdering people upside-down in the woods. As if your video wasn’t currently pinned on a secret psychopath network. As if you weren’t being watched by both psychotic strangers and the man who technically signs your paychecks.
“Morning,” Hyunjin says, holding a pen in his mouth, fingers flying over the table-sized blueprint on the wall. It’s smeared with notes, circles, underlines, red arrows—chaos disguised as planning.
Yeji gives you a tight nod from the whiteboard. She’s mid-sentence, “—so we keep the cameras off until she’s out of sight. No drone. Too risky.”
You nod and drop your bag, taking your usual seat at the edge of the table.
Seungmin doesn’t look at you. He’s sulking.
He’s been sulking since the moment you insisted he take the day off for his niece’s school dance recital.
He taps his pen aggressively on his clipboard, muttering, “Hope her classmates appreciate my sacrifice.”
Hyunjin snorts, finally taking the pen out of his mouth. “We’ll send you the whole kill montage with violin music if that helps.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, Minnie.”
You stretch your neck and glance at the board. The mission name—handwritten in messy black marker by Hyunjin himself—sits proudly at the top like a title card in a b-grade action film:
Operation: Whopp-the-bitch-ass-bastards.
No one’s changed it. No one dares.
“That’s official now?” you ask.
Yeji sighs. “Unfortunately.”
“Whole system’s falling apart,” Seungmin mutters.
You let them banter while your eyes scan the mission outline: you’ll drive out before sundown, in the camouflaged car, location confirmed, meet point documented, route vetted three times. And then you’re on your own—until you aren’t.
“That car’s sick, though” Hyunjin pipes in, flipping to a picture. “Pitch black. No lights, not even a brake light. Looks like the Batmobile if Bruce Wayne lived in a basement.”
“No reflective panels either,” Yeji adds. “And tinted deeper than my patience.”
“I tested it last night,” Seungmin mumbles. “Couldn’t even find the gear in the dark.”
They quiet down when Chan walks in. His expression is unreadable. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, folder in hand. The man looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.
You can relate.
“I just finished the final brief with Command,” he says, placing the file on the table with a thud. “Here’s the plan.”
Everyone straightens slightly.
“You’ll tail her until she reaches the compound. Stay out of range. Once she confirms the site, signals go live. We’ll have SWAT on standby and aerial if needed.”
You nod.
“And I won’t be there” Chan adds.
You raise an eyebrow.
“I’ll be at Command HQ with the higher-ups. Someone has to monitor the quadrant while she’s inside.”
Hyunjin frowns. “You’re not coming at all?”
Chan’s jaw ticks. “One of the higher-ups bailed. Didn’t even glance at the files. Said he had ‘prior commitments.’ Which probably means he’s golfing or getting Botox.”
You remain quiet.
Chan turns to you. “Since I won’t be there, I’m assigning someone else to ride along with the team and relay back to me.”
You blink slowly. “Who?”
“A recruit” Chan replies, carefully vague. “Someone new to this division. Been here a few years, works mostly behind the curtain. Not part of your regular rotation.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. That’s too much emphasis on ‘not your rotation’ for it to be casual.
Hyunjin leans forward. “What’s their clearance?”
“Enough” Chan says simply. “They’ll send hourly updates and stay in the car. They are not to interfere. That’s clear.”
Your head tilts, reading him. His words are tight. Clipped. Controlled.
He doesn’t trust you.
The silence stretches for a second too long.
Yeji’s eyes flick to yours. Seungmin shifts in his chair.
You smile faintly. “Fine.”
Chan watches you for a moment. “Good.”
He closes the file, then pauses. Looks at you a little longer than necessary.
D-DAY.
You arrive at the station in a dark hoodie and jeans, your face clean of expression, your posture unreadable. The duffel slung over your shoulder carries half a decade of training, several tracking devices, a phone with an encrypted uplink, a tranquilizer, two knives, a first aid kit.
Hyunjin is already waiting at the far platform, dragging a small suitcase with cartoon stickers and a pout on his lips. “Could’ve made this mission a flight. What are we, peasants?”
Yeji checks her watch. “Too obvious. Too traceable. Trains are quieter.”
You nod. The plan has shifted, and it’s not your favorite.
Originally, the target had promised to send a car to pick you up from your state—anonymously, discreetly. But the new message said: come to one of the border state-whose name you dont remember-, and they’ll find you. An unsettling shift, but unavoidable.
So now the plan was: all of you take the train. You disembark. They’ll “collect” you. Yeji and Hyunjin, along with the new recruit, will tail you using the blackout car, which had already been shipped ahead. You wouldn’t see them after the train. Just earpieces, and faith.
Chan appears like a ghost behind you—clipboard in hand, sharp in black.
“I’ll take it from here,” he says.
Behind him...
No.
No.
Your lungs hesitate.
Blonde hair. Innocent, kind face. That too-perfect smile dulled now into guilt. Hands in pockets. Not looking at you fully.
Felix.
Felix.
You don't flinch. You blink once, lips parting slightly in the faintest mockery of surprise.
“This is Felix Lee” Chan says, like this isn’t a twist of a knife. “New recruit. Joined us a few years ago. Works mostly in forensic patterning and cyber. Honest. Reliable.”
Honest.
Reliable.
Right.
You give a nod. Like your stomach doesn’t feel like it’s being scraped raw with a fork.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am” Felix says quietly, voice soft.
He’s looking at you like he knows.
And of course. Of course Chan would send someone to watch you. Of course he’s been suspicious from day one. Of course Felix, with his charm and eyes and that convenient academy schedule, had been watching you all along. Maybe even reporting. Maybe always lying.
Maybe he never liked you.
You nod at Chan, dead calm. “He’ll follow protocol?”
“Down to the last line.”
Hyunjin, oblivious, waves at Felix. “Yo! You’re the new guy? Sweet. Do you have driving anxiety?”
Felix glances at him. “No.”
“Aw, too bad. Was hoping for some drama on the curves.”
Yeji sighs. “Stop talking.”
You exhale, watching the train approach in the distance. The tracks vibrate.
You turn to the group, all business. “We go in with no contact after the station. Hyunjin, Yeji—you follow thirty minutes behind. Maintain stealth. If they change plans, I’ll signal using codes”
They nod.
Chan claps his hands once. “You’ll receive updates through Felix. He’ll be on channel three.”
Of course he will.
You adjust your backpack. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Everyone starts walking. As you’re about to step onto the train, a voice behind you says, soft—
“Y/N?”
You pause.
“Sorry. Ma’am.”
You keep walking.
Your seat is far from his—intentionally. They were booked with logic, not comfort. Scattered across the coach so no two agents were seated together.
You slide into your seat, spine straight, eyes locked on the window. Outside the platform moves like a slow, crawling insect.
You watch people go on with their lives, all while your brain flashes the pinned video of Mimiko on Nyxnet.
You look up.
Felix.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“No.”
He flinches. “Just—just a minute, please.”
You turn your head to him fully this time. “No. Are you stupid?”
He freezes.
“This carriage has cameras. Every move is monitored. You think you talking to me right now isn’t being logged?”
His lips part. He tries to say something—probably an apology. Probably some lie soaked in softness.
You cut him off. “Get back to your seat. This might ruin the entire plan.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
“Get lost. That’s an order.”
He blinks. Just once. Then nods, slowly, and walks back down the aisle, head down, silent.
You exhale, the burn rising behind your eyes. But you don't blink.
You sit up straighter. You will not let this become personal. Not now. Not with Felix Lee.
hours away from a slaughter.
The cold night wind whips against your face as you stand between the compartments, the open train doors letting in slices of dark landscape and speed. The rhythmic clattering of the wheels on the track feels like an angry lullaby—too fast to calm, too loud to forget. You’re supposed to be inside, keeping your head down, blending in.
But breathing felt like choking back there.
So here you are, standing by the edge, one hand loosely hooked around the bar, the other in your coat pocket, feeling the ache of your shoulder from the Mimiko kill still tugging at your nerves.
You close your eyes.
A footstep.
You open your eyes immediately.
He’s there again.
Felix.
You turn on instinct to step back into the train, but suddenly—
Your collar jerks back, his hand clenched tightly into the fabric, dragging you and pinning you.
“Talk to me,” he hisses, his voice nothing like the soft guilt he wore earlier. “Or I’ll push you out.”
You stare at him.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
But there's a flicker of something real in his eyes.
Desperation.
You raise your hands a little. “Fine” you mutter. “I’ll talk.”
His grip loosens immediately.
You fix your coat with a scowl, stepping beside him at the open door. Wind slashes past again. Neither of you says anything. For a long time, it’s just the train and the sound of everything moving forward. Too fast to step back.
“I get it” you finally say, quietly. “You were put on me by Chan. You tailed me. You reported to him. That was your job.”
He doesn't say anything.
“You said you were busy because of your ‘academy’—I didn’t realize it was police academy.”
You chuckle without humor.
“Guess I was too blinded by how nice you were. Good job. I would've bought it too, if I didn’t know how to profile liars.”
He turns his face toward you slightly, his hair wind-tossed and golden under the fluorescent flashes.
“That’s your version,” he says calmly. “please hear mine?”
You don’t answer. But you don’t stop him either.
So he speaks.
“I saw you for the first time six years ago” he begins, voice softer. “I was twenty.”
You glance at him sideways. He’s not smiling.
“I was out with my sister. We were just walking. Laughing, you know? It was one of those rare nights when the weather’s too good to stay indoors.”
“She was walking ahead of me. And then this guy—some absolute trash on a bike—spanked her while passing. She froze.”
He exhales hard. The memory still seems to sting.
“And I—” his jaw clenches, “I was stunned. I felt so useless. So fucking helpless.”
You stay quiet.
“I was about to run after him, but you were already there. You stepped out of nowhere, badge in one hand, yelling for him to stop. You forced him off the bike, beat the living shit out of him, with a baseball bat”
Your eyes flicker.
“I didn’t even know what to say. You didn't wait for anyone to thank you. You didn’t even ask who we were. You just cuffed him, told the local unit to pick him up, and left.”
You dont quite remember it.
Felix leans on the door rail now, both hands gripping the cold metal.
“I decided that day. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to protect people like that. I joined police training a few months after. Transferred divisions twice just to get here. I don't know if you remember, you also came to my academy as a guest instructor once....”
The sun was brutal that day. Not enough to burn, but enough to stick your shirt to your back and make the metal of the gun barrels too hot to hold for too long.
You stood near the firing range, dressed in black jeans and a shirt, sunglasses perched at the edge of your nose. Behind you, half the academy was lined up, each student stiff and silent, clenching their training rifles like nervous babies.
You were invited that day as a guest instructor—only for the advanced batch. Rumor had it the Division chief had personally called in a favor.
And someone had warned them, she doesn't smile, don't try anything funny, and for the love of God, don't mess up your first shot.
Felix was nervous, but he wasn’t the only one.
He stood near his best friend Jeongin, both trying to remain expressionless, but stealing glances at you whenever you lifted your hand or walked past.
You started the session by calling out names, one by one.
Jeongin was second in line. When he approached the target line and took the gun in hand, he tried to remember every instruction they'd been given. But he missed. By a long shot.
And you sighed.
Loudly.
"You think this is a water gun, rookie?" you said, your voice sharp, unimpressed. "You think perps stop running just because you wish they’d get scared?"
Jeongin blinked rapidly. "No, ma’am."
You rolled your eyes, took the gun from his hand without a word, and turned to him. “Hold still.”
Felix watched like it was a scene in slow motion.
You stepped behind Jeongin, adjusted his shoulder, then placed your hand on his hand, guiding the grip. "Thumb aligned. Elbow loose. Trust your stance."
You didn’t yell that time.
You whispered it.
You were calm. Focused.
And then—bang. Dead center.
Jeongin looked like he was about to faint.
“Better” you muttered, handing the gun back and patting Jeongin once on the back before calling, “Next.”
Felix stepped up. He fired. He hit the mark. Decent grouping. All logical.
You didn’t say anything.
You just nodded and moved on.
No correction. No praise. No touch.
And somehow, that bothered him more.
You didn’t speak to him that entire session.
But Felix didn’t forget. Not the sigh. Not the whisper. Not the way you touched Jeongin’s hand to correct him and never even looked at Felix twice.
After you left, Jeongin was walking around like he’d just been knighted.
Felix?
He waited until Jeongin went to the canteen and then switched their rifles.
“Hey,” Jeongin frowned when he got back. “Where’s my—wait, this isn’t mine.”
“Sure it is,” Felix said, far too fast. “You must’ve mistaken it.”
“No, mine had a scratch here near the—wait.”
Felix stared ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard.
Jeongin squinted. “You’re sick, dude.”
“Shut up and do your drills.”
“Pervert.”
“Say it again and I’ll leave your wet laundry outside.”
Jeongin mumbled a curse and walked away, and Felix quietly looked down at the rifle—at the faint fingerprint smudges near the barrel. He stared at them like they were sacred marks.
Later that evening, Jeongin was still pissed about the switch. He complained to the other boys in the dorm.
Felix didn’t care.
That was the first night he dreamt about you.
Not as an instructor.
But as something else.
Not something soft or sweet—he didn’t dare. You were someone he wanted to be like, yes. But more than that… you were someone he wanted to be seen by.
And all he got was a nod.
You were supposed to be there for three days.
But the Chief liked your methods—especially the way you made three cadets cry and two of them vow to switch careers—so your stay was extended another week.
And Felix?
He celebrated.
Outwardly.
he absolutely threw his blanket in the air the moment he got back to his room. Jeongin groaned from the bunk above.
“You are so weird for this woman. You’re going to make us fail psych eval.”
Felix, starry-eyed and immune to mockery, whispered, “Shut up. She’s so cool.”
You didn’t just train them.
You transformed the atmosphere.
In the mornings, you taught mounted protocol to the female cadets—firm but not cold. Felix would pass the stables just to watch you help one of the girls with her footing, steadying the horse, explaining in that clipped tone of yours:
“Confidence in the body transfers to confidence in the animal. Don’t hold it like a bomb. Sit like you own the world.”
At noon, you took the guys out to the hilly part of the field, where you taught them about old-school radio protocols and manual decryption of frequency-based comms. You handed out dusty walkie-talkies, some barely functioning, and showed them how to recalibrate them.
“Repeat after me,” you said, clicking your own device.
“This is unit zero-zero-seven, requesting open channel. Do you copy?”
Felix copied every syllable.
And every twitch of your brow.
He also started writing down your phrases in his notebook. His handwriting—already neat—became clinical. Exactly how you’d like it, he thought.
And yes.
At night, after lights out, Felix would scroll through police forums and enter vague searches into Google:
One evening, you were making the rounds to check on their documentation logs.
Felix was on a system in the corner of the IT lab.
He didn’t hear your boots. Not until it was too late.
He saw your reflection in the dark screen.
Swung around like a possessed crab and slammed the browser shut.
You arched a brow.
“Where’s your program log?”
“I—I—uhh…was just—”
You leaned over, typed a quick shortcut to open the recent task list.
Nothing but Google searches. You stared at it.
Then stared at him.
Your gaze dropped to his name badge.
“Felix, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re supposed to be running Java compilation tests.”
“...Yes, ma’am.”
You stepped back. “Get out. Run 20 laps around the ground.”
Felix jumped up, saluted by instinct, and scrambled out.
The next morning, physical training resumed.
You were walking through rows of cadets—your hands behind your back, sunglasses perched low on your nose, boots crunching over dry dirt. The sun made the black of your shirt glow against your spine. Most of the other male cadets—useless hormonal idiots—tried to sneak a look at you when you turned.
Felix saw it.
He hated it.
So the next time you stopped to explain the formation routine—using both arms to demonstrate arm syncs during combat response—he walked directly behind you, subtly blocking everyone else’s view of your back.
“What are you doing?” Jeongin whispered, three ranks to his right.
Felix just squinted ahead and whispered, “Security.”
When you spun to check their alignment, your shoulder passed near his.
Felix didn’t breathe.
He just looked from above your shoulder, pretending to be incredibly focused on the grid layout you were sketching in the mud with a booted toe.
You ordered a running drill next.
“Fifteen rows. Each five cadets. Synchronized runs. Ten laps.”
They groaned.
“I don’t care if you cry,” you said, striding in front of them like a shadow of wrath. “Run. All of you. If even one person is off-beat, everyone adds another lap.”
As they started running, Felix kept turning his head back every now and then—not to check the beat.
To make sure you were watching.
And you were. Sunglasses hiding your eyes. Clipboard under your arm.
Unmoving. Like a sentry.
He ran harder.
And Jeongin muttered under his breath, “You’ve got issues.”
Felix grinned mid-lap.
“Yeah. Big ones.”
A week after you left the Busan Police Academy, life returned to normal.
Almost.
There was a strange void in the atmosphere. Like someone had turned the volume down on adrenaline.
You weren’t even loud—but your silence had weight. Now, the air felt…lighter.
Felix hated it.
But what he loved—what made him literally sprint to the admin office the moment word spread—was the arrival of the Performance Report from your evaluation week.
Printed. Stamped. Signed by the Chief.
Passed down with reverence like a prophecy.
Felix waited in line. Impatiently. Jeongin stood beside him, yawning.
“I swear to God if you run and lick the board again, I’m leaving you here.”
“I just wanna check something,” Felix muttered, practically vibrating.
Then the papers were up. Pinned to the glass like sacred scrolls.
He shoved past someone, ignoring the "Oi, manners!" and squinted—
Cadet: Lee Felix.
Evaluation: Tactical Improv. Fast Recovery. Clear Morals. Potential Under Pressure. Precise Shooting. Calm Decision Making. High Emotional Control.
Final Note: “Exceptional application of all training parameters. He’ll make a good officer.”
REMARKS: RECOMMENDED FOR FAST TRACK CLEARANCE.
“…OH. MY. GOD” Felix whisper-screamed, clutching the wall for balance.
His jaw dropped. He turned back to Jeongin who just stared, baffled.
“YOU? Exceptional?” Jeongin sputtered. “You literally tripped on your own baton two days ago.”
“I—SHE—READ MY HEART.”
“Read your WHAT?”
Felix was grinning so hard it hurt. He stared at your writing again. The clean lines. The underline under “good officer.”
Others around him were confused too.
Some frowned at his name.
“Wait, Felix? Wasn’t he…like, fine? Like average-fine?”
“He literally couldn’t load his own gun last month?”
“Did he bribe her? Did he cry?”
Felix didn’t hear any of it. He was staring at the word "exceptional" like it was engraved on his soul.
“Jeongin,” he whispered.
“…What.”
“I’m gonna frame this.”
“You’re gonna jail yourself in love.”
“Worth it.”
Felix folded the corner of the sheet like it was the edge of a love letter.
That was the first time he believed—fully—that you might have noticed him.
That you might’ve seen something in him.
And that?
That was the very beginning of all his madness.
“That was years before I even knew Chan” he says quietly. “I didn’t get close to you because he asked me to, in fact my job was to just check if you're doing okay as there might be threats from outside as your name and face is in that website. I was supposed to just stay far and not make contact but....”
You stare at him.
He doesn’t look back.
“I got to talk to you that way, met you even.....” he says, voice barely audible over the wind.
“I got.....greedy?” He looks at you slowly, as if checking how you'd react.
You let of a small laugh.
Was this good?
You hid your smile by biting down on your lip and turning your head, your eyes rolling with exaggerated disinterest. "Figures," you muttered, pushing off the wall with a sharp pivot. “Get back to your seat. You’re attracting flies.”
He blinked. "Wait. I don’t even get a kiss?"
You didn’t pause. “No.”
“Seriously? That was a confession!”
You sighed, turned halfway, and leaned in with one hand in your coat pocket. He stilled.
A quick peck on his cheek. Firm. Clean. Like a transaction.
“There,” you said flatly. “Now walk.”
His lips parted like he wanted to argue but was too dazed to bother. He followed you with a quiet grin, steps matching yours lazily down the corridor until you both returned to your seats.
Just before slipping into the coach compartment, you paused. Pressed your palm lightly to the windowpane, squinting through the smudge of fingerprints and dusk-tinted scenery.
You watched the signs blur past.
“Three more hours,” you murmured.
Felix leaned in beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “To the station?”
You nodded once.
Suddenly, behind you, one of the passengers — a man slumped across a row of seats in his own world — shifted with a sharp snort, jerking violently in his sleep.
Felix flinched so hard, his hand flew to your arm and he instinctively hugged you.
You didn’t react.
You turned your face slowly to him, raising an unimpressed brow.
He backed off sheepishly, mumbling, “I thought he was—”
You raised a finger to your lips, motioning for silence. Then, exaggeratedly, you pretended to draw a pistol from your coat, aimed with two fingers toward the snoring man, and whispered, “Bang.”
Your hand recoiled with the imaginary shot, followed by a soft, dry mutter:
“Here you go.”
Felix broke into a soft chuckle. “My hero.”
You turned to leave again, ready to retreat to the quiet corner you'd claimed before, but then you felt him gently hold your elbow. You stilled.
“What now?” you asked without looking back.
He grins, and from his coat pocket, he pulls out a tiny imaginary box. Opens it with a flair. Mimes taking out a ring.
Then he goes to get down on one knee—
You grabbed him by the shoulder mid-motion.
“Don’t....” you said, firm but calm. “Be greedy.”
He blinked up at you.
“We’ll see later” you added, voice gentler this time.
Felix was already smiling as he stood back up, slipping the box shut with a soft snap and sliding it into his pocket.
You watched him walk away first, half-glowing with smugness, half-dizzy from the moment. He sat down without another word, shaking his head to himself.
You stared for a second longer, exhaled slowly, then turned on your heel and walked back to your seat with your arms still crossed.
No need to say more.
Not now.
You weren't going anywhere for the next three hours. And he knew better than to waste a second.
The train lurches and slows, mechanical screeches filling the air as the station approaches. Your fingers scroll over your phone screen, barely blinking. Messages line up in your inbox—some unimportant, some routine—but one from Seungmin catches your eye.
Seungmin: Noted.
That’s it.
Just one word. No emojis. No dot. No anything.
Typical Seungmin. You stare at the message for a long second, thumb hovering, then lock the screen without replying.
He knew what it meant. And so did you.
The station’s just outside the window now—dusty, old signage, lazy afternoon sun cutting long shadows across the platform. You know they’re not going to let you carry anything except yourself. Protocol, they said. Risk, they said. She’s the bait, they didn’t say, but you could hear it between every unspoken breath. You grab your duffle bag, packed with barely enough for a weekend and a hell of a lot of sarcasm, and hold it out behind you.
“Hold this” you mutter.
Felix—quiet, composed—takes it without a word. His hands graze yours for a moment too long, but you pretend not to notice. You step forward.
The train stops.
With a hiss, the doors part. The warm air outside hits your face instantly, humid and grimy like an unfamiliar tongue licking up your spine.
You step down.
One black boot, then the other.
Your eyes scan the crowd like you were born doing this. A boy selling tea. A girl with headphones and glitter socks. A man coughing with his whole chest. A stray dog limping between human legs.
And then—
“Y/N?”
You turn.
The man before you is tall, bald, looks like he shaves his head with a vengeance and probably works for someone who wears slippers with a cigar. Button-down shirt, dusty shoes. No smile.
“Yes?” you reply, short.
He nods. “Come.”
No introduction. No ID. No pleasantries.
You follow.
You don’t look behind you, but you know. You know Yeji and Hyunjin have already locked onto you with their eyes. That they’re at a distance—calculating, quietly moving, adjusting to the crowd like the ghosts they’ve trained to be. Somewhere behind them, Felix blends into the press of people. You don’t have to check. You just know.
The man leads you down a staircase, muttering something into a walkie-talkie hidden under his coat.
You followed the man through a cracked alley next to the station—quiet, too quiet, like the sound had been vacuumed out of the world. That sharp sixth sense you’d honed for years was screaming, your neck tingling as the shadows deepened and the street lights flickered above like they knew something you didn’t.
A black car sat parked at the alley’s end.
He opened the rear door. “Inside.”
No explanation. No name. No chance to make eye contact with anyone tailing you. You slid in.
Dark upholstery. Smelled new. Too new.
The door slammed behind you.
Three more cars. You spotted them just before the first one pulled ahead. Sleek. Silent. One in front, two behind. No lights. No plates. No sound but the faint crunch of gravel beneath their tires.
You didn’t even have time to memorize their make.
A cover drops over your head.
Black.
Tight.
Smells like gasoline and plastic and fear.
“Fuck” you think, just like that, quiet, unsaid, the syllable burning against the roof of your mouth. Your jaw clenches. Your molars grind.
Because you know what this is.
You were being diverted.
You're computing.
The route turns. And you could feel yourself being shifted to another vehicle. They were being careful to mislead any stalkers to a different location.
You count minutes like heartbeats. Seven. Ten. Thirteen. Then the car slows.
When it stops, no one speaks.
You hear boots crunch against wet dirt.
A hand grabs your arm, not gently.
You’re yanked out of the car.
cold wind punches into your neck beneath the hood, sharp and raw, and somewhere far off, you hear a dog barking. A door opens. Not the car—a building. Rusty hinges. The faint reek of stale piss and iron—a warehouse, maybe, or an abandoned storage shed.
You're marched inside. Five steps. Turn. Fifteen steps. Another turn.
They don’t speak. They don’t move. Their faces are blurred in half-shadow, but their stillness is wrong. Militant. Controlled. Like they’re....part of the police?
Weird feeling.
The others had been dragged in too—three of them. One girl, two boys, you did not get to look at their faces.
There was a pat-down check up.
And then came him.
The door banged open and in walked a guy wearing the loudest pair of military-print sweatpants you’d ever seen. Oversized hoodie, undercut hair, face way too relaxed for the situation.
He clapped once. “Uh-uh. They’re one of us, dumbasses. What’s with the welcome-home-captivity vibe?”
The guards exchanged looks, then slowly stepped away. One of them grunted in annoyance, clearly disliking being told off by someone in joggers.
You raised a brow.
The guy’s gaze fell on you.
And his eyes lit up.
“Woo!” he let out, finger-gunning directly at your face. “It’s herrrrr.”
You instinctively tilted your chin, studying him, but he’d already walked over, casual, cocky, like he was escorting a date instead of an infiltrating undercover officer who may or may not snap his neck.
“I’m Seonghwa” he chirped. “You and those three are this year’s newest members. Congrats.”
You didn’t respond. Your jaw ticked, even as you followed the subtle pressure of his guiding hand. He was grinning, like this was a summer camp and not…whatever the hell this cult-for-criminals was.
“I’ll personally escort you to your room” he offered, like it was a kindness, though you clocked the glint in his eyes—curious, amused, impressed. “Feast’s happening soon. A gift follows.”
“A gift?” you asked, bland.
“You’ll see” he winked.
The hallway was long and windowless. Concrete walls painted black, lit by string lights and low lanterns that cast flickering shadows. San led you to a sleek door and handed you a brass key. Inside—more refined than you expected.
White walls. A plush chair. Carpet that felt clean beneath your boots. A long mirror.
Clothes?
You reached for the material slowly, checking the tags, the seams, even the lining.
The outfit, a tailored suit. White. Form-fitting. Sharp at the shoulders, cinched at the waist.
It didn’t look like you.
When you stepped out of the room, the noise hit you like static—laughs, chatter, the clinking of glasses.
The dining hall was massive. Lanterns swung from iron hooks above, and a long wooden table ran the center of the room. Candles dripped wax down into skull-shaped holders. Meat, bread, wine, and unidentifiable dishes lined the table like a royal offering.
“Aha! See her—THE STAR!” someone shouted.
You turned to see a boy lean over the table, two glasses in hand, dark hair swept back with reckless effort.
The room burst into cheers. Whooping. Applause.
You walked in, straight-backed, eyes cutting through the crowd, your white suit glowing under the firelight.
You took your seat. And they poured your wine.
You looked around at the dress code and understanding. the new ones wear white suits, old ones whatever the like.
The meat was raw.
It wasn’t served raw, but it might as well have been. You chewed it like paper, swallowed it like glass, and placed your fork down after exactly three bites. Your wine glass remained untouched, and your gaze drifted over the sea of flickering faces.
They were still laughing.
Still drinking.
Still chanting your name every once in a while. You. The star.
Across the table, seonghwa was nodding along to something a girl whispered in his ear. Something about his face still nagged at you. A familiarity… something about the edges. You kept your face unreadable, watching him casually toss grapes into his mouth.
“Yah, someone’s lookin’ fancy,” came a voice from your side.
You turned, and the chair next to you scraped back.
White suit. New guy like you. Smirk as wide as the knife you’d just mentally counted under the feast table.
Han Jisung.
You blinked once.
He blinked back. “Y/N, right? I remember you.”
You didn’t answer.
He leaned in, casually elbowing your plate, and grinned, “No dance?”
“No” you said smoothly. “I’m taken.”
Jisung raised his eyebrows. “Really? You don’t want…”—he waved a hand down his own body—“this?”
You chuckled to blend in, shaking your head. He snorted, shrugged like he was used to rejections, and reached for the wine.
But you didn’t miss the way he looked at you. He’d recognized you, sure.
Because ten minutes later, everything changed.
The feast was cut short. seonghwa stood on a crate and whistled through his fingers.
“Rookies” he announced. “Follow me. The rest of you—bring your asses.”
The crowd moved like smoke—about 60 of them, you estimated. Most were dressed casually—loose shirts, boots, and smirks sharp enough to gut.
You were ushered to a large open chamber—grimy, ancient, something between a stadium and an execution yard. At the center was a ring, and behind it—cages.
Your stomach turned.
You spotted them instantly. The hostages.
And among them—
Hyunjin.
Blood on his temple, chained at the wrists. A child next to him—a girl, lips trembling. They were locked up, faces pale, eyes flicking between the crowds.
Fuck.
seonghwa walked back from a quiet conversation with a bald man in a sleeveless vest.
He clapped again.
“So!” he grinned. “Turns out, a few rats were sniffin’ around. Cops. We caught some in the mislead locations.”
He turned slowly to look at you all.
His voice dropped, low and venomous. “Which means… one of our precious rookies here is a little pig.”
“Now…” San motioned to the ring. “Let’s find out who. Shall we?”
And just like that, you were shoved.
You staggered into the ring, boots skidding against the sand-stained stone floor.
A box clattered open in the corner.
Knives. Eight of them.
seonghwa threw his hands up. “Kill the others. Survive. Make me proud.”
The crowd roared.
One of the other girls smirked at you, cracking her neck and sliding off her suit coat. She cracked her knuckles, sauntered toward you, all slow confidence.
You slid the knife up straight into her neck. One twist. One silence.
The cheers deafened.
You stood, blood now splattered across your white suit, breathing steady. Your knife glinted under the flames.
Jisung turned from another kill, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at you—saw the blood, the body, the ice in your eyes.
He whistled low. “Damn.”
You stepped forward, but not before turning to Hyunjin’s cage, where his head was rising, eyes squinting, recognizing you.
Shit.
Jisung rolled his shoulders. Looking hesitant if he should come at you.
You tilted your head, finger pointing from your chest down your blood-soaked front. “You don’t want this?”
He laughed. Loud. Giddy.
He was fast—faster than you expected—but predictable. His footwork left openings. You dropped low, swiped at his legs. He dodged, rolled.
You anticipated the roll. You knew the pattern.
And with a silent curse, you slammed your boot into his stomach, dragging him across the dirt, and sliced his kneecaps.
His hands shot to your waist, clawing for balance. That’s when he felt it.
The gun.
He froze.
And you saw it. Recognition bloom.
“You…” he rasped, bleeding through his teeth. “You’re the…”
Your fingers moved fast. Pulled the gun. Shoved it into his own coat pocket, slow and precise, just as his blood started to pool beneath him.
“You’re going down a dangerous path” he whispered, staring at you.
You leaned down, brushed his hair from his eyes.
“I’ve heard that,” you whispered, “since the day I took this job.”
Then—stab. Right to the throat.
He didn’t move again.
The crowd lost it.
Clapping. Screaming. A storm of adrenaline.
seonghwa leapt down from the platform, pacing toward you like a wolf. He whistled. “woahhhh, you’re strong.”
You didn’t respond.
He came closer, grinning. “But what if I say… you’re that strong because you’re a cop?”
You froze.
Then—another voice.
“Hey! This guy’s got a gun!”
All heads turned. The corpse.
seonghwa marched over, shoved Jisung’s coat open, yanked the weapon.
“Huh” he muttered. “So Jisung… was the rat.”
He walked back to you, patted your shoulder like a proud father.
“Well done, princess. You’re the only one left now.”
He turned toward the cages.
“Do the honors” he said.
Hyunjin’s door creaked open.
He stumbled forward, lip bleeding, wrists red and raw.
Your eyes met.
seonghwa leaned in. “Kill him.”
You looked at Hyunjin.
Then at seonghwa.
Your hand twitched at your side. But your eyes—your eyes didn’t blink.
Not yet.
Hyunjin stood unsteady in front of you, his knees weak, his mouth trembling. That look again. The one that said he knew you. Believed you.
And then seonghwa clapped again, too close, too loud.
“Wait, wait” he grinned, turning to the others. “Let’s not waste him just yet.”
He pointed at Hyunjin, who flinched.
“Extract info first” seonghwa said. “Maybe he knows where the other pigs are squealing.”
You gave a single nod. “Ten minutes.”
seonghwa smirked, tilting his head. “Mmm. Just ten?”
“That’s all I need,” you said, and turned toward Hyunjin.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, crack.
Your foot swept behind his knee, dropping him.
Then, before he even processed the fall, your hands grazed his shoulders and—pop.
Hyunjin let out a scream that could’ve scraped stone.
Your eyes flicked to him just once. “Sorry.”
He groaned, collapsing forward onto his good shoulder. Still conscious. Still breathing. Still not screaming anymore. That, you were grateful for.
seonghwa whistled low. “Wooooahhhh.”
He burst into a laugh.
“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he said, his hands on his knees, eyes bright like a child at a circus. “Shit, I’m so glad you’re here.”
He turned to the others, gesturing. “Come on, we’ll go sweep the rest of the sites, maybe those other cops are still hanging around.”
Then, over his shoulder as he walked away: “You take care of this one, sweetheart.”
And they left.
Gone. Laughter echoing off the walls.
The moment they were out of sight, you moved.
“Get up” you muttered, grabbing Hyunjin under his good arm.
He hissed but didn’t resist. You held him steady, dragging his weight as you moved fast—through the side of the ring, behind the ropes, toward the cages.
You were unlocking them one by one when the third opened.
A little girl launched forward into Hyunjin’s arms.
she sobbed, and he barely caught her with his good arm.
“Shhh” you whispered, “we need to go.”
The last cage clicked open—and he froze.
Outside, engine.
A black car rolled quietly into the shadows.
The back door creaked, and a familiar voice drawled, “You took your time.”
Hyunjin blinked, confused. “Seungmin?”
Seungmin, lounging in the driver’s seat, raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”
Hyunjin squinted. “How… how are you here?”
Seungmin scoffed. “You think she gave me a real leave? I’ve been watching since the train. she had a tracker in her mouth and put it somewhere in the building.”
Hyunjin blinked. “That’s… creative.”
“Get in before your shoulder falls off.” Seungmin snapped, unlocking the back doors.
Hyunjin and the girl climbed in as you shut the car doors beside you, checking each lock. Your body was already burning, lungs heavy with adrenaline and leftover blood.
Seungmin stared at you through the rearview mirror. “You can’t go back in. Not now. Felix and Yeji will finish this.”
You clenched your jaw. “There are more inside—”
“I know” he said. “These are orders from Chan, he's uh—angry. This part is over for you.”
Behind you, as the engine started again, the burning compound disappeared into the black of the night.
The gunfire lit up the night. You send a message through your talkie.
mislead location#2
Felix ducked behind the sandbags, jaw clenched, ears ringing. The smell of metal, mud, and gunpowder clawed at his lungs. Beside him, Yeji reloaded.
Something was wrong.
Felix’s eyes darted to the horizon, where backup should have been. Nothing. His hand flew to his walkie.
“Unit Four to Base,” he barked. “Come in. We need support. Repeat, we—”
Nothing.
Static.
Just white, empty nothing.
Felix frowned. “Yeji, are you getting through?”
She shook her head. “They’re jamming us or something. I don’t know how, but—”
Then suddenly—crack—a shot rang too close.
Felix turned, just in time to see Yeji fall to the ground—hit, but not bleeding. No blood. Not yet. Her weapon gone.
Three men surrounded her, and in seconds, they had her pinned.
“Shit!” he yelled, scrambling up—but a warning shot knocked him back. He hit the ground hard, eyes wide, breath stolen.
His walkie buzzed again.
Still static.
His pulse was deafening. His hands shook.
He remembered—
“There are ten thousand channels on standard-issue police walkies,” you said coolly, pacing. “And yet, if you don’t know how to switch frequencies, you’ll die trying to call your partner for help.”
Jeongin had yawned.
“You think criminals stay on default? Grow a brain, rookie.”
“That’s why you don’t depend on one frequency. You scan. You switch. You memorize backdoors.”
His fingers moved on muscle memory.
He clicked open the comm interface, rewired the signal band. His eyes scanned the list of side frequencies you had drilled into their heads. you even made them write it a fifty times, he wrote a hundred times.
“I’m safe, Felix. Hyunjin is with me. Go in. Get the hostages.”
His throat closed for a second.
He barely managed a whisper. “Yeji…”
He sprang to his feet.
As he ran, he saw her burst free. She’d dislocated her own thumb to slide out of the cuffs. She ducked behind a truck and waved. Felix veered toward her—but she caught his arm before he could move further.
“Wait.”
He paused.
Someone stepped out.
Not just some gang leader. No. Felix’s eyes widened.
He knew that face.
That voice. That smugness.
“Wait,” Felix whispered. “Isn’t that…?”
Seonghwa.
His cheif at the police academy. The same one who always claimed he was too busy to support field ops. Who never signed approvals. Who smiled a bit too much when paperwork got ‘lost.’
Felix’s heart turned to ice. “Holy shit.”
Yeji, panting, still pressing a hand to her ribs, looked at him. “What?”
Felix’s mouth moved before his mind could catch up.
He fumbled for his comm. “Mr. Bang—Mr.Bang, confirm. this man is out higher up, yes?”
“...He is” Chan’s voice snapped. “Get me visuals, now.”
The station lights buzzed quietly.
Seonghwa, now in chains, sat in the steel interrogation room, one hand bouncing in frustration on the metal table. His face had twisted into a scowl, his composure long gone.
Across from him, Hyunjin sat in a sling, arm casted, lip split. His breathing shallow, but rage boiling in his eyes.
Next to him, Felix leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, quiet. Watching.
Hyunjin snarled first. “You talk about freedom.”
Hyunjin slammed his hand on the table, making the cuffs rattle. “You had children in cages! And you called that freedom?!”
He stood up suddenly, searching the room—like he’d forgotten something.
Felix narrowed his eyes. “What are you looking for?”
Hyunjin hissed. “Her bat.”
Felix blinked. “You mean Y/N’s—”
Hyunjin didn’t respond.
Seonghwa finally spoke, coldly. “How the hell did you catch me?”
Felix leaned forward, voice calm.
“We had someone on the inside.”
Seonghwa laughed. “Oh yeah? Who? Which of your precious cops is mad enough to kill to get in?”
Felix glanced at Hyunjin, then back at Seonghwa.
“We have a psychopath” Hyunjin said softly. “But lucky for us… she’s on our side.”
Seonghwa's smile faltered.
Felix stood.
“So maybe you should be grateful you’re in this room.”
Hyunjin turned, pushing open the door.
“Because if she was here—” he added without turning back, “—you wouldn’t have a throat left to ask questions with.”
The door shut behind them.
And in the distance—sirens rose with the dawn.
The story swept across the country like wildfire.
“Undercover Operation Exposes Human Trafficking Ring”
“Superindent police officer, Takes down international drug network”
“Police Chief Implicated in Multi-State Corruption Scandal”
your photo circulated on news channels, all grainy from a raid bodycam, half your face in focus, smudged with blood, your shoulder bruised, and that unwavering stare that made headlines label you everything from hero to machine.
You weren’t watching the news when it aired.
You were at the precinct locker room, still in that spare uniform someone had tossed to you, hair damp from the cold shower, eyes blank from the post-mission haze. Your ribs ached. Your shoulder was still out of place until Chan helped you shove it back in earlier. And your knuckles were still swollen from… you weren’t even sure who anymore.
Felix had come in and silently sat beside you.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.
For a moment, you just sat there, bruised and breathing.
In the background, someone switched the TV volume up. The press was going insane.
They talked about you like you were fiction.
Some called you reckless.
Some called you a martyr.
Some wondered how deep the corruption really went.
Some wanted to give you a medal.
Felix stood at the doorway, silent. You didn’t need to talk about what happened. You both had the blood to prove it.
Back to office.
Seungmin raises his brows at you over the cubicle divider. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the way he tilts his head toward your monitor—then subtly toward the security feed on the corner screen.
You alright? it means.
You give a half-nod. Stop looking at me like that, it means back.
Hyunjin, further down the hallway, gives a short two-finger wave before going back to reviewing a set of crime scene photos with Yeji. You catch her glancing toward you, then giving Hyunjin a pointed look.
They’re whispering. You don’t need to hear them to know what they’re saying.
There she goes. Still showing up. Still working. Tainted, but here. Still cold. Still breathing.
Your identity—once just your name and credentials—now feels like a headline someone read once and forgot the facts of. Just the shape of it. Just the outline of guilt and suspicion.
You grimace.
A blink later, you’re back at your desk. The world is gray, dim through the half-light of surveillance screens and filtered windows.
But your phone buzzes.
Lix :
u look like u wanna stab someone
want me to fake faint in the hallway so u can smile at something?
Your lips twitch.
You :
tempting.
though watching you faint would give me anxiety not joy.
Lix :
then what would give you joy?
You stare at that message longer than you should. There’s a small part of you that wants to say you. But you don’t. You haven’t. Not yet.
So instead, you type:
You :
if you wore that stupid bomber jacket again
the one that makes you look like a golden retriever attending a fashion show
that might help
There’s a pause.
Lix:
first of all. rude.
second of all. i’m wearing it right now. check cam 8
You open the feed. Sure enough—cam 8, warehouse corridor. Felix walks by, hands in his pockets, hair pulled back, win.
He is wearing it.
You let out a low breath, shoulders unclenching just slightly.
He knows what he’s doing.
You:
i still hate you
Lix :
liar
you love me when i bring snacks
You :
you’re safe because you bring snacks
and maybe because you don’t look at me like i’m broken
Lix :
bc you’re not
i know what broken looks like
it’s not you
You blink. The words sit heavily in your chest, warm and unwelcome, like a hand on a wound you’ve kept stitched shut.
You want to say thank you, but that feels too soft. Too much like a crack in the armor.
So instead you reply:
You :
stop flirting or i’ll actually smile and ruin my brand
A older,(about 30)!reader x 26,(crushing on you since long)! Felix
A two shot.
Plot, plot with romance.
warning: murder,violence, sort of love at first sight, kind of broken parent-child relationship, and humor.
you might feel incomplete after reading, because it's the first part!!
Also, I dont know much about police rankings so if you find any mistakes, excuse them please!
Part-2
You used to work in Busan. Superintendent of Police.
It wasn’t a quiet post. Narcotics. Missing persons. Politically sensitive cover-ups. And one particularly high-profile suicide that wasn’t a suicide.
Your record was immaculate. Your methods, not so much.
Too aggressive during interrogations. Too little sleep. Too much adrenaline. They said the sound of a metal chair dragging across tile could push you into a spiral.
You weren’t fired.
You were moved.
Now it’s Seoul. HIT(Homicide intervention team) Crime Bureau. Elite division. Air thicker with pressure than pollution. It sits five floors up like a crown on a dying city. And you’re standing at the front desk, holding your transfer letter in one hand, ignoring the whispers in your back.
“She’s the one, right? From Busan?”
“Heard she broke a guy’s jaw.”
“Didn’t they say she bit someone—”
“Shhh! Don’t look at her.”
You don’t. They don’t.
You walk through the lobby, gaze straight ahead. Like a bullet on two legs.
You stop at the heavy black door marked: BANG CHAN.
You knock. Once. Sharp.
From the other side, a warm voice calls, “Come in.”
You don’t. You sit outside.
There’s a narrow bench across the hallway, and you drop into it, elbows on your knees, hands limp between them. Your head is spinning. Your temples ache. There's a stabbing pain down your left shoulder, but that’s nothing new.
You’re still sitting. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.
“Not coming in?” he asks.
You glance up at him.
“My head’s been spinning since morning,” you say simply. No dramatic sigh. No complaint. Just fact.
He hums, walks to you, and gently plucks the letter from your hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you” he says, flipping it open. “I was expecting something louder.”
You just look up at him.
He signs the document with a sleek black pen, clicks it closed, and hands the letter back. “Let’s not waste time.”
He gestures. You rise.
The main bullpen falls to a hush when you enter.
It’s not silent. It’s worse. It’s that awkward, glassy pause where people don’t want to be caught looking, but they already are. Chairs turn half-way. Files stop moving. Breath gets held.
Chan leads, you trail.
“Everyone” Chan says, voice firm but not loud, “meet your new next-in-command. Miss Y/N. She’ll be overseeing division operations with me and handling all incoming leads on violent crimes. You’ve read about her. Now you’ll work with her.”
you look.
Eyes sweep left to right. Lock on a guy who lowers his gaze quickly then on a girl. another guy’s in the corner, straightening his files like they’re military-grade.
They greet.
You nod at them, and once again at the girl who seemed to give you sparkly eyes.
Then you follow Chan again.
Your office is smaller than the one in Busan, but it’s neater. Cold walls, sealed window, standard-issue desk, steel filing cabinet, a chair that looks like it hasn’t been adjusted since 2011.
Chan opens the door.
“This’ll be you.”
You glance around.
He watches you for a beat. “Let me know if you need anything.”
You nod again. “Thank you.”
He leaves. Door clicks shut.
And just like that, you’re alone again.
You set your coat on the hook and roll your left shoulder.
That damn pain’s back. Like someone’s threading a hot wire under your skin from the blade to your bicep.
You go to the window. Open it. Let stale Seoul air flood in. The sounds are oddly comforting—distant shouting, a bus engine, a siren blip.
You sit on the cushioned office chair.
You lean back and finally open your laptop.
The shoulder ache lingers.
“burning pain in left shoulder and arm”
Google loads. First link:
Possible causes: heart attack. Seek emergency medical help.
You stare at the screen.
Your eye twitches once.
“Symptoms of heart attack in women under 35.”
“Is left shoulder pain related to anxiety.”
“Covid booster side effects shoulder pain left arm dizziness + hypertension + exhaustion + rage + homicide and arson tendencies.”
Google returned no reassuring answers.
You leaned further back into the chair, wincing as the pain flared again in your shoulder.
If it was a heart attack, you figured you'd go down with your boots on. Preferably while yelling at someone.
Then came the knock.
Three raps.
You didn’t look up from your screen.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open.
Seungmin stepped in first—orderly, straight-spined, textbook posture—and Hyunjin trailed him like a cat who'd been shoved into a suit. His shoulders were loose, but his eyes kept flicking around the room. Like something might jump at him. Or worse, you might.
They sat across from you, hands neatly in their laps. The chair legs scraped against the tile.
Hyunjin’s leg started bouncing.
Tap tap tap taptap.
Seungmin cleared his throat.
“Ma’am. I’m Kim Seungmin. This is Hwang Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin gave a polite nod.
Tap tap tap.
Your eye twitched.
You waited a beat. Then looked at him directly.
“Stop bouncing your leg.”
It wasn’t shouted. Just… delivered like a bullet. Straight, fast, and no-frills.
Hyunjin froze.
As if on cue, someone dropped a metal tumbler outside the office door. The clang was so loud it made your pen jump in its holder.
Hyunjin jolted like he’d been tased.
You tilted your head slightly. “Are you okay?”
“S-Sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s fine” you said flatly. “Don’t repeat it.”
His leg went still. His soul? Possibly not in the room anymore.
Seungmin, to his credit, continued like he hadn’t just watched a ghost pass through his best friend.
“So, as per Mr. Bang, we’ve been briefed that you’re our immediate senior for division-level cases. Hyunjin and I usually collaborate on field-debrief and evidence flow, but we’re happy to follow your directive structure and reporting flow.”
You nodded absently. Still scrolling.
“Heart attack or pulled muscle?”
“Is sudden shoulder pain psychosomatic?”
“How many hours do you have after heart attack before you die?”
You looked up again, blinked at the two of them.
They hadn’t moved. Seungmin now looked vaguely uncomfortable. Hyunjin looked like he was preparing to be asked to dig his own grave.
“Is there anything else?”
They exchanged a look. Hyunjin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then subtly nudged Seungmin’s arm.
Seungmin sighed.
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Mr. Bang decided one of us should assist you directly—for scheduling, reports, lead channelling, etc. You should’ve gotten a message.”
You picked up your phone.
New text from Chan:
assigned one. Hyunjin, needs guidance.
You looked up at them.
“Yes” you said. “I see it. Hyunjin?”
He blinked.
“Y-yes?”
“You’re my new assistant.”
His lips parted. Then closed. Then parted again.
He nodded numbly. “Okay.”
You tapped your phone screen off.
“You may leave.”
They stood quickly. Seungmin looked vaguely amused, which you didn’t like. Hyunjin looked like he was re-evaluating his life choices since birth.
As they left, you called out, almost absently:
“Hyunjin?”
He froze in the doorway.
You didn’t look up.
“You will stop bouncing that leg. Yes?”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
The door clicked shut.
You exhaled through your nose. Pain pulsed again in your shoulder.
You opened a new tab.
“Is stress enough to simulate cardiac symptoms.”
Then shut it again.
It wasn’t this cold when you first arrived.
But the city was getting colder every day. And somewhere, deep down, it felt personal. Like the cold was something that followed you. Crawled behind your spine, dug under your nails, slipped into the crack of your jaw.
Now, it was snowing.
Thin white dust covered the pavement like the crime scene was decorated for Christmas. A corpse instead of a star.
Hyunjin drove.
He hadn’t spoken the entire ride.
You didn’t complain. You hated morning conversation.
The heater in the car buzzed low, trying its best. But it was still cold as fuck. You barely moved your arms. The dull ache in your left shoulder was worse today. You clenched your jaw every time the vehicle turned, neck locking.
He stole a few glances at you as you both stepped out at the site.
It was in the older part of town—some half-shut warehouse with a rusted door. Blood marked the snow in a slow, lazy pool near the entrance.
Inside was worse.
The man had been tied up upside down, rope wounds burned into his ankles, still dangling like some morbid art installation. His neck was sliced—front and back. Brutal, but not rushed. Precise, even. There were three incisions across the torso.
Everyone stood around it like they didn’t want to be the first to speak.
You stepped closer.
Hyunjin came up beside you. Without a word, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket, holding them out.
You gave him a flat look.
“No.”
He hesitated. “It’s—it's freezing.”
“So go sit in the car” you muttered, eyes never leaving the body.
You exhaled.
Shoulder throbbing. Coat heavy. The chill slicing through your sleeves like needles.
Still, you stepped closer.
The corpse swayed a little. No wind. Just imbalance. His head hung like a wrecked chandelier. You rolled your left shoulder slowly—still stiff. Then raised both arms. Mimicking the cutting movement.
You shifted your weight onto your heels, lifted your heels off the ground, adjusting for better balance. Simulating the swing of a blade.
Then lowered your hands and muttered, mostly to yourself, “The cut’s clean on both ends. One person. Taller than me by a few inches. Maybe four.”
Hyunjin scribbled beside you, his pen moving quickly against the pad in his gloved hand.
He looked up. “Torso?”
You nodded once. Stepped forward again.
You leaned in, squatted slightly, ignoring the way your thigh protested. Reached a bare hand out slowly and touched the edge of the lowest cut. Two fingers. Careful. Barely pressure.
You stood up, brushing your hand on your coat.
“Forensics, let them.”
He nodded, writing it down.
You looked at him, face calm. Breath steaming slightly in the freezing air.
“Anything else?”
Hyunjin looked through his notes, then shook his head slightly. “Not from me. The lab team will need a bit longer to set up for blood angle analysis.”
“Then stay” you said. “Handle everything. I want every digital, chemical, and physical connection this guy had charted and cross-referenced in three days.”
He blinked. “All of it?”
You gave him a look.
He nodded.
You turned to leave, walking toward the car.
“My check-up’s scheduled in thirty” you tossed over your shoulder. “This shoulder’s fucked.”
“I’ll finish and send everything over” he called after you.
You waved a hand once, still walking. The wind caught your coat, snapping it open for a second before it settled.
Hyunjin looked down at the corpse again.
It was warmer than you.
The waiting bench outside the doctor's office was plastic and colder than concrete.
You sat on its edge, elbow propped on your knee, phone pinned between your shoulder and jaw, the screen flickering against your temple. Your other hand flexed unconsciously over your left shoulder. The ache had grown teeth.
Hyunjin’s voice filtered in, clipped and clean. “There’s no footprints, ma’am. Not a single one.”
You inhaled. “Snow?”
“Yes. It’s fresh. Probably fell last night, maybe early morning too. The surface is completely even now.”
You hummed. A sharp, thoughtful sound. Then leaned your head back against the cold glass behind you. “We’ll revisit the scene tonight. Once the sun’s down. Lights might pick up something infrared didn’t.”
“Understood.” Click. The call ended.
A second later, your phone buzzed again.
hyunjin: Forensics report. Just got the preliminaries.
hyunjin: His glands are gone. Pituitary. Pancreas. Some from the chest cavity.
hyunjin: Dopamine-secreting types.
hyunjin: Maybe organ trade?
You typed back:
you: Glands don’t sell. No black market use. Not even for biochemistry. Too fragile.
Read.
No response from him after that.
You locked your phone and sighed, cold breath misting in front of you like steam from a bullet wound. The air here made your teeth ache.
Your name was called.
You stood, pushing open the clinic door.
The doctor’s room smelled sterile and bright. The light made your eyes twitch.
He looked up from the file.
You sat down hard on the examination stool, coat still draped over your shoulders like armor.
He glanced up.
You zoned out as he opened your chart.
He said something.
You didn’t catch it.
“Ma’am?” He looked at you again.
You blinked. “What?”
He tilted his head. “I asked—any signs of zoning out lately?”
You straightened slightly. “No.”
He watched your face for a moment too long.
Then nodded anyway, wrote something down.
You saw it even upside down. “Patient in denial.”
“Tch.”
“Your father told me you’re police” he said without looking up. “High clearance?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at your file again. “Are you keeping the violence down?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Your gaze dropped to his pen, and suddenly the memory pulled up like a ragged file.
Blood slicked across the table. Your palm pushing down. a hand under yours, wrist bent. You’d said “Lie again—” before it cracked.
You blinked.
The doctor was still watching you.
“Are you keeping it under control?” he asked again gently.
You’d barely said yes when your phone buzzed again.
Dad-dont-pick-up.
Your jaw ticked.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, the kind of sound that usually came right before a threat. The doctor subtly adjusted the stethoscope around his neck.
You picked up.
“Yeah, I’m fuckin—” you caught yourself mid-snarl, eyes flicking toward the man seated before you, “—I’m with him. At the clinic. Stop calling.”
Then cut the line without waiting for a response.
Behind his desk, the doctor sighed. Like he had met ten versions of you just this week. Like yours was the most predictable brand of short fuse.
He scribbled again.
You leaned back, irritated now by the sound of the pen itself. “Uh my left shoulder” you said. “Burns like it’s on fire when I wake up. Gets worse during the day.”
He nodded, finally something non-psychological to sink his teeth into. “Rotator cuff strain, probably. Nothing critical. Overuse, inflammation. Keep it warm. Stretch. Take anti-inflammatories.”
He slid a prescription note toward you with the names of the pills already scrawled in neat uppercase.
Then added, almost too casually, “Ask your husband to help with physiotherapy if it gets worse.”
You stood up and snatched the paper with a sharp rustle.
“Did my father tell you I'm married?”
The doctor blinked.
You weren’t sure why that irritated you more than the rest of the conversation. Maybe it was the assumption. Maybe it was the voice in your head that whispered what if you were? what if someone actually could?
You turned toward the door, the prescription crushed slightly in your hand.
“I’m not married” you said flatly.
Behind you, he raised his eyebrows and slowly wrote something down again.
“Of course” he said. “My mistake.”
You didn’t respond.
The door clicked shut harder than necessary behind you.
You and Hyunjin walked toward the alley from the west side, streetlamps flickering above. Your collar was popped, your shoulder stiff, and you hadn’t spoken since the car ride.
Which was probably for the best.
It was when you were ten steps from the crime scene that someone bumped into you.
Full-body kind of bump. Like they weren’t paying attention, or like they were trying not to be seen.
You instinctively reached for your hip.
The man stumbled back, bowing slightly, hands up. “sorry! I didn’t see—”
Head down, and gone the next second. Melted into the crowd before you could blink.
At the taped-off site, the corpse had long been removed. The dark splotch on the ground was still visible—darker than the snow, soaking beneath the top layer. The ropes had left deep indents in the metal piping overhead where the man had been hung.
You stared at the slush under your feet. “Get this snow melted.”
Hyunjin blinked. “Ma’am?”
“The snow. Melt it. The vehicle was on sand, it snowed early in the morning, right? We melt it, maybe we catch something.”
Hyunjin raised a brow but signaled the team. “Bring the flamers.”
Within minutes, two officers returned with portable gas flamethrowers—the kind used for controlled burns or thawing roads. A hum of ignition followed.
You squinted at the heat as it began steaming away the snow.
You and Hyunjin squat to take a closer look at the snow.
A sharp blast of warmth flared at your right temple. You turned sharply.
“Hyunjin” you said through gritted teeth. “Ask that guy to stop pointing the flammer in my fucking face.”
Hyunjin turned to the officer and guestured him to move away with a scrunched nose.
The guy muttered an apology and adjusted the nozzle toward the ground properly. You exhaled. Tension pulsed in your left shoulder again.
“You hear that?” you asked, gesturing at the faint crunching noise beneath the vanishing snow. “Check that area. Left side.”
One of the officers crouched. Cleared a little more space with a small brush.
There it was.
A tire mark. Deep and clean in the half-thawed mud.
Hyunjin crouched down beside it, taking a measurement with a laser tool. “Nine inches. Tread looks brand-new. Maybe just a week or two old.”
You nodded.
“Check the nearby service areas. Stores. Anyone who bought that model tire recently.”
Hyunjin straightened. “There’ll be too many.”
“Then narrow it down” you snapped, not looking at him. “Cross-reference with movement logs. People out during the snowfall window.”
He muttered a quiet “Yes, ma’am.”
You were already on your phone again.
Scrolling Tinder.
Swipe left. Left. Left. God, no. Left.
Seungmin trudged over just as you left-swiped on someone posing next to a deer statue.
He held his notepad in one gloved hand, pencil behind his ear. “Need a behavioral profile by tomorrow?”
“Midnight.”
He scribbled something, then looked up, slightly hopeful. “By the way, ma’am… I was wondering. End of the month—can I take a few days off?”
You didn’t respond, thumb still mid-swipe.
He hesitated. “My niece’s school has their annual day. She’s dancing. I promised I’d go. Just—three days?”
Your eyes lifted.
You looked at him. Stared. Tilted your head a little.
A full five seconds of dead silence.
“No.”
Hyunjin, nearby, was trying not to laugh. Seungmin’s face fell like a poorly balanced tower of shame.
You looked back at your phone.
When your father called again, you didn’t answer.
He left a voice message. His tone was less annoyed this time. More… tired.
“I saw your face on the news again. Why do you always look like you haven’t slept in ten years? Eat something. And try combing your hair before going on TV. And for the love of god—date someone. Try being human.”
You didn’t reply.
But you did go on the dates he fixed up for you.
The first guy’s name was Junseo. He was thirty-three. Tall. A “startup founder.” Wore a watch that looked like it cost more than his house.
He was also scrolling through Tinder on his phone during the date.
You said nothing for twenty minutes.
Then he looked up, smiled, and said:
“So like… are you more of a handcuff kind of cop? Or like, batons?”
You drained the last of your soda and said, “I prefer bone saws.”
Date #2: A guy who asked you if you'd ever arrested someone for public sex.
Date #3: Told you he lived with his friend and his mom, but “only because she’s hot and makes good kimchi.”
Date #4: Double-timing two other women, one of whom showed up during the date.
At this point, your dating life was less about romance and more about building your investigative instincts.
Left. Left. Left.
Bio says “alpha male”? Left so hard your phone froze.
You didn’t know what exactly you were looking for.
But you knew for damn sure what you weren’t.
The meeting room was full.
Bang Chan sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, glasses on. You were off to the side, sprawled in your chair with a paper cup of espresso and your phone still in hand.
Seungmin stood near the projector screen, clearing his throat before the next slide.
The screen changed to display a diagram of human glands. Highlighted in red: Pituitary. Adrenal. Pancreas.
“This” Seungmin said, pointing with the laser, “is the pattern we’ve been seeing. These are all dopamine-regulating or secreting glands. Not harvested in black market organ trades.”
He clicked again. A cross-section of the autopsy followed.
“So I ran the chemical trace scan from the forensics report. There was a dopamine modulator found near the incision points. One we’ve seen in certain stimulant factories—used in synthetic dopamine boosters.”
Chan raised an eyebrow. “So it could be related to the drug manufacturing circuit?”
Seungmin nodded. “Yes. A new synthetic dopamine-based narcotic, maybe. We don’t know the delivery system yet. But someone’s collecting raw material.”
You were still on your phone.
Swiped left on a guy who looked like he took gym mirror selfies for a living.
Chan turned to you slowly.
“And what are you doing next?” he asked, calmly but directly.
Without looking up, you said “We’re going in the right track. Approach is ready.”
Hyunjin blinked.
Seungmin paused and slowly turned to look at him.
Chan stared for a second longer.
Then leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “Alright. I’ll leave it to you.”
The room began to shift into smaller conversations. You locked your phone, stretching your arm just a bit to ease the shoulder pain. Still sore.
Seungmin came over again, notepad in hand, leaning down slightly.
“Ma’am” he said, hopeful again, “just two days at the end of the month. My niece’s dance thing.”
You didn’t even blink.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
He let out a small sound of despair and backed away, shoulders deflating.
You stared after him, then unlocked your phone again.
Hyunjin and you went to investigate the suspects narrowed you down, two were cleared off, clean. One's house was way too far for her to even know of a place as that, and another was none other than a man named Han Jisung, who was at work that day and night.
The third suspects house. Hyunjin was with the lock-guy who was figuring out the door lock to open it up, as no one was coming out and the house is seemingly empty.
You shouldn’t have gone in alone. You knew that.
But something about the lined-up tires in the garage—it felt off.
The air was colder inside, bone-dry and sharp on your throat. You stepped over the oil stains and rat droppings. You squatted, eyes flickering across the three stacked tires in the corner. You reached out, fingers brushing against the edge of the bottom one.
A smear.
Dark brown, almost dry. Metallic.
You touched it lightly, then raised your finger to eye level.
Blood.
Your back straightened with a crack. You rolled your shoulders and coughed once—just once, sharp and dry—and turned toward the house.
“Hyunjin”
You didn’t even raise your voice.
He heard it anyway.
“Tear the fucking door down.”
And he did, asking the man to move a bit.
One solid kick to the side of the door—crack.
Another to the hinge—crash.
The lock snapped like a twig.
You both stepped in. Dust curled up in the air, and your boots echoed on the hardwood floor. The smell was immediate—iron and mold. The guy didn’t even pretend to be innocent.
He was there, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, arms blood-streaked.
Breathing like a man halfway through a nightmare he thought was still a dream.
“No” he said. “No—I didn’t—I didn’t do anything.”
Then he started running.
You grabbed the guy mid-run by the collar, slammed him chest-first against the wall. He twisted, elbowed your ribs hard enough to make your teeth clack. But you didn’t let go. You dragged him down, your knee to his thigh, twisting his arm behind his back with a grunt. He broke loose once—but he didn’t get far.
You chased him down, your lungs burning, throat raw from the cold, and slammed him face-first into the corner table. Blood from his nose sprayed the whitewashed wall like art. His knees buckled.
Caught.
Interrogation Room.
(TW: violencE?)
The fluorescent light buzzed. You were leaning back on the chair like you had time. You didn’t, at all. But you looked like you did.
The man Joseph, was still catching his breath, lips cracked, knuckles scabbed from his earlier flailing. He refused to speak. Smirked, even, when you said evidence.
You had no patience left for performance.
“Hyunjin” you said. “Left hand. Hold it out.”
He blinked at you once. Then nodded, wordless.
Joseph flinched. “No. No, no—what the fuck are you—”
Hyunjin gripped his wrist, bracing it on the table.
You walked around. Calm. Like you were going to pour tea.
Instead, you picked up your baseball bat. You didn’t give him time to breathe before—
CRACK.
Knuckle one.
CRACK.
Knuckle two.
He all but screamed.
“Fuck you!”
CRACK.
Hyunjin winced.
“I’m gonna sue you, you fucking psycho—”
CRACK.
Screaming.
The fourth hit made his middle finger dislocate on the table.
You leaned in, wiped the blood on your sleeve, and whispered, “Joseph. We can stop. You know that, right?”
You placed your palm on his shoulder. He sobbed. You slid it upward, under the collarbone, to the socket.
Your fingers curved, other hand came to hold his shoulder stiff, gripped, and with a swift jerk—POP.
The shoulder joint dislocated.
Joseph’s eyes rolled white. He fainted with a hoarse croak.
“…that fast?” you muttered under your breath.
Hyunjin slowly lets go of joseph's hand and wipes the blood off of his own. Seungmin’s voice came faintly through the walkie-talkie “…Bone dislocated, call paramedics”
You didn't respond.
Behind the one-way mirror, Chan flinched as he watched Joseph go limp.
“Damn” he whispered, rubbing his own shoulder with a wince. “I’m so scared of her.”
Joseph sat hunched over again, breathing hard through his teeth. His right arm was in a sling now. Nothing fancy—basic bandage job from the medics, wrapped fast so he wouldn’t have an excuse to delay the second round.
The air in the room felt like it was waiting for something.
Then you walked in. Same steady grip. Bat in hand.
Hyunjin was already inside. He glanced at you once, read your body language in a split second, and let out a quiet sigh.
“Other hand?” you asked softly. Like it was nothing.
“…Okay.”
He moved behind Joseph, gripped the left wrist this time, pressed it flat on the metal table.
Joseph tensed. “No, wait, wait—what the fuck—what the fuck, again?!”
You raised the bat. Fluid. No hesitation. No warm-up swing. Just raw, practiced movement.
“Tell me something useful” you said, “or I’ll separate this arm from the rest.”
The tip of the bat hovered over his wrist like an executioner’s blade.
Joseph started screaming again.
But it wasn’t the bat that hit.
It was the door.
SLAM.
Seungmin burst through, panting, holding up a phone like it was the holy grail.
“Wait!”
You paused. The bat stopped inches away from impact.
Seungmin shoved the phone in your face. The screen lit up with a paused frame.
“Cyber team cracked it. Joseph’s phone. External card. Hidden file.”
He hit play.
Hyunjin stepped beside you instinctively, watching with you.
The video rolled.
Shaky, low-resolution, taken by Joseph himself. Blood-blurred lens. A man hanging upside down, body spasming. Joseph’s voice, muttering, and the knife—slicing the throat from side to side while the man gurgled, twitching, going still.
The silence afterward was worse than the screams.
You stared at the screen. let a slow breath out.
Hyunjin flinched hard. One hand slowly left Joseph’s wrist.
“…Jesus Christ” he muttered. “He filmed it?”
You handed him the phone without a word.
Then you turned. Started walking out with Seungmin beside you, talking low.
“Submit this,” you said. “Motion for remand. Evidence, video, timestamps—fucking hell—submit it all before morning.”
You let go of your bat.
It hit the floor with a dull clang, rolling once and stopping.
Hyunjin bent down, picked it up, turned it over in his hands.
Then slowly… nudged the tip of the bat into Joseph’s already-bruised shoulder.
“Y’know…”
Joseph hissed, crying out.
“I actually thought you were innocent.” Nudge.
“I even pitied you.” Another nudge—firmer.
“You stupid idiot. You filmed it? Are you out of your damn mind?”
Joseph cursed through clenched teeth.
Hyunjin leaned close, voice flat but scolding, “You had the video all along? You couldv'e just said so.”
He shook his head.
Joseph groaned again, and Hyunjin raised the bat like he was thinking about it. Then his phone buzzed.
[Y/N Demon calling…]
“…Tch.”
He gave Joseph one last shove with the bat and walked out, dragging the phone to his ear.
Case Closed. Apparently.
You were seated at the head of the long conference table, legs crossed, phone in hand, face blank.
The others were discussing Joseph’s case. Technical terms. Cyberteam flags. Voice match confirmation. Timeline alignment. Hyunjin was using the whiteboard like a high school tutor again, drawing arrows between crime scenes and forensics.
You were swiping left on Tinder like your thumb had a personal grudge.
Too much gym.
Swipe left.
Mirror selfie with dead fish.
Swipe left.
Nope.
Swipe left.
Chan shot you a glance from across the room. You didn’t look up.
“Mm.” Chan says “Case is over. Guy confessed. Evidence is airtight. We’re done.”
Officer Yeji tossed a folder down with a dramatic thud, satisfied. Seungmin yawned. Someone else muttered about coffee. The whole room had the lazy satisfaction of a solved case.
You paused your swiping long enough to stretch your neck.
"There's no reason for Joseph to record it." you said.
Yeji blinked, smiled slightly.
Everyone was quiet for half a second.
Then seungmin chuckled.
“Maybe he was proud?”
“Or stupid” Hyunjin added with a shrug, stretching his arms.
You raised an eyebrow, looked back at Yeji.
She didn’t laugh.
She looked thoughtful.
“I was watching the news yesterday” she started, casually, “and in Yokohama, a case popped up. Guy strung upside down, throat slit the same way. Almost identical.”
Yeji tilted her head. “Feels like it. Might be nothing. But…”
You were already standing.
“Okay. Bring the files to my office. Pull everything from Yokohama. Victim details, timestamps, weapon type. Cross it with Joseph’s known movements.”
“Got it” she said, pushing her chair back.
“Meeting’s over” you added.
Everyone started getting up.
Chan passed by and clapped your shoulder. “Good instinct,” he muttered, nodding toward Yeji. “She’s sharp. You rubbed off on her.”
“Unlikely” you replied.
He laughed and left, whistling.
You were back in your office, leaned back with your boots propped on the desk, scrolling through Tinder again like it owed you money.
Seungmin knocked once and entered without waiting.
“Ma'am,” he said. “About the leave....”
You didn’t look up. “That’s… the third time you’ve asked.”
“I know” he said. “I just like getting early approval.”
You sighed, thumb still gliding.
“About the leave?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not a no.”
“That’s not a yes either.”
He saluted mockingly and backed out.
You paused.
Squinted at the next tinder profile.
You swiped left with force.
“Absolutely not.”
Hyunjin trailed after you like a grumbling dog, expression twisted in theatrical betrayal.
“Seriously?” he huffed. “Yeji? Yeji brought it up?”
You kept walking, barely sparing him a glance. The overhead lights buzzed softly.
“Should I start worrying about replacement?” Hyunjin continued, hand over his chest. “Are we auditioning new sidekicks now? You didn’t even tell me—”
“You’re loud today,” you said.
“I’m emotionally wounded.”
You stopped walking, turned to him, deadpan.
“She noticed something before you did. Accept it and move.”
He blinked.
“…You wound me deeper.”
You turned again, walking toward the briefing hub.
Behind you, he kept pace like a scolded cat. Muttering.
Yeji was already standing by the shared screen, files open.
“This,” she said, tapping the screen, “is the victim from Yokohama. Mid-thirties, same strangulation pattern, same dissection line. And the pitutary gland was takes out from the head excatly the way joseph did.”
You stared at it for a beat, eyes narrowing.
It wasn’t just similar. It was a damn carbon copy.
You stepped back, rolling your shoulder again. The dull pulse flared sharp and then dulled again.
You turned to Chan, who had entered halfway through the discussion and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Ask Yokohama to send the suspect over” you said. “I want them here. Same cell, same setting. I want to watch how they react to the footage we have.”
Chan raised an eyebrow.
“That’s… not exactly simple” he said, tone even. “Yokohama is in a different country. They won’t want to give up a prime suspect just because we’re curious.”
“You’re not curious?” you asked, tilting your head.
He smiled, tired. “I am. But I’m also bureaucratic.”
“Try harder.”
He nodded, pressing his knuckles into his jaw like he was debating his own to-do list.
“We’ll try” he said. “No promises.”
You looked at him a moment longer, then gave a short nod and walked away without waiting for dismissal.
The office had begun to thin out. The hum of tension in your shoulders hadn't. It had been a long day—Hyunjin’s dramatics, Yokohama’s mess, Chan’s bureaucracy, and Yeji’s stubborn instincts. But now it was finally winding down. You leaned back in your chair, boots up on the desk, a cold cigarette pressed lazily between your lips, unlit.
Your left shoulder ached like it had its own pulse.
The sun had dipped by now, washing the precinct in a soft, golden haze—slanting through blinds, striping the floor, too soft for your taste. Still, for once, silence.
That was until—
knock knock knock
“Don’t” you warned.
Seungmin poked his head in anyway.
“Someone’s here to meet you.”
You raised an eyebrow, lazily tapping the unlit cigarette against your notepad.
“I didn’t order anything.”
“He’s not a delivery guy. Pretty, though. Ridiculously pretty. Looks like one of those skincare ads.”
You frowned. “That’s not a category of human beings.”
“It is when someone looks like that” Seungmin muttered, stepping aside with a suspicious smile. “He says he knows you. Name’s Felix.”
You stood slowly, flicked the cigarette into the bin, and walked out.
And there he was.
He stood against the far wall, hands tucked in the pockets of his soft coat, the collar popped slightly from the breeze that trickled through the cracked window. Blonde hair. Piercing, sun-drenched eyes. A face that shouldn’t have belonged inside a police department.
He looked out of place, but entirely unfazed.
When his gaze met yours, he straightened and smiled wider.
“Hey” he said, casually. “There you are.”
You stopped mid-step, narrowed your eyes. “Do I know you?”
His brows furrowed like you were the one being silly. “Why are you acting like that? We talked—yesterday? You asked me to meet you in front of your office?”
You stared, long and hard. “Talked. Where?”
His smile didn’t falter. “Seoulmate.com?”
Your world paused.
Your eyes closed.
You whispered “Fuck me.”
You turned on your heel and walked five steps away from him, pulled out your phone, and called the one man responsible for 98% of your headaches: your dad.
He answered in two rings.
“Hey—”
“Dad” you said calmly, “Did you log into my matrimony profile again?”
“…Huh?”
“There’s a man here who thinks we talked. He is from Seoulmate dot com.”
There was a pause.
Then your father coughed and said, “Okay, don’t be mad, but yes, I talked to someone for you. I thought your face would've scared him off, He really came—?”
You rubbed your forehead, sighing. “Tell me before you do such things!”
“It was one message! Just a little flir—he liked it!”
You hung up.
You turned back to Felix, who stood exactly where he was, with the patience of a monk and the smile of someone not surprised at all.
You walked back up to him, tilting your head. “That was my father. He was the one talking to you yesterday.”
Felix blinked, then burst into a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. Sounded like chocolate flavoured honeyed milk.
You looked him over once. Slowly. His freckles. His voice. His smile. The little glimmer of amusement in his eyes that said he wasn’t offended, just interested.
“I mean” you added, taking one slow step forward, close enough to smell his cologne clean, warm. Like rain and cinnamon. “if it had been me… I would’ve messaged too.”
You exhaled a low chuckle, surprised at yourself.
“That’s the truth” you said, meeting his gaze.
Felix grinned. “I like your honesty.”
“Hm?”
He shrugged. “It’s refreshing.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall, eyes still locked on yours. “Well… why don’t we get coffee? Just a cup. If we both feel good about it, we’ll keep going. If not, we go our separate ways. No pressure.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. A small smile threatened to bloom—but you didn’t let it win. Not entirely.
“…Sure”
The place smelled like honey-soaked pastries and slow-roasted beans.
Felix sits across from you, all freckled cheeks and calm presence, like he’s completely unknown that you interrogated a murder suspect eight hours ago and threatened to break Hyunjin’s phone for pinging in a meeting.
He smells like cinnamon and winter. His coat’s too clean. You’d never trust a man that clean if he weren’t so weirdly earnest, and pretty.
After the silence settles long enough to be almost comfortable, he leans in and asks, eyes curious but soft:
“So… you’ve got a good job. Very good reputation. You look..... gorgeous. You’re honest. Why are you still single?”
You let out a breath through your nose. Then said, dead serious—
“I’m serious. Fucking—sorry—serious. You wanna know why I’m single?”
He nods, eager.
“I studied my ass off till my early twenties. Like, fuck-everyone-and-their-distraction type of studying. Law, criminology, psych, state protocols, all that academic masturbation—sorry—dedication.”
He laughs. You don't.
“And when that was done, my hormones hit peak chaos. So I had options. Too many options. Except all of them were just…” You swirl your hand like you're mixing trash in soup. “Lust-factory nonsense. Men who wanted to sleep with a cop just to have a story.”
Felix leans forward a little, chin on his knuckles, amused.
You go on. “And then I hit twenty-nine, and suddenly? Oh—you’re old. Suddenly you're not ‘hot’ anymore, you’re intimidating. Suddenly everyone’s scared you’ll ruin their life. Like I wasn’t going to do that anyway.” You smirk slightly. “And plus, I’m a woman. We don’t get to age. We expire.”
You sip your tea again, bitter, calm. “So yeah. That’s why. Fuck—sorry—fuck dating. Too much admin. Also, this world’s a shallow toilet and I'm not plunging it.”
“Sorry again. For the cussing.”
He's laughing so hard his freckles practically glowed with it. His eyes closed, his hand over his chest like he'd actually been winded.
“You’re so fucking sexy” he said through his laugh. “Sorry for my cussing. But you are.”
You tilt your head. “You trying to get slapped?”
He raises both hands in mock surrender. You shake your head, chuckling under your breath and go back to sipping your tea.
You sipped your tea. “You’re also a child.”
“I’m 26.”
You didn’t respond. Just kept drinking.
After a beat, he looked at you and said more gently, “You didn’t grow up with your mom, did you?”
You froze just slightly. The cup paused near your lips.
“How the fu—sorry—how do you know that?”
He just smiled, like he wasn’t trying to poke a wound.
“Because moms teach you how to talk properly.”
You looked away for a second. The sky was pale and gold through the glass.
“My mom was around” you said slowly. “But not there. You know?”
He nodded like he did.
“Dad was great, though. Even if he’s currently ruining my dating life by catfishing men.”
He grinned again. Something warm passed between you.
“I can teach you, if you want,” he says with a little grin. “How to talk nice. But I loove how you talk now too.”
You chuckle. And this time, it’s a real one. The warmth of the tea, the lighting, the way his freckles shift when he smiles—it’s… not terrible. Not bad at all.
You stared out the window again, eyes tracking the sky, the way the light fell over the city.
Then, without looking at him, you asked, “You free till sunset?”
Felix leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on one hand.
“free till sunrise” he said, too fast, with zero hesitation.
You turned to him, slow, with an eyebrow raised.
He gave you that warm, open, slightly mischievous smile again.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like leaving.
You two had walked through nearly every place. He insisted he wanted to show you his favorite things. Not the tourist trash. Not the curated pretty spots. But the local gems.
You didn’t mind. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. But it was… something.
A handheld streetlight-lit memory.
You watched him nervously pull at his sleeves as he showed you the dumpling vendor near the old post office—he claimed they tasted like great mistakes. Then the pier where a rusty fisherman gave you both roasted chestnuts. Then the alleyway behind a temple wall where an elderly lady sold milky white tea in small glass tumblers. You didn’t say much, but you noticed everything. Including the way his hand trembled once when he passed you your cup.
He was nervous. Around you. And you said nothing.
But he kept going. With stories. With little jokes. With real effort.
You were a little quiet, sipping slowly. Letting him fill the silence.
Your boots scuffed gently against the pavement as you stood at your front gate. Felix had walked the entire way with you, hands deep in his pockets again, face lit only by the streetlamp overhead.
“Well” he said, glancing at your door, “it’s late.”
You gave a small nod, hand resting on the gate latch.
He scratched the back of his neck, then looked up again, eyes slightly brighter. “Should we… I don’t know… go inside? Watch a movie? Chill?”
You looked at him.
“No.”
There was a short pause.
“…Alright” he said quickly. “No problem. Maybe we could just stay out here a little longer then? Talk?”
You tilted your head, slow. “No.”
This time, he laughed. But it was dry. Tight. His hands went back into his pockets and he looked away.
“Guess I misread it” he murmured. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”
He turned, took a step.
Your hand shot out and gripped the back of his coat.
He stopped.
You pulled him, just lightly.
“Where you goin’?” you asked, voice low.
He paused. Looked over his shoulder. You hadn’t moved much—just enough to hold him there, to keep the night from ending too quickly.
Felix turned slowly. Stepped forward. You didn’t step back.
His right hand lifted and settled against the metal gate just beside your waist, firm, steady. The other braced up near your head, bending it so his elbow rested beside your head and his face was too close, thumb tapping a nervous rhythm once before going still.
His smile faded, and you could hear his heart beat louder and faster.
“Why are you confusing me?” he whispered.
You didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just let your expression rest somewhere between amusement and cruelty, just a little curve of lip like a secret he wasn’t allowed to know.
He bit his lower lip like he was restraining something. Like he wanted to ask permission he already knew wouldn’t be granted. Not yet.
The restraint was erotic.
He leaned in, closer than before. Close enough that his nose almost brushed yours, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek like a secret. His lips parted, and for a split second, you actually considered leaning into it too.
And then—
“YOOOO!”
A shout cracked through the silence like a drunk crowbar.
Both your heads turned.
A man, half-stumbling, shirt hanging open like a broken curtain, gawked at the two of you from the other end of the street. Hair wild. Beer bottle swinging. Eyes wide with drunk wonder.
“A pretty girl by your side, What’s cookin’ at 2 AM, brother?!”
Felix blinked, groaned, and took a step back, turned around to look at the man, obviously frustrated at the kill-switch. You, however, didn’t move. You just narrowed your eyes at the drunk, as your line of sight became clear with felix moving aside, recognition sparking.
The man paused mid-sway.
“Shit, that’s her! That cop! The psycho one!!”
He stumbles backward, yelps, and bolts down the alley like the ghosts of his crimes are still clinging to your bootprint in his ribs.
Felix glanced back at you. “What was that about?”
You cracked your knuckles and dusted your jacket like nothing happened. “Beat the shit outta him last week. He tried harassing a schoolgirl.”
Felix stared. “…Respectfully? That’s kinda hot.”
You tilted your head lazily, lips curling. “You got a type, baby?”
He chuckled, easing back into your space again.
You repeat the drunk’s words in a tone that dripped with flirt. “2am, A pretty girl by your side, huh? What’s cookin’?”
His laugh spilled out, full and golden, like you’d just punched the sun into his chest. He stepped back in—again—hands on the gate like before, pinning you but never touching.
Then his eyes darkened with something more curious. “So… others usually run away from you like this?”
Your smile was slow.
“Yeah” you breathed, “except you.”
His eyes flickered, lips parted. His jaw flexed again like he was holding back a grin—or a groan.
“Good” he said, leaning even closer.
Your breath caught.
“I’m not planning on running anytime soon.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
You sighed, slow and heavy with teasing as you muttered “Okay, fine.”
You shifted your weight forward—just a little—chin tilting up, lips parted by the smallest margin. Just enough to answer everything unsaid in the space between.
He leaned in too.
The tension was molten now—pulsing between your chests, coiled at your neck. You were nearly there, your lips barely brushing, the breath shared—
When suddenly his fingers gently lifted to your chin.
Two fingers.
And he stopped you.
Softly.
Held your face still.
Then, with the faintest smirk, he whispered against your lips, “We’ve just met today.”
You blinked.
“…Don't be greeeeedy.”
A sharp, stunned laugh punched out of you. A single bark of genuine amusement, head tilting back slightly as your hands dropped to your sides.
“Asshole” you muttered, but your grin was too wide to mean it.
He grinned too, stepping back, letting the cool night rush back into the space his body had filled. He lifted both hands like he was done negotiating with a wild animal.
“We’re good?” you asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“We’re great,” he said, grinning like a man who’d just won something. “For real.”
You crossed your arms. “Seal the deal?”
He nodded. “Seal the deal.”
“Goodbye?”
“Goodbye.”
You turned to go, one foot already past the gate when he called out, “Hey!”
You looked over your shoulder.
He winked.
And just like that—disappeared down the street.
The house was dim and quiet, just the soft clack-clack of keys echoing from the living room.
You walked in slowly, shrugging off your jacket with a tired breath, when your eyes landed on your father hunched over his old laptop, glasses slipping down his nose, squinting at the screen like it had personally offended him.
You narrowed your eyes.
He didn’t notice you yet, too focused on what looked like a… form.
And then you saw the heading.
Seoulmate.com
You froze mid-step.
Your father, in his most confident arial bold, was 'updating' your matrimony profile description.
1.Very soft-spoken
2.High family values
4.No health problems
5.Calm and composed, patient
You stared.
“‘Very soft-spoken’?” you muttered under your breath. “The hell?”
A wave of embarrassment slammed into you like a train. Felix had read this. He probably thought you were a whole buddhist monk, and his opinion definetly changed after he met you.
You turned to walk past, hoping to pretend none of this ever happened. But your dad looked up, bright-eyed and suspiciously smug.
“You seem very happy” he said, adjusting his glasses and stretching like he hadn’t just finished assassinating your personality.
You gestured at him silently. A quick zipping motion across your lips, paired with a deadly stare.
He snorted. “What? I’m just saying—”
You raised your hand like a warning sign.
He chuckled under his breath as you escaped into your room.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You sank into the chair, flipped open your laptop, and immediately opened the case files from Yokohama. Three more similar murders abroad. You leaned in, jaw set, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Work. That would help you forget.
You didn’t even hear the footsteps until,
Your door slammed open.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look. Just calmly tilted the screen of your laptop toward yourself and away from the door, voice flat as a winter wind.
“Do you not know how to knock before entering?”
Your dad squinted from the doorway, eyes dramatic. “How long will you keep watching porn?”
You looked at him like he just came back from the dead. “What the fuc—”
“Seriously” he said, walking in. “You’re gonna end up alone once I die!”
You turned, slowly, face blank, tone drier than the desert.
“All this love” you said, “where was it when you left me to be raised by that fridge of a woman for years?”
He winced like you stabbed him in the kidney. “Oh-ho, look who’s still stuck in her teenage trauma. Haven’t you heard of forgiveness, Miss cool??”
You stared him down. “Get out.”
He made no move to leave.
“I saw him, by the way” he added casually, backing away with his signature mischief. “That guy at the gate?”
You didn’t react.
But he was already cackling. The door shut behind him with a click.
You sighed. Browsed another line of evidence.
Then quietly, against your will your mouth twitched. Just a little.
09:07 AM | Interrogation Room – HQ
You didn’t like mornings. But today was different.
The air in the interrogation wing was stiff. Thicker than usual. Like it knew something wasn’t right.
Your boots echoed as you walked down the corridor, shoulder still sore from the previous night. You adjusted your coat, barely acknowledging the junior officers who stood aside as you passed. They knew better than to interrupt you mid-thought.
Inside interrogation room B, behind a solid steel desk, sat Mimiko—shoulders squared, back straight, hands folded neatly over her lap.
She looked young. Mid-twenties maybe. Shorter than you by a good few inches, but her presence wasn’t small.
Apparantly, she had confessed the moment she was brought in. No hesitation. No shaking voice. Just…truth.
“Yes, I killed him.”
No theatrics. No motive. No resistance.
Hyunjin had tried checking for her affiliations. No social media presence. No travel overlaps. No phone call logs connected to Joseph. Absolutely no link.
Which made the confession feel less like guilt and more like… sacrifice.
You stood at the two-way mirror, staring through the one-way glass into her blank eyes.
Behind you, Chan let out a slow breath, eyeing you as if he's not sure what he's saying is true. “She’s probably the calmest damn killer I’ve seen in years.”
You didn’t respond. Your eyes were locked on hers, even through the glass, you could see her hands twitch. Your gut was gnawing at you.
“Joseph’s awake?” you asked.
“Vitals stabilized. Conscious. Still being a piece of shit” Seungmin’s voice crackled through the hallway comms.
You nodded. “Bring them both in.”
09:14 AM | Interrogation Room A – Dual Setup
The room was colder than usual, probably a glitch in the building’s ancient ventilation.
Mimiko sat in her original chair, spine still ruler-straight.
Joseph, pale and bandaged, was wheeled in by Seungmin with a dramatic, annoyed grunt. “I’m fine. You don’t need to treat me like a goddamn corpse.”
“You’ll be one if you don’t sit down and shut up” Seungmin replied sweetly, patting his shoulder just a little too hard.
Joseph winced and muttered a curse.
You entered behind them, slow, deliberate steps. Bat in your hand. Hyunjin shut the door behind you with a gentle click.
He leaned against the doorframe like muscle in a noir film, but you could feel his focus radiating off him like static.
Joseph turned toward you, eyes narrowing. “This again? What now?”
You said nothing.
Instead, you turned your gaze to Mimiko. She stared straight ahead, unmoving. Almost bored.
Joseph looked at her. Then back at you. “Wait. Who’s she?”
Mimiko didn’t even blink.
You watched. Carefully. Every breath, every twitch. Nothing.
They didn’t know each other. You were almost sure of it. But still… something connected them. Something outside the lines. Bigger.
“Name” you said softly, staring at Mimiko.
“Mimiko.”
“Why’d you do it?”
No answer.
You turned to Joseph.
He scoffed. “I don’t know this psycho.”
But you could see his eyes were trying to piece something together. His hands were starting to shake.
Ah. There it is.
You placed your bat down with a dull thud on the metal table.
Mimiko looked at it once.
Joseph stared at it like it might bite him.
Chan watches behind the two-way mirror, arms crossed, a toothpick resting in his cheek. Seungmin is calmly checking vitals and documenting pressure levels—his mouth a tight line. Hyunjin stands by the door, holding your favorite rusted hammer wrapped in cloth. You’d had a flair for antique violence.
You stretch your left shoulder once. It hurts—dull and tired—but you carry on, slowly rolling it back into place, expression unreadable.
“I know everything.”
Hyunjin shifts slightly. Seungmin pauses writing.
Mimiko looks at you with a blank face, as if your words bounce off her skin.
“I'm sure you've heard of the name, dopamine trade?”
Joseph flinches. Eyes twitch. Shoulders tighten.
Joseph and Mimiko share eye contact for a few seconds, his eyebrows twich a bit.
You lean closer to Mimiko, gently, so damn gently, placing your fingers over her shoulder. Feeling the shape of her ball and socket joint. Your hands curl along her collarbone, putting deliberate pressure at the cap. Her heartbeat's fast.
Joseph jerks back, eyes wide—expecting the crack, the pop, the unbearable—
But you don’t.
You simply hum, casual, bringing your hands back on the table as your fingers tap in slow succession.
“You both did well” you say softly. “Mimiko, very neat, well done. Joseph…” you glance at him, “....you messed up.”
“What?” Mimiko finally speaks.
“I did not!” Joseph snaps, leaning forward, restrained hands shaking slightly.
“Mmm” you hum again, swinging a boot slowly under the table. “Cut at the wrong spot. Missed an organ.”
Joseph barks, “No! I did it right!”
Mimiko turns to him, sharply. “She said you missed the organ!”
“It was according to the rules!” Joseph protests again, desperate, loud.
You slowly lower your eyelids. Drumming your fingers in a slow rhythm against the table. “Rules, rules” you mutter, half amused.
Mimiko frowns. “How do you miss the organs? It’s clearly mentioned on the web—”
She stops. Eyes widening slightly, head shaking in small no-no-no's to joseph who's still going on.
Joseph, still behind the curve, slams his fists on the table. “No! I took the exact steps as listed on the website!”
You raise both hands.
“Website, website” you mutter, louder now, tone rising with restrained glee.
And then they both go silent.
Mimiko’s pupils dilate.
Joseph looks at her. Then at you.
Seungmin, now by the wall, subtly speaks into his walkie. “Cyber team, prepare trace.”
Hyunjin has already scribbled in his notes—scratched quick circles around the word dark web.
You crack your neck. Walk up. The cold iron of the bat in Hyunjin’s hands meets yours again. He doesn’t need to be told. He steps back, solemnly, eyes flicking to Chan beyond the mirror.
Mimiko doesn't scream when you dislocate her shoulder.
She only grunts. Head snaps sideways, jaw clenched. The pain is sharp and white and total—but she takes it. Tough little creature.
You lower yourself to her level and whisper, “Don’t make me do more.”
She doesn’t answer. So you drop lower and yank her knee sideways. Pop. It gives way with an ugly, wet sound.
This time, she screams. Seungmin immediately walks out to call the paramedics.
And still, you’re not done. Not until you lean forward and dig your thumb into the already dislocated knee.
“You’ll walk again” you promise softly. “But I won’t stop until you crawl first. Name. Of. The. Site.”
Mimiko bites down, blood along her lip. Her chest rises, falls. Her restraint is good. Too good. You admire that.
But it breaks.
“Nyxnet” she hisses. “It’s called Nyxnet.”
Behind the mirror, Chan nods. The cyber team moves. Track initiated.
You stand.
“You really should’ve held out longer” you murmur.
Hyunjin steps up beside you, holding his notes. He glances at the blood streaked on your hands and the way Mimiko is now half-conscious.
“Do you ever worry you might enjoy this too much?” he whispers.
You shrug. “I don’t. Do you?”
He grins. “Nope.”
Seungmin returns, medics trailing in. As they begin checking Mimiko’s vitals and bracing her knee, you toss the bat back to Hyunjin, who fumbles a bit—catching it with a lopsided grin.
You say nothing, just turn to leave. They know the rhythm now.
It takes nearly a week.
The cyber team works in shifts, eyes bloodshot from staring too long into cryptic scripts and onion-layered encryptions. Hyunjin camps beside the screens at times, chewing pens and jotting fragmented notes with slanted handwriting. Seungmin goes back and forth between legal advisors and forensic units. The tension is thick, but quiet—everyone feels it, that slow descent into something far uglier than the surface murders suggested.
You, on the other hand, sleep a little, smoke a little, think a lot.
By the end of day six, the picture forms.
Nyxnet isn’t just a site. It’s a community. A glorified, curated social media where people who’ve passed some invisible threshold of humanity come together, and share tips. Footage. Feedback. Some even leave comments in bright little emojis under mutilation videos, like they’re giving out baking advice.
The worst part?
To join, truly the site demands a toll.
Two murders. Identical method. Specific cuts. Victims must be hung upside down, drained, neck sliced across a very particular arc, and glands taken for examination. Only then does the gate open. Only then are you eligible, to become a member of the group and go to annual meetings with them.
And now it makes sense, why the video was recorded. Why both Joseph and Mimiko followed the same choreo. They weren’t just killing. They were auditioning.
“Three hundred and sixty-two” the Yeji mutters, pointing to the blinking dots mapped on the screen. “That’s how many bounce points the servers are going through. Across twenty-three countries. They have videos of everything. Rape, domestic abuse, V—virgin trafficking, and uh—more.”
Chan says nothing. Just stares. Eyes like steel, lips drawn tight.
You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, letting it all sink in. You’ve known this level of rot exists. But seeing it laid out like an intricate ecosystem of depravity makes it more real.
Hyunjin turns to you, arms crossed. “We can’t get in without an account.”
“No shit” you mutter, staring at the screen. “Even if we made a dummy one, it won’t work. They use a blacklisted facial ID matrix.”
“Means?” Seungmin asks.
You tilt your head. “Means it has to be real. Human face. With a trackable kill history.”
Hyunjin clears his throat. “You saying you want to make one?”
You push off the wall. Walk slowly to the center of the room.
“I’m saying it’s the only way.”
Hyunjin scoffs, just once. Seungmin glances at Chan. Chan doesn’t look away from you.
“And what face do you plan to use?” he finally asks.
You stare. “Mine?”
Chan exhales. “You do realize, this isn’t like going undercover in a drug cartel. This is documented forever. Once your image is in that circle, it’s there for good. No redaction. No immunity. It’ll follow you till you die.”
You nod.
“And” he continues, quieter now, “this isn’t a usual risk. This is annihilation risk. And this…” He pauses. “This feels personal.”
You meet his eyes then. Dark meets darker.
“What’s so personal that you’re willing to stain your own identity just to get in?”
You stare for a long second, before your voice cuts in—sharp, even.
“Criminals, Mr. Bang, should either be 6ft underground or behind bars, they should never be left outside without behavioral correction. One doesn’t need to be personally affected to feel that way.”
He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.
Just breathes out slow. And nods once.
You walk past him without another word.
Hyunjin watches you leave the cyber cell, bat over his shoulder, footsteps like a ticking clock.
In the corner of the surveillance room, Chan finally speaks, almost to himself.
“I always knew she came in with unfinished business.”
But he doesn’t elaborate.
And no one else dares to ask.
It gets approved.
Not quickly. Not easily.
Forms were filed under certain classes. Justified homicide under clauses, the one with the fine print about behavioral correction programs. It goes above Chan. Way above. But it comes back with a heavy stamp and a heavier warning: Use it only if there’s no other route.
You, of course, had never looked for another.
Your profile is created that evening. Y/N. Your face, real. Eyes blank. Expression unreadable. A barely perceptible smirk on your lips, and your ID verified within six hours.
Six.
That's all it took to walk into hell.
Your poor victims were: joseph and Mimiko.
The shoot is scheduled two nights later.
Forest, far off the city. So far out that the wind smells unfamiliar, and the silence isn’t polite it’s thick, like it’s holding its breath.
Chan insists on being there. He never said it aloud, but you could feel it. A sort of accountability. If your face was going to be smeared into the deepest layer of the net, the least he could do was witness it.
Yeji came too. Not her jurisdiction. But she stood at the edge of the trees like a soldier. Seungmin handled the logistics, parked the van, cleared the trail. And Hyunjin carried the equipment, set up the camera, and refused to look you in the eye.
Joseph was gagged and drugged just enough to be manageable. Not unconscious. Just woozy. Still human enough to beg with his eyes.
You don’t allow yourself to think. you tie his ankles to the thick branch above and let his body hang limp, upside down.
Not when you make the first incision, exactly like the stupid tutorial showed on the network. Smooth. Slow. Let the blood fall naturally. No shaking.
Hyunjin turns around, jaw locked so hard it’s audibly clicking. Yeji’s expression is unreadable, save for the slight tremble in her thumbs. Chan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
You slice the neck open. Joseph writhes. Your expression never changes.
Seungmin ensures the footage only shows your face and his. No background chatter. No reflections. No slips.
You end the video at the precise moment his eyes go still.
The video is uploaded under the username: Y/N_0723.
Within thirty minutes, three likes, and one comment: “Perfect arc. Respect.”
It’s done.
Next morning, you’re sitting behind your desk with a fresh cup of black coffee, scrolling through some report on imported synthetics, when a young trekker walks into the precinct.
Fresh-faced, shirt half-buttoned, breathless. Eyes wide with youthful panic.
“Ma’am” he tells the woman there “I… I was hiking near the Glenrise woods. And I—I think I saw a body. Hanging. Upside down. Looked—looked dead, ma’am.”
You step into the room just as the report is being jotted down.
Hyunjin leans on the back wall, arms crossed, looking at the ceiling.
You blink once.
“Alright” you say gently, nodding. “We’ll send someone to check. Thank you for reporting this.”
The boy’s still stuttering. “It was—it was all bloodied, ma’am. And the throat—”
“Thank you” seungmin cuts in, firm. “We’ll take it from here.”
They escort him out.
The second he leaves, Yeji’s already setting the destruction protocol. The forest is cleaned, wiped, and covered with a fake warning about a “dangerous bear sighting.” Standard playbook. Hyunjin confirms nothing was left behind.
You sip your coffee. Burn your tongue a little.
None of you say a word, and begin investigating like it was actually a murder no one knew of.
It had to be solo this time.
Too many variables in the field, and even Chan didn’t want to test fate twice. Mimiko’s death needed to be quick, efficient, enough to not give your team back in there a heart attack. The fewer the eyes, the tighter the secret. And this time, it was just you, the girl, the camera, and the open forest.
You drove to the edge of the woods, deep enough that the GPS got confused and started asking if you were safe. Mimiko was gagged and barely conscious in the backseat, wrists tied, ankles shackled, body jerking a little with every bump in the dirt road.
Your left shoulder had started throbbing halfway through the trip. The pain was sharp, localized ball and socket screaming every time you held the steering wheel too tightly. You gritted your teeth. It flared again as you parked under a cluster of half-dead trees, their shadows long and toothy.
You dragged Mimiko out by the ropes, ignoring her muffled grunts. She was lighter than Joseph. Quieter too.
You tied her ankles up, flipped her over, and hung her from a thick, crooked tree limb. Her face was red, eyes dazed.
And then you stepped back, rolled your shoulder, and winced hard as the joint crackled.
"Fucking hell" you muttered and collapsed on the dry ground. "Give me five minutes, you brat. My skeleton's throwing a tantrum."
You pulled out your phone and opened a bookmarked video:
"Why Your Shoulder Pain Isn’t Healing | Chronic Pain Explained."
A soft-spoken woman in gymwear appeared onscreen.
"Now, if the pain persists for more than 3 months, it may not just be an injury. It could be a nerve entrapment issue, or a rotator cuff imbalance. You may also want to consider stress as a primary trigger..."
"Yeah, I’m stressed alright" you mumbled, watching the buffer wheel spin slowly.
The video paused again. Loaded 2 seconds. Froze. Then—
Ad: Buy the All-New Smart LED Water Bottle—Monitor Your Health with Every Sip!
Ad: Feeling Lazy? Get Keto Snacks Delivered!
Ad: "STRAY KIDS sing for you tonight—exclusive! now streaming..."
You stared at the screen. You got angry.
You had a bad habbit. When angry you need to vent out or your soul starts taking creative liberty in other activities. You can't think straight. You don't want that now, do you? You have to follow the choreo now.
Then at Mimiko, who was beginning to stir and wriggle like a caught fish.
Then at the phone again. well, shit.
"...fuck you."
You hit dial on customer care.
A voice clicked in. “Hello, welcome to Connectcell, this is Han Jisung speaking. How may I assist you today?”
You stood up, walking back to the car to get your blade, cradling your shoulder as you did.
“Han. Jisung. Tell me something, is this actually a 5G connection or are you guys lying?”
He chuckled nervously. “Uh—ma’am? I’m sorry for any inconvenience, I can check your signal strength right now—”
“No, no, listen, Han Jisung” you snapped, pulling open your trunk to set up the tripod with your backup phone. “The ads are running fine. smooth as butter. So clearly, the network works. So why the hell does my actual content buffer every three seconds like it's dying?”
“Ma’am… background loading can sometimes prioritize certain—uh—"
You cut him off, walking back toward Mimiko, who was now conscious, upside down, and shaking.
“Fix the damn signal in the next three minutes, Jisung. The girl is dying here.”
“…Sorry, ma’am, what?”
You dropped your voice. “I’m putting a girl upside down and murdering her. Why?”
overworked, and brain-partially loading Jisung laughed wholeheartedly. “Haha—ma’am, you're funny—”
“If the internet doesn't work, she dies without camera angles, Jisung. That's just sad.”
“…We’ll refresh the tower signals, ma’am” he says, still laughing.
Mimiko’s muffled sobs got louder.
Exactly one minute later, the video resumed smoothly. The nice shoulder lady continued speaking.
"Sometimes, pain becomes part of our identity. But it doesn’t have to be. Let go of the trauma you’re holding inside your muscles..."
And then, without breaking eye contact with Mimiko, you dragged the blade across her neck in one clean arc. Her blood painted the dry roots below. Her last breath came out like a shiver. You didn’t flinch.
Camera was rolling.
You went back, waved a short goodbye to the lens, and ended the recording with blood still dripping from your gloves.
The phone beeped.
Recording saved.
You took another ten minutes to wipe the area.
Cleared your tire tracks with your boots.
Sprinkled some dry leaves over blood spots.
Wiped down the trunk handle and checked your gloves for fingerprints twice. Mimiko's body would be discovered later—by someone innocent.
You drove back to the city.
That evening, you passed the recording phone to Yeji without a word. She didn't ask questions. Just connected it to the secure laptop, uploaded it to the website via incognito dark-net layers, and waited.
The upload finished.
A notification blinked on the screen:
WELCOME TO THE DARK WORLD
Below it:
Annual Meet opens in 8 days. Location: To be revealed.
You exhaled slowly. Then leaned back in the chair.
But your shoulder felt slightly better now.
Maybe chronic pain wasn’t about bones after all.
Maybe it was about never knowing when the next video would be you.
The soft light of morning spilled through the curtains, warming the bed where you lay tangled with Minho. His arm was snug around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You stirred slightly, and his hold tightened reflexively, as if even in his half-asleep state, he couldn’t bear to let you go. You’d woken up minutes ago, the dull ache in your lower abdomen making itself known like a low, nagging hum. You shift slightly, your back pressing into his chest, and he grumbles a low, sleepy protest, pulling you closer.
“Morning,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin with the word.
“Morning,” you replied.
Before you could say more, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your neck. His lips moved lazily, trailing along your skin as though he couldn’t resist the temptation of each inch.
“Minho,” you whispered, half-laughing.
“Hmm?” he hummed, but his mouth never stopped. He kissed the spot beneath your ear, then down the side of your neck, his fingers grazing your waist where his hand rested.
“Can’t you just say good morning like a normal person?” you teased, your voice soft.
“I did,” he murmured, his lips brushing the words against your collarbone now. “You’re the one who makes me do all this extra work.”
You laughed, a small sound that was quickly swallowed by his next kiss, this one just above your heart. His hand slipped beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your stomach as he moved lower, his lips warm against your skin.
“Minho—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your jawline, his free hand sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt to rest warm and comforting against your waist. “Let me spoil you a little.”
“Minho…” you started again, your fingers threading through his hair as he continued his descent.
“What?” he murmured between kisses, his voice low and teasing.
“I’m on my period.” you said softly, catching his head gently in your hands.
He froze for a second, his lips hovering just above your navel. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at you, his expression a mix of mild disappointment and curiosity. “Really?”
You nodded, your cheeks warm under his gaze.
He blinked once, and then his lips twitched into a smirk. “That’s inconvenient,” he said, tilting his head as if considering something deeply. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to your stomach. “But I could always make it go away.”
You furrowed your brows, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Kids,” he replied simply, his smirk widening as he continued to kiss his way back up your body.
“Min,” you murmur, your fingers tangling in his hair, but he doesn’t stop.
“I just wanna take care of my wife,” he says against your skin, his voice a mix of mischief and tenderness.
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and when they did, your face went hot.
His laughter was rich and low, his breath brushing your skin as he rested his head against your stomach. He kissed you there, too, just for good measure. He steadies your hip when you move a bit, cramps.
“That bad?” he asks softly, his lips moving against your skin.
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, sinking your hand further into his hair.
“I told you not to eat all that spicy food last night,” he chides gently, though his tone is teasing.
You glare at him,“You’re the one who made it,” you remind him, narrowing your eyes.
He laughs, low and throaty, a little apologetic, the sound vibrating against your back. “Touché.”
“You leave for the military next year,” you say softly, your fingers idly combing through his hair.
He hums, a quiet acknowledgment, but his face remains buried against your waist.
You bite your lip, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “I heard South Korean men don’t have to serve if they have three kids.”
He stared at you for a moment longer before his smirk returned. Without warning, he rolled onto his back, then pulled you onto his lap in one smooth motion. His hands settled on your hips, holding you in place as he looked up at you, his gaze playful but intense.
“Three kids in one year?” he repeated, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. His thumbs brushed slow, teasing strokes over your waist. “Not practical. But…” He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “We could try for triplets.”
*
“Baby,” you said again, a little breathless this time.
“Hmm?” He hummed against your skin, his hands tightening gently on your waist.
“Three kids…” You hesitated, the thought suddenly lighter, almost playful. “It doesn’t seem so bad.”
He leaned back just enough to look at you, his brow lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “Three kids minimum, right? Triplets, as you said.”
He threw his head back with a laugh. His hands slid to your hips, gripping them firmly as he moved you gently against him. “You’re really committed to this plan, huh?”
“Just saying,” you teased, your smile softening as his laughter faded into a hum of contentment.
He leaned up, capturing your lips in another kiss, slow and lingering this time. “Fine,” he murmured against your mouth. “Triplets it is.”
The moment your shoes hit the cool tile floor of the hotel lobby, you were 90% sunshine and 10% “What the hell are we doing?”
Hyunjin looked like a model off duty — a bit too cool for someone about to commit several federal emotional crimes. Hair tied in a lazy half-bun, sunglasses still on even though you were inside, dragging his suitcase with one hand and balancing a churro in the other.
“Did you have to buy a churro the second we landed?” you muttered, eyeing the cinnamon-sugar crime against travel hygiene.
“Florida airport churros are sacred. Do not disrespect.” He chomped with full eye contact. “Besides, we’re about to lie to two full sets of parents. I need sugar to fight guilt.”
By the time you reached the hotel room — courtesy of Hyunjin’s company, aka the one good consequence of his ridiculously symmetrical face — you were both tired and buzzing from the fact that this was it. Lie Week. Guilt Fest 2025. Operation: God Forgive Us.
You dropped your bags, Hyunjin flopped onto the bed like a man defeated by air travel and moral ambiguity.
“Okay,” you said, cracking your knuckles like a mafia boss with a to-do list. “The plan.”
“WE HAVE A PLAN!”
“WE’RE LYING TO OUR FAMILIES WITH A PLAN!”
“WE’RE GOING TO MARRY EACH OTHER ON A TOURIST ISLAND!”
You jumped and screamed so much that a knock came from the next room. “Please keep it down!” someone yelled.
The sun was soft and golden on their backs as they rolled down Florida highways, singing off-key to old-school K-pop and questionable American pop-punk like they were on a pre-wedding honeymoon — except it was all pretend. The windows were down, the breeze smelled like the ocean, and Hyunjin kept reaching over to squeeze your thigh every time you laughed a little too hard.
You had both changed into your “beach-chic almost-wedding-but-not-quite” fits — he in a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up and a smile that could crash economies, and you in a loose off-white sundress you found at a random boutique, with Hyunjin’s leather coat lazily flung over your shoulders like you owned him. (Which you kinda did.)
Everything was… weirdly perfect. Until you turned the final curve and saw it.
The massive rusted GATES CLOSED sign hanging like a joke from God.
“…No,” Hyunjin said, slowing the rental car. “No, no, no. This isn’t—what?”
You both hopped out and jogged to the entrance, trying to reason with the two security guards lounging near the barrier. The taller one looked deeply uninterested, sipping from a thermos like he was paid to ignore romantic delusions.
“Off-season,” he grunted. “No access till May.”
“But we came from Korea—”
“And…?”
Defeated, you trudged back to the car, Hyunjin following with both his hands in his hair.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you were sitting in a deserted beachside park, shoes in sand, hearts in your throats. The light had turned that aching pre-sunset orange, the kind that made everything feel more dramatic.
Hyunjin sat beside you, fiddling with the little velvet ring box — opening it, closing it. Opening it. Clicking it shut. Like he was trying to time a decision with his heartbeat.
You sat in silence, his coat still wrapped around you like a security blanket. It smelled like him. Of all the cities in the world, this was the one you’d chosen to lie for love. And now, the gates of fate were literally shut.
“Maybe it’s a sign,” you murmured, voice soft. “Maybe God’s telling us to stop this.”
Hyunjin sighed deeply, resting his head back against the bench. The breeze messed his hair, but his expression stayed unreadable.
“If we stop now” he said, voice low, “we’ll lose the only chance we have. The only lie we’ve got left to be together. I don’t care if it’s a stupid lie. I’ll take stupid over losing you.”
You looked down at your hands. You remember the night you told your sister everything.
Your sister stared for a long time.
Then she set down the tiny romper she’d been folding, turned fully toward you, and let out a soft sigh. “First of all,” she said, her voice low but warm, “you’re taking opportunity of my situation.”
Your shoulders sagged with guilt.
But she reached for your hand and squeezed it. “Leave it. I don’t mind, Y/N. If that gets you what you want... I really don’t.”
Your lips trembled.
“But” she continued, her voice breaking just slightly now, “you’re telling the family you’re pregnant.”
She paused.
“You know… the first time a woman finds out she’s pregnant, telling your parents, your husband, realising it yourself… it’s such a beautiful thing, Y/N. You’ll miss that happiness. You’ll never get it back.”
You blinked hard, but your tears spilled anyway.
“Even if it’s a lie” she said, wiping under your eyes gently with her thumbs, “even if you say it now… you can’t take those words back.”
She looked at you then, properly.
“Is he even worth all this?” she asked quietly.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.
You just nodded. Slowly. With all the weight of your heart behind it. Your face was blotched, nose red, and you looked like a child again.
She reached out, pulled you into her arms, and whispered into your hair,
“Then you better not let go of him.”
Everything was so dumb. So far. So broken and terrifying and… weirdly beautiful.
Then, all at once, you shifted closer to him on the bench. Close enough to feel the heat of his shoulder. Close enough to rest your hand over his. He stopped clicking the ring box.
You turned to him and whispered, steady as a cliff edge, “Let’s call our parents, Hyunjin.”
Announcement from the heavens: Y/N and Hyunjin are officially about to lie to their respective parents.
“Hello, dad?”
“Hello, mom.....”
You were already done.
It was dark now—Florida’s humid breeze brushing softly over your face as you sat hunched on the same park bench where the plan was made. The phone sat beside you like a crime weapon. Your knees were pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them. You could still hear the 15 seconds of silence ringing in your ears. Ten of those seconds weren’t even breathing. Just stillness. A storm waiting to explode.
You watched Hyunjin from afar—pacing under the glow of the hotel’s entrance lights, phone to his ear. He looked… calm. Strangely calm. One hand in his pocket, his shoulders squared like he was just confirming a delivery. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but your heart was thumping like it wanted to escape your body.
Then, just like that, he hung up.
He walked toward you, slowly. No drama. No gasping. No Shakespearean cries. He plopped down beside you, exhaled like a sigh had been building in him for years, and leaned back on his palms.
You didn’t say anything. You were too deep inside your own head, running through imaginary court scenes of family betrayal.
So he spoke first.
His voice was soft, almost teasing.
“You look like someone who just hacked into NASA and didn’t find any aliens.”
You blinked out of your trance.
“I called my mom,” you muttered, your voice brittle, “She… she cut the call.”
He turned his head toward you.
You nodded. “The whole call lasted fifteen seconds. Ten of those seconds, she said nothing. Then she just said—come back, angrily. And hung up.”
Hyunjin let out a whistle, low and long. “Damn.”
You rubbed your face.
Then he added, “My dad… he listened.”
You looked at him, surprised. “What?”
Hyunjin nodded slowly. “He just… listened. Patiently. Didn’t say a word. I kept talking like a madman—explaining the whole thing, giving background, timeline, tone shifts, drama, for some reason.”
“Still—nothing,” he said. “So I… just cut the call myself.”
You both sat in silence for a second.
You, holding guilt like a ticking bomb.
Hyunjin, holding your hand like he still believed in the universe.
The lies were told.
And now, the clock had started.
The flight home was mostly quiet, except for Hyunjin's constant fidgeting. His leg bounced. He cracked his knuckles. He chewed gum like it was a stress exercise. Meanwhile, you stared at the airplane window, not seeing anything past your own pounding anxiety.
The moment the plane landed, Hyunjin turned to you and shoved a neatly folded piece of paper into your hands.
“Read it after we land. But not before. Or I’ll cry and embarrass myself” he said, serious.
You blinked at him, confused. “What is it?”
He adjusted his beanie, grabbed your suitcase and his. “Just instructions. For survival. Like... a combat briefing but more pathetic.”
You stared at the paper in your hand, your heart twisting. He handed you your bag and said softly, “Keep it in mind. You go first. I’ll follow after ten minutes. Go on.”
You hesitated, but nodded. You turned away, holding the paper tightly in your palm as you walked towards Arrivals.
Exactly ten minutes later, Hyunjin walked toward the same exit, chewing his lip. His steps were slower now, nerves catching up with him.
But as he neared the terminal doors, he stopped.
Nobody was there.
Well, correction: someone was.
A hand suddenly patted his shoulder. He turned sharply.
It was you.
In your hoodie, carrying your suitcase, and looking just as confused.
Hyunjin blinked. “Heeeeyyy… What are you doing here? Where’s your parents?”
You shrugged with a sheepish smile. “They didn’t come. Probably pissed.”
Hyunjin snorted—trying to soften the blow. “Damn. That’s harsh.”
You smacked his arm. “Your parents didn’t come either.”
He scoffed. “Nah. They probably took the other exit or something.”
You shook your head. “They’re not there. I checked.”
The laughter in his chest stalled. Hyunjin stared ahead in silence.
You reached into your hoodie pocket and opened the paper he'd given you, unfolding it with a rustle.
Reading aloud, you began:
“Your mom will be crying. Your dad will be angry. Your sister will give you those stupid gestures about ‘the situation’… the moment you see them—this was your first course of action, huh?”
You looked at him, deadpan, and stuffed the note into his hand. “What do we do now, Nostradamus?”
Hyunjin scratched his head, embarrassed. “Well… I was kinda banking on that prediction being right.”
Without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, small sized bottle drink. He placed it into your hand like it was an apology from the universe.
You rolled your eyes, but smiled faintly and shoved it into your hoodie pocket.
Both of you walked outside and hailed a taxi.
Two cabs pulled up.
You and Hyunjin looked at each other, silently agreeing to take one together. No explanations needed.
Inside the cab, he gave the driver his address. You followed and gave yours right after.
Hyunjin’s house was the first stop.
The tension hadn’t left yet.
Hyunjin’s neighborhood crept into view through the cab window. He was still holding your hand — tightly. Tighter with every passing second.
His thumb fidgeted against your knuckles like he was decoding Morse code with anxiety. You could feel it in his breath. The way his knee bounced. The way his eyes kept darting from the driver’s mirror to the window.
“Calm down,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “Keep calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. What if th—no, no—breathe…”
You blinked and looked out the window.
His house was on your side, visible now in the distance.
Except… something was very off.
You rolled the window down and slapped his shoulder.
“Hyun.”
“What” he muttered, not even looking.
“There’s… there’s a tent at your entrance.”
That got him.
He blinked once. Then twice. Then full-on panicked.
“WHAT KIND OF TENT” he blurted, as he literally climbed over your lap like a lizard escaping a cage, sticking his whole damn upper body out the window.
From afar, a cream-colored ceremonial tent stood outside his house, draped over the entrance with gold embellishments. You could spot chairs. People in traditional hanbok. Something that definitely looked like a buffet line.
He sat back into the car, pale as chalk, biting his nails.
“Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.”
You stared.
He turned to you, eyes wide and haunted. “Do you think I killed my heart-patient grandma?”
“Wait—your grandma is a heart patient?!”
“Yessss--I’m gonna be arrested for emotional murder—”
You shoved him. Hard.
The cab came to a stop.
“Get out,” you said, dragging his suitcase from between your legs and pushing it toward him.
He clung to your sleeve like a toddler. “Don’t make me go, baby. They’re gonna sacrifice me to the fertility gods.”
“Hyunjin, out.” you said.
He whined.
But eventually, he climbed out, pouting.
He shuffled to the car boot, grabbed his suitcase like it was a coffin, and turned back one last time.
You were already peeking through the window, eyes squinted in worry, watching him.
He gave you a pathetic little wave. The ‘pray for me’ type.
You waved back.
The cab started reversing, turning to head toward your address.
Through the rear window, you could still see him standing at the gate. Staring at the tent like it was the portal to hell.
you didn't know what was inside that tent.
But you knew this for sure.
Whatever it was, Hyunjin was definitely underdressed for it.
The second Hyunjin stepped through the front gate, suitcase in hand, his uncle pounced like a well-trained guard dog.
“Ah, our world traveler returns!” Uncle beamed, arms open. “Crossed the oceans, conquered demons, and came back with news, hm?”
Hyunjin blinked. “Where’s Grandma? Is she okay?”
“Perfectly fine!” the man said, pulling him inside. “She’s in the kitchen making your favourite stew. Said something about ‘cooking for the boy who crossed the waters!’”
Hyunjin nearly collapsed in relief. So the tent wasn't a funeral thing. Thank God.
“Thanks, Uncle,” he muttered, dragging the suitcase inside.
That’s when little Jinwoo, his uncle’s devil spawn, popped his head out from the corner and went, “Hyunggggg! Can I take your old bike?”
“Sure,” Hyunjin nodded, distracted.
Jinwoo zoomed out to the garage like his soul depended on it.
Seconds later…
“Eww! What is THIS?!” Jinwoo’s screech echoed through the neighborhood. “Hyunjin-hyung, this rusty piece of garbage?! You used to ride THIS?!”
Hyunjin sighed and shuffled inside, ignoring the insult to his youth. But his eyes darted around. Still no sign of his dad.
His mom was in the hallway though.
She looked… off. Sad. Almost like she’d aged three years in the one week he’d been gone.
“Go take a bath, son” she said quietly.
“…Okay,” he muttered, suspicion already bubbling.
When he got back, towel on his head, he found Jinwoo playing with the suitcase like it was a spaceship, zooooooming it around the hallway and occasionally spinning it like a beyblade.
Hyunjin picked up his phone and called you while drying his hair.
you answered immediately.
“Yah, you—” you paused. “…Wait. Wait, wait, Hyunjin.”
“What?”
“I just got down from the taxi, okay? The driver gave me the suitcase—but this isn’t my suitcase.”
“…What?”
“THIS IS YOUR SUITCASE. THERE’S A PHOTO OF YOUR FAMILY’S GOD TAPED TO IT—YOU TOOK MINE.”
Hyunjin’s soul exited his body.
His eyes snapped to Jinwoo still zooooming the suitcase across the floor like it owed him money.
“JINWOO!” Hyunjin screamed, grabbing the phone away from his ear, squatting down and holding your suitcase away from him.
“STOP ZOOMING MY LIFE.”
Jinwoo looked up. “HYUNG! YOU DIDNT BRING ME CHOCOLATE?”
“To HELL with your chocolate!”
The kid let out a dramatic gasp and scampered off yelling curse words that were banned in schools.
Hyunjin brought the phone back. “I’m so sorry—”
Click.
You’d cut the call.
Hyunjin groaned, dragging the suitcase toward his room. His mom followed in silence, watching him with a sad look.
He set the suitcase down in the corner and turned to her, trying to put on his best ‘son-who-has-life-under-control’ face.
“It’s so unfortunate…” she whispered, eyes glassy. “That you’re… infertile, son.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… very… tragic. May my sperm rest in peace.”
She sniffled.
Then he frowned. “Wait. Why is everything moving so fast? Why the tent? Why are all the relatives here?”
His mom dabbed her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “Your dad went to Master Jido’s house. He’ll be back soon. He’s going to announce it to the whole family after dinner.”
Hyunjin’s brain short-circuited.
“He’s gonna WHAT?!”
“It’s important that everyone knows—”
“MOM,” he wailed, “I DID NOT WIN A NATIONAL AWARD, THAT YOU'LL TELL EVERYONE. OH MY GOD—”
He dashed out of the room, racing past cousins and rice cookers, straight to the dining table where his uncle was gobbling down dumplings.
“Uncle! I need your bike!”
“No can do” he said, chewing. “Your dad told me not to let you ride it, apparantly it's bad for your manliness.”
Hyunjin stared, shocked, betrayed.
Then his eyes landed on Jinwoo.
Still outside.
Still with that rusty excuse of a bicycle.
Pumping the tire.
“Move.”
Jinwoo blinked. “What? But this is—”
“I SAID MOVE.”
Jinwoo kicked the bicycle as Hyunjin got on it.
And then, ladies and gentlemen, like a warrior in a tragedy, Hyunjin mounted his childhood bike and cycled off like his fertility depended on it.
Next stop: Master Jido’s house.
At your house.
The taxi barely rolled to a stop before your mom was already at the gate, arms folded, eyes sharp as a blade. You stepped out, suitcase in hand—except it wasn’t yours. You realized too late it was Hyunjin’s, but your mom noticed.
“Koreans?” she asked, voice quiet in a way that chilled your bones.
You nodded, barely.
Her hand lifted, and your heart froze—but it never landed. “I’d hit my daughter if she did wrong,” she said, her voice trembling now, but with fury. “And my daughter knows not to do this wrong.”
She turned sharply and stormed into the house. You followed quietly, head low. Your sister was on the couch, her round belly visible even beneath the oversized shawl. She offered you a sheepish smile, gentle, knowing.
You tried to give her a look, say something, but your mother was already digging through the drawers with angry hands. She turned around, pregnancy test in hand.
“Take it.”
“Mom—” your sister began, rising to her feet.
“Don’t you interfere” your mom snapped. “You already did enough.”
You swallowed and nodded, gripping the test and walking into the bathroom with trembling hands.
I’m done for mom gave a prego test, you texted Hyunjin as you shut the door behind you.
Almost immediately, his reply came.
Hyunjin: I predicted this. Use the drink I gave you. Hoodie pocket. It’s made to trigger positive.
You stared at the tiny sized bottle, pulling it out like it was some kind of divine relic. The label was torn. Nothing on it suggested anything miraculous, except… well, this was Hyunjin we were talking about.
You followed his instructions, hands shaking.
Two lines.
You exhaled. A long, shivering sigh.
You walked back out and handed the test to your mother without a word. She took it, glanced down, and walked away—silent. She didn’t even look at you.
You stood there, breathing heavy. The silence crushed your ears.
And then warm hands wrapped around yours. Your sister pulled you in gently, belly pressed against your side, arms encircling your shoulder as you finally cried.
“It’s gonna be okay” she whispered.
The wind howled in his ears as Hyunjin pedaled with all the fury of a doomed man.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he picked it up without slowing down. “Yes, Mom?!”
“Hyunjin, come back—your dad’s back already.”
Hyunjin groaned, “WHAT. The dinner isn’t over yet, right?”
A pause. Then her voice turned panicked, hushed but tense. “Come back fast. Your father’s calling everyone to your room—he’s going to announce it now, he's saying dinner later”
He nearly dropped the phone. “MOM. YOUR HUSBAND IS GOING TO BE THE END OF ME.”
“I know, I know—what do I do?!”
“Tell him I got into an accident! A big one! Like—like I’m bleeding and unconscious. Please!”
There was a beat of silence. “How can I--Okay. I’ll try.”
Hyunjin sighed, still cycling madly, trying to turn the damn rusty pink bicycle around. The front basket wobbled, then clanged to the ground, rolling across the street with a metallic screech.
“Fuck” he hissed, abandoning it entirely. He clumsily jerked the bike around, phone still clutched in one hand, when the back tire slipped on a patch of gravel—
And the next thing he knew, he was face-down on the pavement.
Pain bloomed in his knee and arm like fire. Blood. Scraped skin. His elbow stung raw. He winced and rolled over, eyes squinting at the streetlights above. “Great” he muttered, voice tight. “So now I really got into an accident.”
—
Meanwhile, back at the house.
His mom rushed to the hallway, still on the call with him. “Hyunjin, he’s locking the door! He’s locking the door!”
“Stop him! Say anything!” Hyunjin hissed from the ground, biting his lip as he sat up slowly, gravel embedded in his skin.
Inside the house, his father stood tall in Hyunjin’s room, the suitcase—her suitcase, unknowingly packed with god knows what—propped proudly against the door.
“My son” his father began, voice solemn, “has a disease—”
BANG.
The door flung open violently. The suitcase toppled over, landing with a loud thud. The zipper burst slightly from the impact, the contents shifting, dangerously close to spilling out.
“What are you doing?” his mother said, breathless.
“I’m having a serious discussion with our family—”
“Well, I have a serious problem—your son just got into an actual accident, not a social one!”
At that moment, every pair of elder eyes widened, including his uncle’s, who had paused mid-rice-bite.
“Accident?” his father repeated, brows drawn.
“Yes! On his way here!”
The room erupted in murmurs, someone mentioning calling an ambulance. People rushing out, Jinwoo, accidentally on a rush, tripped over the suitcase, It fell open.
Back on the street, Hyunjin sat on the curb, bloodied, wheezing, and muttering to himself.
“WHY ARE THEY IN MY ROOM. I swear to god, if they open that suitcase—if they open that suitcase and find those—”
His phone buzzed again.
Y/N:
Hyunjin.
Please tell me you still have my suitcase.
Because there are things in there that not even death can explain.
Hyunjin, still bleeding from his elbow and gripping his phone like it held the meaning of life, replied with trembling fingers.
Hyunjin:
I think your victorias secret is about to be a family legacy.
And with that, he buried his face into his hands, sighing in despair.
When Hyunjin finally limped back home, bruised and bloodied from his heroic bike stunt gone wrong, ignoring Jinwoo's cries of how his new bike got ruined, the living room was unnaturally quiet. Too quiet. His uncle, the one with a permanent smirk and a suspiciously large collection of religious charms, looked at him like he was some kind of walking scandal.
“It’s okay, son” he said solemnly. “You do have a disease. But don’t worry. You’ll get better.”
Hyunjin’s heart dropped. No. No, no, no, no, no—
He stumbled past everyone, ignoring the whispers, beelining straight to his mom. “Did he tell them?” he hissed under his breath. “Mom, did Dad actually tell them all that—”
She raised a palm. “Sit. Down.”
“But—!”
“Sit. Down. Now.”
He obeyed, dragging his wounded body toward his room like a war veteran. When he opened the door, his soul left his body.
His dad was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room. Right in front of the suitcase.
Your suitcase.
And half of your innerwear was very publicly decorating the floor.
Hyunjin gasped like a scandalized Victorian maiden and lunged forward. “D-Dad, that’s not mine—I mean, obviously, it’s not mine! That—it must’ve opened by mistake—there was a crash—and I—!”
He slammed the suitcase shut, hugging it like a bomb. But it was too late. His father was holding something even worse than lace.
A polaroid.
Of you.
Wearing his hoodie. Smiling. The one from the beach, where he was kissing your forehead like you were his whole world.
He cleared his throat. “That girl. That girl I told you about. The one who said she’d marry me even if she knew—uh, that. That I couldn’t—um. Yeah.”
His father blinked. Confused. “What are you talking about?”
Hyunjin froze.
“…Dad. I told you this already. When I was in Florida.”
“You called me in Florida and said you were infertile. I remember I held the phone to my heart out of grief.”
Hyunjin’s jaw dropped. “dad. Phones are for talking. Not for hugging them!”
“Well, you should’ve called back!”
Before they could argue more, his mom stormed in with the first-aid box and pulled him by the ear.
“Sit down” she ordered again, this time in mother mode. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”
So he sat, sulking like a punished cat while she dabbed at his wounds, and his father folded his arms. “Tell us now!whats the issue? All of it. What’s going on?”
Hyunjin gulped. “O-Okay…”
He tells his side of the story(or lie).
“You wrapped yourself around her like a vine the moment a stranger told you she liked you?”
“No, dad!” he snapped, but then softened. “…I knew her. From childhood.”
His father narrowed his eyes.
“I-I always liked her” Hyunjin added in a small voice.
“And? Is she Korean?”
Hyunjin paused.
His dad leaned forward.
Hyunjin swallowed hard. “…N-no.”
His father reeled back like someone had tased him. “SHE’S NOT KOREAN?!”
Hyunjin winced. His mom almost dropped the cotton swab. His uncle choked on his soju from the living room.
Then the final blow came. “Why did you even get your fertility checked?!”
“It was a company check-up, dad! For the project in Florida! It was mandatory!”
“Get up. We’re going to the hospital. Right now. I’m not trusting anything unless a Korean doctor says it.”
That’s how he ended up panicking in the bathroom.
He locked the door, sat on the closed toilet lid, pulled out his phone, and dialed you with shaking fingers.
You picked up on the second ring. “Baby?”
“Baby,” he whispered urgently, “we’re dead. He’s taking me to the hospital now. I’m gonna be exposed. This is the end of me. I’ll never eat kimchi in peace again.”
You were silent for a moment, then you sighed. “Hyune, breathe. I knew this might happen.”
“YOU KNEW?”
“Yes, Which is why I’m texting you an address right now.”
Ping.
A message popped up.
[Name of shady hospital]
“The doctor there” you added calmly, “is the biggest pushover I’ve ever met. I bribed him so many times. You’ll be fine.”
“…I love you.”
You said, voice soft through the speaker, “I love you too, loser.”
“Wait—what if the doctor flips? What if he tells them I’m healthy?”
“Hyunjin, he’ll say what you want if you pay him and compliment his beard. Trust me.”
“…So all I have to do is lie to my dad, forge medical results, and flirt with a man twice my age?”
“Yes.”
Hyunjin smiled, finally, despite the blood still drying on his elbow. “Yah… Y/N-ah?”
“Hmm?”
Hyunjin exhaled and stared at the mirror.
“Ride or die?” he asked softly.
“Ride or die.” you replied.
And somewhere, outside the bathroom, his dad was already revving the car.
The hospital waiting room was cold, quiet, and sterile — not at all the kind of place you'd expect to hold such a big secret.
Hyunjin sat there, legs jittering, hands clenched together in his lap, refusing to look up. The air-conditioning was on full blast, but he was sweating through his t-shirt like it was midsummer. Beside him sat his father, tense and silent, eyes fixed on the row of motivational posters about prostate exams.
“Mr. Hwang?” A voice rumbled, deep as a canyon, smooth like black coffee with a kick of whiskey.
Hyunjin didn’t flinch. He didn’t lift his head. But his stomach flipped.
“Could I please ask the guardian to step outside for a moment? It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.”
His father's brows furrowed, offended at first. But he stood, gave Hyunjin a pat on the shoulder and shuffled out.
A pause.
Then, for the first time, Hyunjin looked up.
His jaw dropped. His whole face lit up like Christmas morning.
“lix?!” he gasped, blinking like he couldn’t believe it.
Felix was in a white coat, medical ID badge clipped onto his chest, but his blonde roots were already growing out, and his earring sparkled in the overhead lights like sin in a church.
Felix grinned, dimples and all. “Wassup, bro?, long time no see?”
Hyunjin nearly cried on the spot. Thank heavens.
“Don’t worry” Felix said, his voice dropping into a comforting murmur. “Y/N told me everything. I gotchu. I already submitted the fake report last night—nobody’s gonna question it. Honorary infertile king.”
Hyunjin collapsed back into his seat like a deflated balloon, hand dragging down his face.
“You’re a goddamn legend” he whispered, genuinely in awe.
Felix smirked. “Don’t I know it?”
A few minutes later, Hyunjin’s father was called back in.
Felix was perfectly professional, deep voice activated again.
“Yes, Mr. Hwang. We’ve confirmed the results. Unfortunately, your son’s fertility is… compromised. It may be impossible for him to biologically father children.”
His dad didn’t say anything. He just nodded, mouth tight, hands trembling slightly.
The ride home was too quiet.
Hyunjin sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He could see his own faint reflection in the glass — a liar. A fraud. A son who just made his father think his entire family line was ending with him.
From the backseat came the soft sound of sniffling. At first Hyunjin ignored it.
But then—
His dad broke.
sobs, muffled in the crook of his elbow. Hyunjin turned, watching in stunned silence as the strongest man he knew cried into a tissue, face crumpled with heartbreak.
Guilt crawled up Hyunjin’s spine like fire ants.
That night, you and Hyunjin facetimed with your backs to the wall, barely speaking.
Until finally you cracked first.
“I saw the way my dad looked at me,” you whispered. Your voice was already wobbly, thick with tears. “Like I’m some… characterless girl.”
Hyunjin blinked fast, staring at the screen, hating the way your nose scrunched when you cried.
he said. “I ruined us. It was my idea. Ever since I was a kid, I always thought lying would fix things. I'm sorry. We probably shouldn't have. You only did this ‘cause I panicked.”
“Yeah, and I said yes!” you sobbed, swiping your sleeve across your eyes. “And now my family thinks I’m pregnant and your dad thinks your dick’s broken—”
“Technically, Felix said compromised—”
You laughed, a snotty, wet kind of laugh.
He smiled. Softly. Sadly.
Then you heard shuffling and suddenly he was lying in bed, holding the phone above his face.
“You’re not characterless” he whispered. “You’ve got more character than anyone I know. You know that, right? this is just a lie.”
You let your eyes close. Silent tears trickled down your cheeks.
“And your dad?” you whispered.
Hyunjin sighed. “He… cried in the car.”
You winced.
“Like full-on backseat breakdown. You don’t even know. I’ve never felt so evil in my life. I might go to hell.”
“You are going to hell” you muttered.
He chuckled.
You sniffled. “Save me a seat?”
“Front row,” he said.
And somehow, between your shame and his guilt and all the lies blooming like flowers you didn’t plant, the two of you fell asleep on call — screen glowing dim, breaths syncing, guilt fading for just a little while.
Because in this ridiculous, messed up plan of yours, the one honest thing that remained…
Was each other.
2 days later.
📱 LEE MINHO:
“Report to the office. Now.”
That’s it. No punctuation. No smiley. Not even a damn period. Just pure doom.
Hyunjin stormed into the building wearing the boldest war attire known to mankind:
A plain white t-shirt
A black blazer (to try and look normal)
And blue hanbok baji pants, flaring like royal silk clouds around his legs
The kind that billowed with every step like he was on his way to dethrone someone.
Which, to be fair, he probably was.
The intern at the front desk dropped her coffee. The stylist in the hallway paused mid-scroll on her phone. One of the window wipers muttered, “What in the historical drama is happening?”
“These pants are better than your entire personality. MOVE.”
The hallway cleared like Moses parting the Red Sea.
He didn’t even knock.
He kicked open Minho’s office door like he was ready to throw hands and rice cakes.
Minho, who had been mid-spin in his black swivel chair, paused dramatically. His head tilted. His gaze dropped.
Then rose.
“...What,” Minho said, blinking once. Then again.
“What’s it?” Hyunjin snapped, arms crossed. “Why’d you call me here?”
Minho just blinked harder. “You look like a prince who got lost on the way to the sageuk filming set.”
Hyunjin huffed. “It’s tradition” he snapped. “Any man in my house who’s crossed waters has to wear these for three days.”
There was a heavy silence.
Minho blinked a third time. “That’s the dumbest—fine. I’ll take it.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“So why are you back?” he asked flatly. “The seminar’s two days from now. In Florida. Why are you here?”
“I’m not going” Hyunjin said, jaw set.
Minho gave a dry laugh. “There’s no one else to do it.”
“Then cancel it. The water there didn’t suit me.”
“I’m not cancelling a paid seminar in fucking florida, because you suddenly hate water.”
He scoffed. “You stayed there for a week.”
“And I used that week to rest. Because the water didn’t suit me.”
Minho leaned back in his chair, arms folded now, one eyebrow twitching like it was possessed. “Mr. Hwang is so worried about his delicate water allergies he took a rest in Florida, huh.”
Hyunjin raised his chin. “So what?”
“I’m booking your ticket. You’re going back.”
“I can’t” Hyunjin said, fists landing on the table.
The room went quiet.
Minho flinched mentally. That tone — the “don’t push me, hyung, I’m two seconds from breaking this keyboard in half” tone — wasn’t normal.
Minho cleared his throat. “Do you… need an hour?”
Hyunjin stared. “...Yes.”
The silence between Minho and Hyunjin was sharp enough to slice the kimchi on the next table.
Minho sighed and finally leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles like he was preparing for some CEO-level diplomacy.
Just as he opened his mouth to order, the waiter returned, awkward and weary from carrying both trays and trauma.
“Sir, your order?” he asked Minho, eyeing Hyunjin’s baji cautiously, like it might develop sentience and attack him, as Hyunjin glares back.
Minho began politely, “I’ll have a chicke—”
“Get him some veg dumplings.” Hyunjin snapped, cutting across him like a sword through pork belly.
The waiter froze.
Minho blinked. “I was gonna get—”
“VEG. Dumplings” Hyunjin repeated, glaring at the menu like it owed him child support.
“I can't eat non-veg for a while so not in front of me,”
The waiter scribbled quickly, scared to make eye contact. Then, to Hyunjin, he asked meekly,
“Hot water for you, the usual, sir?”
Hyunjin slowly turned to him, face completely deadpan.
“Yeah. Bring me some shampoo too. I’ll take a bath in the corner.”
Minho burst out coughing.
“Hey, hey, calm down,” he said, raising a hand like a peace offering. Then to the waiter, “Just... bring him some veg dumplings too. Extra dipping sauce.”
The waiter bowed and practically sprinted away like his life depended on it.
Minho exhaled and glanced across the table at Hyunjin, who looked like he’d walked out of a 200 BCE revenge saga.
“Look” Minho started carefully, like one wrong word might send chopsticks flying. “I get the cultural thing. You crossed waters. Your family’s strict. Stuff like that—it matters. It’s okay.”
Hyunjin’s fingers tapped the edge of the table.
“Hyung…” he said, voice flat. “You’re pitying me too early.”
Minho tilted his head.
And that’s when Hyunjin told him.
Everything.
Minho’s jaw slowly dropped like a bag of rice.
When Hyunjin finished, he took a breath. Finally looked at his hyung.
Minho just blinked.
“So I’ve been lied to,” he muttered.
Hyunjin nodded once.
Minho stared at the table. “...I gave Jisung leave because I thought his grandma died.”
Silence.
“And I kept Changbin’s leave open because you were supposed to handle Florida.”
Silence again.
Minho sat back and exhaled long and low.
“...So I’ve been lied to.”
He repeated it like he was processing a math equation. No shouting. No dramatic storm-off.
Just that stunned expression of someone who ordered beef stew and got served raw betrayal in dumpling wrappers.
Hyunjin had gone quiet again. He kept muttering something under his breath, eyes locked on the table.
“Two days. Two days. To ruin a life…”
Minho tilted his head, sipping his water with caution. “What happened two days ago?”
Hyunjin finally exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. He looked up.
“That same guy. Joseph.”
Minho blinked. “The American one?”
“Yeah. He said... he had no issue marrying her, even if she was pregnant with someone else’s child.”
Minho slowly set his glass down. “…What.”
Hyunjin’s mouth twitched in irritation. “Exactly.”
Minho squinted. “Is he a good man or a weird man?”
“Both?” Hyunjin threw up his hands, then leaned in. “I met him in person. Tried talking it out. Man to man. Right? Then this guy—this bold, insane guy says—‘See man, she thought you were handsome, went a bit far with you, doesn’t mean she likes you, okay? And I don’t really mind. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll not discriminate your kid from mine. You can come every weekend to meet your daughter or son. I have absolutely no issues, okay?’”
Minho stared like he’d just witnessed a crime.
“I—Hyung—I tried arguing more,” Hyunjin continued, exasperated. “Tried making him understand she’s not some person he can just play savior for. But then he goes: ‘Tell me one thing that proves she likes you.’”
He slapped the table lightly.
Minho raised a brow. “...And?”
“I got angry. I told him—” Hyunjin rubbed his temples. “I told him she’s not pregnant.”
Minho froze.
Hyunjin whispered, “Then he was convinced. And left.”
Minho opened his mouth. “You—Hyunjin—you ruined the whole fucking plan.”
“I know.”
“She’ll be mad at you forever for that.”
“I know!” Hyunjin nearly yelled, slumping back in defeat.
“And she is. She got mad at me immediately. Said I destroyed everything.”
Minho groaned and slid his palm down his face. “Of course she did. You made the whole operation collapse like cheap scaffolding.”
“But wait.” Hyunjin lifted a finger. “It gets worse.”
“How.”
“Joseph went to her house,” he said darkly. “Told them about the ‘rumor.’ Said it was just something he heard. Said he just wanted to confirm. Apparently asked her to swear on her mother and say whether she was pregnant.”
Minho’s mouth dropped again.
“She told me all of this herself” Hyunjin muttered. “Her dad overheard. Stopped him right there. Told him to break off the marriage. Said misunderstandings like this weren’t right for the family.”
Minho leaned back, staring.
There was a pause. A thick, wordless pause.
“...Okay,” Minho finally said. “I mean. That’s a good thing, right? Their marriage broke off.”
Hyunjin’s shoulders stayed tense. “But what if he tells them I’m the one who told him? It’ll be a mess, hyung. A real one.”
Minho waved his hand. “Chill. That’s a bridge you’ll burn when you get to it.”
Just then, the waiter returned, tray in hand, tip-toeing like he was entering a lion’s den.
“Sorry, man,” Hyunjin muttered, a little embarrassed.
The waiter smiled faintly. “It’s fine, sir. It’s a sad story.”
Hyunjin managed a half-smile, just a twitch of the mouth.
But then—disaster.
The waiter gently put the plates down and said with tragic, misplaced wisdom:
“But, sir… I think you should’ve talked to her dad first.”
Hyunjin blinked.
Minho blinked.
The room temperature dropped five degrees.
Hyunjin’s hand subtly moved toward the butter knife.
His jaw locked. His eyes went red.
And just as he picked up the knife—
Minho grabbed his wrist. “Hyunjin.”
“LET ME—”
“NO. We do not throw cutlery at service staff!”
“GET. LOST” Hyunjin barked at the waiter, who yelped and disappeared so fast you'd think he was teleported.
Minho looked back at Hyunjin. “You need a therapist.”
The waiter had fled like a man chased by ghosts. Minho exhaled and sat back, flicking his chopsticks open.
Then he looked sideways at Hyunjin.
“…You know,” he said slowly, “the waiter was right.”
Hyunjin squinted at him. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Then why didn’t you—?”
“I did,” Hyunjin cut him off, dramatic as ever. “Took her dad to a super crowded restaurant. Packed to the brim. People even standing and eating, like some black market for noodles.”
Minho raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay… and?”
“And I sat him down, looked him in the eyes, and said, ‘ Sir, I know you are very angry at me. there are many people here. If you want to hit me, I won’t stop you. You’ll feel satisfied, and they’ll all witness my public humiliation.’”
Minho’s eyes widened, excited look in his eyes. He was leaning forward like a kid at storytime.
“Did he hit you?” He asked, while tapping his foot.
“No.”
Minho gasped happily. “Did he punch you?”
“No, hyung—he just looked at me for ten seconds.”
“And then?!”
“…Then he left.”
Minho sat back like a balloon deflating. “Tch. Sad life, huh?”
Hyunjin stabbed another dumpling with angst. “Don’t remind me.”
Minho picked up a dumpling, inspecting it. “So what now? Everything seems pretty… sorted? The marriage broke. The truth didn’t come out. You’re not dead.”
Hyunjin paused. Put his chopsticks down. Looked at Minho. His voice lowered.
“She—Y/N—the love of my life, said that…”
Minho looked up mid-bite.
“She said that because her father trusted her so much… because he broke the marriage off thinking Joseph was wrong to doubt her… she’s decided—he must never know that she wasn’t pregnant.”
Minho frowned. “…Huh?”
Hyunjin’s gaze was dead serious. “Which means she should get pregnant. For real.”
Minho choked on his dumpling.
“Wait—wait—before marriage? You’re planning—?!”
“No, hyung! We’re just… thinking.”
Minho was wheezing. “What do you mean, thinking?? That’s not a group project. That’s a life-altering multi-generational decision—!”
Hyunjin waved him off, red ears and all. “We’re being careful!”
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what. Eat. Please. Shut your romantic generator for two minutes and eat.”
Hyunjin pouted and took a bite.
The parent meeting.
Rain taps against the windshield. The world outside is grey. Inside the car, you and Hyunjin sit—he’s biting his nails, you’re chewing your lower lip, both of you barely breathing.
Hyunjin's back to jeans. You hold the phone between you both. The call is on speaker, tucked into the car’s dashboard shelf, glowing like it’s about to explode with tension.
“They’re here,” your sister murmurs through the phone. “Everyone just sat down.”
Hyunjin swallows hard. “Did you remind your dad not to bring up the pregnancy?”
“I begged him not to bring up anything that starts with ‘P’.”
You glance at him. “Did you remind your dad to be soft?”
Hyunjin nods quickly. “I even told him to be heart touching.”
You sigh. “Please God. Please let this not turn into a war.”
Inside the Café — Through the your sister's phone, she took to keep you informed
Small talk starts. Stiff. Measured.
Your father: “So… your son is a model, is he?”
Hyunjin’s dad: “Yes. And your daughter is… artistic.”
Your mom murmurs a quiet “thank you.”
Hyunjin’s mom chuckles awkwardly. “She must be… strong-willed.”
Your dad: “She is honest and good.”
Silence.
Then.
Hyunjin’s father clears his throat. “We’re glad this marriage is happening. Though… it’s not exactly ideal.”
You freeze.
Hyunjin grabs your hand in a death grip.
His father continues. “No girl in our family would ever… go to such lengths. But it’s fine now.”
Silence. Thick. Slapping.
Your father’s voice is ice-cold. “Excuse me?”
“I—”
“What did you say about my daughter?”
“I meant it in a good way, no one would marry my son if they knew this, she's—”
“You think she’s what? Dishonourable? Because your son couldn’t control the narrative, you blame my girl?”
You try to yell into the phone but it’s not your place anymore. You’re just the kid, sitting outside, in the rain.
You look over to Hyunjin who looked horrified and he said-
“WHAT DID HE JUST SAY”
Voices rise. Chairs shift.
Your sister tries to mediate. “Please let’s not raise voices—”
Hyunjin’s dad: “I only meant we are traditional, madam. That’s all—”
Your dad: “And I am not? Do you know the shame this caused us? You want tradition? Then teach your son not to get involved in such tricks!”
Your sister.
“I—I think—”
Water hits the tiled floor. Panic.
Her voice—choking and shocked—“My water just broke—!”
Everything flips in a second.
Hospital Room – Two Hours Later
You sit outside the labor room with Hyunjin. His mom is inside. Your mom too. Everyone’s clothes are still damp. No one is arguing.
Your father walks up to Hyunjin’s dad with two coffee cups. Holds one out. Neither says anything for a second.
Then:
“If you weren't here....” your father says.
Hyunjin’s father smiles a little. “And your daughter… she’s stronger than any man I know. That was what I wanted to say.”
And that was that.
You and Hyunjin walk back to the car in silence. Rain still lingers in the clouds, but doesn’t fall.
“So… that’s how our families got close?” you whisper.
Hyunjin snorts. “Through a scandal, a breakdown, and your sister’s baby kicking open diplomacy.”
You laugh. But tears prick your eyes too.
“I thought everything would fall apart today,” you admit.
He looks at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Me too.”
“But they accepted it.”
“They did.”
You stop walking. “Do you think… we’ll be happy?”
He doesn’t answer for a second. Then he wraps his fingers around yours.
“With you? Even if we’re poor, jobless, and have seven kids—I’d still be happy.”
You blink up at him. “Seven?”
“Okay, okay, two.”
You both laugh.
But your chest is full. Heavy. Hopeful.
You never thought this would end in a hospital waiting room. That his father would panic, grab your sister, and carry her to the cab himself. That they'd all wait outside that labor room like one single family.
Maybe it's the rain.
Or maybe it’s finally starting to make sense.
You kick your feet up on the coffee table, a jar of Nutella in one hand and a very suspicious-looking cucumber in the other.
Your sister walks in, nose wrinkling at the mess. “That’s not… how you’re supposed to eat that.”
You shrug, mouth full. “I’m creating new food laws.”
She laughs. “You’re literally just faking cravings so you can vomit. You know that’s not how pregnancy works, right?”
You wipe your mouth dramatically. “It’s called ‘method acting.’”
She groans.
But you have no choice. You have to keep up the lie. Vomiting helps with authenticity. If your mother sees you looking not puking, she’s going to get suspicious.
“Pass the soy sauce” you say.
“Why? What are you dipping—” She sees the banana on your plate. “Oh my god. You're a criminal, gimme some.” she waddled towards you.
Meanwhile, Hyunjin is having the best morning of his life.
He does a mini dance in the elevator on his way up to the office. Sends you a "mwah 😘" selfie captioned:
“another day of making money for my fake baby”
Minho raises an eyebrow when Hyunjin bursts into the office looking like sunshine.
“You seem unnaturally chirpy” he says, peering at him suspiciously. “You high on prenatal vitamins or what?”
“I’m just happy, hyung!” Hyunjin grins. “Your boy is gonna be a dad!”
“You’re literally not, and can't?”
Hyunjin points dramatically. “Not yet.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Anyway. I cancelled the Florida project.”
“You’re cancelling it?” Hyunjin blinks. “But it was your dream project.”
“Yeah” Minho says, leaning back. “But you left me no choice, and I had a near-death experience last week where I was stuck in an elevator with two finance bros. Made me rethink everything.”
Hyunjin snorts. “Glad you saw the light, hyung.”
Everything feels perfect.
Until.
Jisung walks in.
Quiet. Eyes not quite focused. He avoids every good morning, walks past every desk, and locks himself in his office without a word.
Hyunjin frowns.
“That’s weird,” he mutters, knocking gently on Jisung’s door. “Hey, bro. Thought you were on leave?”
Jisung’s voice is low. “I… came back early.”
Hyunjin walks in. “But you had five days left—”
“My grandma died.” Jisung says suddenly, not looking at him.
The smile falls right off Hyunjin’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have made you—”
“It’s not your fault.” Jisung breathes heavily. “I just…. I lied and said she died, and then… she actually did. This morning. Peacefully. But still.”
Hyunjin’s heart twists.
“I’m so sorry, Jisung-ah…”
Jisung just nods, eyes still glassy. “I just feel sick about it. Needed to be around noise today. Not thoughts. Thats why I'm here.”
Hyunjin doesn’t push.
Jisung gives him a small nod, then turns his chair around, back facing him. A silent request for space.
Hyunjin walks out of the office quietly, his earlier glow dimmed. Guilt creeps into his gut like fog. He hated lying for this exact reason—how could something fake affect something so real?
His steps slow in the hallway, hands deep in his pockets, when—
His phone rings.
💌 WIFEYYY ❤️ is calling…
His lips twitch.
He answers. “Hey, baby.”
"Hyun—my mom is taking me to the hospital for a check-up. I'm literally outside the hospital now, this doctor is my mom's friend.
We’re fucked."
Your hands are shaking as you hang up the call.
You don't even realize it until your mother gently grabs your wrist, her expression laced with concern. "Y/N, what’s wrong? You said you’ve been to check-ups before, right?"
You nod.
But not like this.
Not with a real doctor. Not with someone who could destroy everything in minutes.
“I’ve only gone to private clinics with Hyunjin before,” you say weakly, clutching your phone like it’s oxygen. “Not like this.”
The hospital doors feel like the gates of judgment. And you’re walking right into them, with your mom’s friend—the friendly OBGYN—waiting to greet you, already preparing to call your bluff.
You try calling Hyunjin back.
No answer.
So you take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and walk into hell.
His heart stutters.
He doesn’t even grab his coat as he rushes to Minho’s office.
“Hyung! I need your car! I need—I need to get somewhere now!”
“What? What happened?”
“She’s at a hospital. Her mom’s friend is a doctor. She's gonna find out she’s not actually pregnant. We’re so screwed—”
“Holy shit—”
“I don’t have time!” Hyunjin yells, already running.
He races to the street, unlocks Minho’s car, throws himself behind the wheel.
Then sees the address you texted.
It’s over an hour away. With traffic. In the rain.
His hands slam the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, SHIT—”
And then, his phone rings. Dad.
He almost doesn’t pick up. He wishes he didn’t.
“Hello—?”
“YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT.”
“Her father called me. Told me to arrange the marriage quickly. She's pregnant, it seems?” His father’s voice is practically vibrating with rage.
Hyunjin can barely breathe.
“I’m coming home” his father seethes. “You better be there.”
His mother lets him in.
“You ruined that girl’s life,” she says softly. “Her family’s dignity. And you lied to us. You told us you were infertile, Hyunjin.”
He tries to explain, hands rising, voice cracking.
“Please… please just let me—”
But his father cuts him off.
“I would rather cope with the fact that you were actually infertile, Hyunjin. At least then, it wouldn’t mean I raised a liar.”
He leaves.
Slams the door behind him.
And all the noise in the world vanishes into silence.
His mother stands in the middle of the hallway, shoulders sagged, tears tracing the curve of her face.
Hyunjin moves closer. “mom…”
“I gave you everything,” she whispers. “I let you choose. I trusted you. Do you know how hard it was to convince your dad that love marriages are okay?”
“Please” he begs, voice hoarse. “It’s not what it looks like—”
She turns to him.
Eyes rimmed with disappointment.
Soft. But sharp.
“Where did I go wrong while raising you?”
Hyunjin looks at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.
No answer.
Because he doesn’t know.
Because maybe she didn’t.
Maybe he just broke under pressure.
Maybe it was always destined to fall apart.
And now?
Now the woman he loves is alone in a hospital.
Now his parents are ashamed.
Now, every lie he told to protect the future, might’ve just destroyed it.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Hyunjin sits on the sidewalk outside his building, soaked from the rain, phone clenched so tightly in his palm that his knuckles are white. Minho had texted a dozen times. His mom hadn’t spoken a word since that question—“Where did I go wrong?”—and now the sky looked like it was about to cave in.
He looks down at his phone again.
No texts from you.
No calls.
No updates.
Which only means one thing.
It’s done.
They know.
You’re not pregnant.
The lie is exposed.
And the marriage? Dead.
His hand covers his mouth as his eyes begin to burn.
You’ll probably never speak to him again.
Your parents will never forgive him.
His parents already haven't.
He lost everyone—everyone—over a lie he tried to protect you with.
He swipes his screen open one more time.
Still nothing.
So, desperate for even a final goodbye, he calls you.
And you… pick up.
“Y/N—”
“Hyun,” you breathe, your voice barely audible.
There’s something strange in your tone.
Like shock.
Or fear.
Or something beyond words.
“I—I have to tell you something.”
His heart drops.
He doesn’t think he can handle more. “Y/N, listen… I’m sorry. I’m really—”
“The test… came out positive.”
Hyunjin goes still.
The wind stops.
The rain sounds like white noise.
And his brain blanks completely.
“…What?”
“I’m pregnant” you whisper.
A beat passes.
Then two.
Hyunjin lets out a short, broken laugh, one that sounds nothing like joy. “No. No, don’t say stuff like that. It’s already bad enough, Y/N. Don’t try to make me—”
“I’m serious” you say.
And then—
Ping.
You send him a photo.
A crumpled scan of your report.
And there it is.
In black and white.
HCG POSITIVE.
Confirmed. Pregnant.
His head starts spinning. “What the hell—what the actual—”
“We didn’t—” you choke, “I've never—Hyunjin, we never even did anything. Right? Not fully. We just—Hyun, do you trust me?”
You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.
So does he.
“Do you trust me?” you whisper again.
Hyunjin stares down at the report, mind flashing back to every moment with you.
No, you never crossed that line. You both always pulled away. The most intimate thing you'd done were heated kisses, touches, stolen moments—but nothing that could’ve led to this. You wanted to wait till marriage, and he respected that.
Nothing that explained a pregnancy.
And yet…
Here it is.
Here you are.
And you’re crying.
Because you’re scared.
Because this doesn’t make sense.
Because now, even you don’t understand what’s happening.
Hyunjin swallows.
His voice cracks when he says, “I trust you.”
And he does.
God, he does.
More than anything.
But this… this was beyond logic. Beyond timing. Beyond every safety line you’d both sworn to stay behind.
“How could this happen?” he asks, brokenly. “Y/N, how—how the fuck is this happening?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “My mom was right there, Hyun. She saw it all. She hugged me and cried. She said she was so proud of me for being responsible and brave. And I just stood there. I stood there, watching everyone believe something I didn't even believe myself.”
His chest caves in.
You continue, quietly, through shallow breaths. “I thought maybe it was a lab mistake. Or maybe the test glitched. But I felt it, Hyun. When she hugged me. I felt like I was lying. Even though I didn’t. Even though we didn’t…”
You pause. Then ask again, shakier now, “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Hyunjin whispers. “I do. Always.”
Then silence.
Heavy, painful silence.
Until you finally say, “Then you have to believe me when I say I don’t know what the hell is going on. But it’s real, Hyun. And I’m scared.”
Tears slip down his cheeks.
His phone trembles in his hand.
And suddenly, none of the lies matter. None of the plans. None of the family rage or the shattered image.
All that matters is you.
You, scared.
You, alone.
You, growing something inside you that you never asked for.
Something that you never planned.
Something you don’t understand.
Hyunjin’s lips part, barely holding back a sob. “I’m coming to you.”
“You can’t—”
“I’m coming,” he insists. “Even if I have to walk. Even if mine disown me. Even if this makes no goddamn sense—I’m coming. Because you shouldn’t be alone for this.”
You breathe in sharply on the other end of the line.
“I’m at home” you whisper. “I asked her to take me back.”
And Hyunjin?
He runs.
Runs through the rain with his phone still pressed to his ear, heart thundering, past traffic and time and logic and fear.
Because somehow, you're pregnant, and you need him.
Now more than ever.
Your mom greets him like always. Your dad even offers him a small nod. Your sister is laughing with her husband on the couch, someone’s cooking something in the kitchen, and the lights are all on, warm and golden like it’s just another night.
And yet… you’re the only one sitting still. Silent. Spine straight, hands pressed against your lap like you’re holding yourself together. You don’t say hi when Hyunjin walks in. You just look at him.
Like you’ve been waiting for only him.
He walks toward you, slowly, cautiously, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
And the second he’s close enough, you speak, voice low, desperate—
“Hyun… is it okay?”
He crouches in front of you, his eyes searching yours.
“Do you trust me?” you ask again, breath trembling.
You’re not crying. Not visibly. But he can see it—the panic behind your lashes, the tight grip of your knuckles, the broken rhythm of your breath that you’re trying so hard to keep hidden.
He smiles, gently. “You’ve asked me that five times already.”
“I’ll ask again,” you say, like it’s the only thing anchoring you. “Do you trust me?”
And he nods, so sure, so soft, it hurts to look at him.
“I do” he says. “I trust you. I trust you more than I trust anything else right now.”
Your throat wobbles.
“And is it okay?” you whisper. “That this… this happened? Even though it doesn’t make sense?”
He reaches out then, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you up, into him, and holding you tight enough to quiet every shaking piece of your body. You gasp softly as your feet leave the ground—
Because he spins you.
Just once.
Just fast enough for your feet to dangle, for your head to dip forward against his shoulder, for the room to tilt and tilt and then stop.
Your fingers fist his hoodie.
You breathe in the familiar scent of him, grounding.
And he pulls back only a little, just enough to look at your stunned expression, cheeks pink, lips parted.
Then he smiles again, a little crooked, a little helpless.
A little like a man falling headfirst into something terrifying—and choosing it anyway.
“Even if you’re the next virgin mary,” Hyunjin says, “I’ll still marry you.”
Your breath catches.
Your heart stutters.
Your lips part.
And he leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to your mouth.
It’s gentle.
Like a promise sealed under skin.
A kiss that says I know nothing makes sense right now—but I’m not going anywhere.
A week passes.
A week of silence and questions, of tentative laughter and phone calls late into the night. Your parents have calmed. So have his. It's not like they had much of a choice.
You were going to marry anyway.
Hyunjin’s dad, once furious, now only sighs when he sees him, rubbing his temple and muttering, “Whatever’s happened has happened.”
His mother hugs you when you visit, even puts a protective hand over your back when walking you out. And yours? Your mother won’t stop cooking for you, asking what you’re craving, like she’s suddenly remembered every love she ever had for you all at once.
And Hyunjin? He’s quieter now. Not in a bad way.
He’s just watching you more. Carefully. Like he's always taking note.
You’ve caught him whispering to your belly once. Just once.
You weren’t even sure he knew you saw him—but he’d knelt in front of you while you slept on the couch, placed a warm palm just above your navel and whispered:
“Hi… I don’t know what you are yet, but… please don’t scare her. She’s just figuring out how to breathe again.”
You didn’t cry. But you couldn’t sleep after that either.
And now, a week later, everything feels so bizarrely calm that it’s almost unnatural.
Your entire family is gathered at Hyunjin’s house for dinner—his parents, yours, your sister and her husband, even Minho("My fucking car"), who always somehow finds a way to sneak in, acting like a bored cousin who lives nearby.
It’s the “official” meeting. For marriage prep.
The elders sit at the long dining table, discussing traditions, ceremony customs, whether it should be a temple or a hall, and whether you’ll wear red or ivory.
Your sister keeps making fun of you from the other side, texting you under the table.
“You’re going to look like a baloon in all that fabric.”
You’re smiling. You're pretending.
But truth is?
You feel off.
Your fingers tremble a little when you reach for water. Your lips are dry no matter how many times you sip. Your head’s been heavy since this morning, and you thought it would pass, but it didn’t. You’ve barely eaten—your stomach’s been in knots.
You think maybe it’s just exhaustion.
Or the fact that you’ve been lying to your parents for so long that now that they’re being kind to you again—it’s crushing.
Like you don’t deserve any of this.
So you laugh along. Sit beside Hyunjin. Everyone's talking, the noise is warm and overlapping.
And then, your mom says something about wedding rings. She’s excited. She brings out this tiny box with a pair of gold bands—just a sample she wanted to show you.
You smile. Nod. Try to reach across the table to take it from her hand.
And then the world shifts sideways.
A loud ringing floods your ears. You blink, slowly, once—twice—
And then the entire room fades to black.
Hyunjin doesn’t even see it happen—he feels it.
One second, you're beside him, your hand reaching out. The next, your chair scrapes sharply, your shoulder slumps, and your entire body folds.
He catches you just in time.
“Y/N?!”
There’s chaos. Screaming. Chairs pushed back. Your mother drops the box of rings. Hyunjin’s mom stands up, panicking. His father’s already on the phone, calling for a car.
You're unconscious in his arms.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Hyunjin mutters, slapping your cheek gently. “What the hell—baby, please—Y/N, wake up. Please wake up.”
You don’t.
It’s raining by the time they reach the hospital.
You’re asleep. Somewhere inside that sterile, humming hospital ward, your body’s resting after everything it’s endured. But the storm isn’t over. Not yet. Not outside.
Hyunjin, scared, tells everyone the truth.
Because out there, just past the glass doors, your sister is standing with swollen eyes and her arms wrapped tight around herself. She looks at everyone—your parents, Hyunjin, Minho, Hyunjin’s parents—and says the one thing no one else had the strength to say.
“If he hadn’t lied” your sister says, voice cracking, “if he didn’t say all that crap—about the pregnancy, the infertility, all those dumb plans—they would’ve never taken her for a full check-up. She would’ve never known.”
Everyone goes still.
And you aren’t there to see it, but your name might as well have echoed through the silence. Not from anyone’s mouth. Just in the air. Like your existence, your health, your body, was suddenly not just yours anymore—but a shared weight.
Minho stands beside Hyunjin, lips pressed together, quietly observing your parents as they struggle to process what they’ve just heard. What Hyunjin just confessed. Everything. From the start.
Your fake pregnancy. His fake infertility. Joseph. The lie, the cover-up, the mistake that somehow led to a horrifying truth.
Dysgerminoma. The tumor that made every test say you were pregnant. The thing growing inside your ovary that you never, ever would’ve known about unless this entire disaster happened.
You’re asleep now—but out there, the people who love you are falling apart.
Hyunjin’s dad arrives last, stepping in like he has all the answers, and calls Hyunjin aside.
“So nothing happened, right?” he says quietly. “She’s not pregnant. apparantly she’s probably going to be infertile. So there’s no point continuing this. Just wish her well and let it go.”
Hyunjin looks like someone punched him without touching him.
“Dad…”
But the older man walks away before he can finish. Walks like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.
Minho watches it all happen, jaw tight, eyes flicking between father and son. Then he gently asks, “Want me to drop them off?”
Hyunjin doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no either. He just closes his eyes for a second like he’s been holding his breath too long.
“Please, hyung,” he finally says. “I need to talk to her parents.”
And then Minho does what he always does—steps in calmly, respectfully, and leads Hyunjin’s parents away, leaving just your family on the bench outside your room, 110.
Your mother looks tired. Your father is sitting still like someone pressed pause on him.
Hyunjin walks over, and kneels beside your dad.
Your father looks down at him, quiet. Expecting words. Maybe ready to hear them. Maybe not.
But Hyunjin speaks anyway.
“Y/N is…” His voice cracks almost immediately. He clears his throat, wipes under his nose, and keeps going. “She’s not the type to give up. Even when everything else does. When people do. When fate does. She’s… she’s—sir, when we were kids, she never judged me.”
Your dad's brows crease faintly.
“Not for my broken English. Not for riding a girls’ bicycle when all the other boys laughed at me. She—she was the only person who made those worthless rituals, those ceremonies, all those expectations—feel okay. Like maybe I wasn’t stupid for believing in something.”
He sniffles, glancing down.
“I think I’ve been stuck in that phase ever since. Because nothing—nothing in my life—ever felt that good again. Except when she was in it.”
Your mother’s eyes begin to water.
He looks up at them both, lips trembling but steadying his breath.
“I told my manager this story. At my job interview. I told him about her. About how I work hard because someone like her exists. That’s what I said.”
And then, quieter, almost ashamed:
“She’s told me, you know? That I’ve been important to her. That I mattered. But she’s not like me. She doesn’t stay stuck in time. She keeps going. She’s always going to surpass anything… even this.”
He wipes his face with his sleeve, stands slowly, tears still glistening in the corner of his lashes.
“This won’t stop her. She won't let it. So we shouldn’t give up either. Right?”
He finally meets your father's gaze again.
“Pregnancy is a choice. Not a compulsion.”
No one says a word.
Hyunjin apologizes in a voice so gentle it barely touches the air, and turns.
And there they are.
His parents are mid-argument, his mother’s voice sharp, his father’s voice low and angry. But they stop the moment they see him rushing toward them, breathless and red-eyed.
Minho is already in the driver’s seat, waiting.
“Get in,” his father says stiffly.
Hyunjin does.
The car is silent. Tense. Like a truth just finished screaming and left the echoes behind.
No one speaks.
The car finally pulls into the driveway.
Minho’s arm is wrapped tight around Hyunjin’s shoulders, holding him as your boy breaks—quietly, breathlessly—tears finally slipping down his cheeks after holding them in too long. He wipes at them with the sleeve of his hoodie, but Minho doesn’t say a word. He just keeps his arm around him like an anchor.
Inside, Hyunjin's mother is fighting alone.
One against two.
“Are you even listening to yourselves?” she yells, voice shaking not out of fear—but fury. “You’re telling me tradition is more important than my son’s happiness?”
“It’s not that—” his father starts, but she doesn’t let him.
“No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s different this time because she might not be able to have children. Because when it was your own child, a few days ago, who you believed was infertile, you were willing to get them married. You expected them to be understanding. Because having children is a choice. Because that’s what humanity looks like, isn’t it? She was a self sacrificing angel?”
Hyunjin’s grandmother opens her mouth to speak, but she turns on her too.
“But when it’s the girl? Now it’s a disgrace? Now he can’t do the same thing you thought she was ready to do? A crime? A mistake that can’t be accepted?”
“Tradition—” his father says again, weaker now.
“Oh, I’m done being quiet,” she snaps, walking toward the boys.
She grabs Hyunjin by the arm and then Minho by the wrist, yanking him upright with determined strength.
“Take him to the hospital,” she says. “He’s staying there until she’s better. He’ll be by her side, like he should be. And he will marry her. Do you hear me?”
She pushes them both toward the door.
Hyunjin turns at the threshold and hugs her—tight, long, full of tears and wordless gratitude.
“I love you, mom” he whispers into her shoulder.
She holds him just as tightly, brushing his hair back. “Then go.”
He runs to the car, barefoot halfway down the driveway, Minho already opening the door, and they drive.
Meanwhile, in the hospital, your family sits outside your room.
The mood has shifted.
You’re still inside, asleep, heart steady but slow. Recovering.
Your mom sighs. “In today’s world, how many boys say what he did?” she glances at your father. “‘Pregnancy is a choice, not a compulsion’?”
Your father doesn’t speak. He just… nods.
Right then, the sliding doors open—and Hyunjin bursts in, breathless, messy hair, shoes half-tied.
He’s searching like a man gone mad.
Your father stands and gently touches his shoulder.
“She was shifted to room 201” he says, softly.
Hyunjin's eyes widen. “Thank you, sir.”
Minho stays back, and begins casually telling your parents about his Florida feat.
You’re awake.
And when he enters, chest heaving, eyes searching, you already know.
You’re sitting up in the hospital bed, in a light blue uniform that drowns your figure, an IV in one arm, and a million things unsaid in your eyes.
He stares at you.
Then slowly, you say—quiet, but steady, “Hyun…”
He walks to you, stops right in front of the bed.
You glance down at yourself. “How do I look?” you ask, trying to smile. “Good?”
Hyunjin squints at the uniform, nose wrinkling. “They didn’t have a better color?”
“Green.”
He snorts, wiping his eyes quickly. “Oh—this is so much better.”
You laugh, soft. A tiny one.
There’s a pause.
A silence between you so deep it feels like the air is listening.
Then your voice again—smaller. Realer.
“Hyun…”
You look up at him, eyes brimming.
“Will you marry me?”
Hyunjin smiles. It’s tired, aching, but real.
He leans down, grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, where his heartbeat is thunder.
“You tell me” he whispers. “You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
And you know he means it.
May, Amelia Island.
The breeze at Amelia Island is salty-sweet as it catches the veil still clipped loosely into your hair. You’re sitting barefoot with your legs tucked underneath you, wedding dress billowed around like a cloud, on the soft sand that’s seen more stories than it could ever tell. Hyunjin is next to you, shoes kicked off, black wedding suit unbuttoned and wrinkled from dancing and hugging too many people. His tie is looped around his wrist now, like a bracelet he forgot to take off.
He looks at you, all soft and squishy-eyed, like the way people look at baby animals in slow-motion videos.
You’re not even speaking, just resting your head on his shoulder as the Atlantic plays lullabies behind you.
“Baby, I was the one who gave the card” he blurts.
You blink. “…Huh?”
He turns fully toward you, pulling his knees up like a kid telling a scary campfire secret.
“That card. The one that got you so obsessed with this island...”
You look at him, completely silent.
He scratches his cheek, looking at you. “It was me.”
Your lips twitch.
“I know.”
He freezes. “What—”
You burst out laughing. “I knew all along.”
Hyunjin blinks at you. “Wait. How?”
“It was obvious.”
You sit up straighter, shifting your dress so it doesn’t fly into the sand. The layers fluff up like whipped cream as you plant your hands on your hips.
“I should tell you something too.”
He tilts his head, half admiring, half curious.
“Remember Carla?”
He nods slowly, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yeah, you said she was the first female photographer, and the first picture she took was of this island…”
“Well, Carla was actually my math teacher from fifth grade. She used to chew on chalk and forget my name.”
Hyunjin stares at you. “What.”
You grin wider. “The picture thing? Made it up. I wanted to see if you'd believe me.”
Hyunjin's mouth falls open in complete betrayal. “…What.”
“That was the day I decided I wanted to marry you” you say, smug.
He just… stares. “So you’re telling me I’ve spent years thinking I gave you a poetic, historically accurate, niche-romantic postcard—”
“And instead you were falling for a girl who lied to you about a lady with chalk in her mouth,” you sing.
His jaw drops. “My whole LIFE has been a LIE.”
You’re already standing up, backing away slowly, laughing, holding up your gown.
He’s still sitting in stunned silence.
“I’M SERIOUS—CARLA WAS MY TRIG TEACHER—”
You’re already laughing too hard to stand straight when he bolts up.
“Y/N! COME BACK HERE!”
You run.
Down the shore, veil flying, wedding dress lifted as your bare feet slap against the wet sand. He’s right behind you, suit jacket flapping open, breathless from laughter and disbelief.
“WHO EVEN LIES ABOUT A PHOTOGRAPHER—?!”
“ME! I DO! GET USED TO IT, YOU’RE MARRIED TO ME NOW!”
“You scammed me!”
“You married the scam!”
He nearly grabs your waist and you twist just in time, shrieking as you both tumble into the sand, breathless and dizzy and tangled in lace and limbs.
And there, in the golden blush of an Amelia Island sunset, he looks down at you—sand in his hair, shirt sticking to his chest, ring on his finger—and smiles like he’s got everything he’s ever prayed for, all at once.
“You know,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Even if Carla wasn’t a photographer…”
“Hm?”
“You still changed my world by existing.” You kiss, The kind of kiss where time falls asleep for a second.
Somewhere in Florida, weeks later, it’s raining cats and dogs.
He's going through fuzzy handcuffs for experimenting, when his phone rings. Hyunjin answers.
He squints out the window, takes a deep breath, and says loudly, obnoxiously— “I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd!!”
Jisung, who called, almost cries.
Dreams do come true. Even for weird ad models with strange accents.
JYP wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Seoul’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs — Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.
The CEO of AWs was Minho. Terrifying in his management style — pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.
Jisung was the editor sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.
Hyunjin was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Changbin handled business talks but today, he wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.
Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.
Minho, slid a folder across the table to Jisung.
“You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Hyunjin are here today, and you already know…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Everyone knew. If earth split open and Hyunjin fell in, Minho might ask for receipts before helping.
Jisung blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”
Two hours later, Jisung was editing a banner of Hyunjin standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
Hyunjin.
Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauted, and served on a plate with grass.
“Can I have… one hour?”
Jisung blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Hyunjin didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.
“I want to go to the US.”
Jisung narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And… if you decline the offer, since Changbin-hyung is out, I’ll be next in line. Minho-hyung won’t have a choice.”
“...Why should I give that up?”
Hyunjin’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.
He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.
Then launched forward.
"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. Seoul National, USC, NYU, some went to san francisco—I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”
You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Han Jisung. Just ONE!!"
He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly,
“I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”
Jisung’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”
Hyunjin blinked. “No?”
“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”
Hyunjin’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.
And he whisper-screamed, desperate, The rarest word in his vocabulary.
“PLEASE.”
The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Jisung’s all-expenses-paid trip to florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.
Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.
Hyunjin had entered full pestering mode. Like Jisung’s success was a war crime.
He started small — delivering Jisung’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Jisung-ah” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Jisung did not own a tripod bag. So Hyunjin bought him one.
By Friday, Jisung had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.
“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”
Hyunjin stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”
“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”
Jisung squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”
“No.”
Sigh.
“My dad,” Hyunjin began, “is deeply religious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ religious.”
Jisung blinked.
“My mom too. And my grandma — don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘sin magnet.’ Anyway, this one shaman my dad adores — some guy named Master Jido or Judo or something — apparently saw my face in a rice bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”
“A rice bowl?”
“Yeah, and since then, my dad’s convinced I shouldn’t cross the Korean Peninsula. He cancelled my trip to Japan in high school, he deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Korea will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”
Jisung stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”
“I WISH,” Hyunjin cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”
Jisung squnted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Hyunjin, you think I’m that dumb?” Jisung asked.
There was silence. Then—
“Because...Mr. Lee only listens to you,” Hyunjin blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandma died, and boom — you’re free.”
Jisung paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandma died?”
Hyunjin grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to fiji for your mental well-being.”
Jisung yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”
But Hyunjin wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Minho once declared “imported Italian” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.
“PLEASE!”
Jisung sighed.
“Enough diversions and lying.” Jisung snapped, getting up.
“I WASN'T LYING!”
“okay, half lying.”
Hyunjin pulled out a small blue notebook.
Opened it.
Then… lifted it up.
And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty brown eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.
“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair — that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”
Hyunjin let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him — one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than hydropower. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.
“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”
He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:
“There was a girl.”
Jisung blinked.
“A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.
“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreigh transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girls one, was parked next to hers and—”
“Wait.” Jisung frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”
Hyunjin looked mortified. “…The shaman. He said the top tube on boys cycles was dangerous for my family lineage.”
Jisung snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro WHAT.”
“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”
Jisung was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”
“Yes!” Hyunjin cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”
Wheezing, Jisung wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”
Hyunjin glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. she didnt laugh even when i told her.”
“She and I became…accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything — just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”
Jisung tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”
“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’”
Hyunjin scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”
Jisung winced. “Smooth.”
“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”
Jisung, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”
“I never told her I wrote it” Hyunjin admitted.
A pause.
Jisung squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”
Hyunjin waved his hand. “Let me finish.”
Jisung looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Hyunjin.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”
Hyunjin sipped the last of his drink slowly.
Looked out the window.
And grinned.
Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Jisung could only describe as unearned confidence.
“I already took care of it.”
Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”
Hyunjin simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.
“Clarity” Jisung said. “Give it. Now.”
In the JYP Building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was — the shaman’s daughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.
She worked in HR, or maybe Legal — Hyunjin hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.
He’d found his window.
Hyunjin stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.
He called.
Ring.
Ring.
Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The very Shaman. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.
Hyunjin’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.
“Hello, Master Jido. This is Hwang Hyunjin. Your favorite client's son.”
“Oh, it’s Hyunjin! What is it, son?”
“I just had a little doubt,” Hyunjin said, sweetly.
“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”
Hyunjin’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “If I kidnap your daughter…”
“…Eh?”
“…And elope with her…”
“WHAT?”
“…Then marry her…”
“Are you—”
“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”
The silence on the line grew nuclear.
“…Then, Shaman-nim,” Hyunjin asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughters, or yours?”
“What do you want.”
Jisung stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”
“Gently intimidated,” Hyunjin corrected.
“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”
“Wasn’t fake in the moment” Hyunjin said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”
Jisung just stared.
“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles” Hyunjin said.
“Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”
“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”
“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”
“…What does that even mean—”
Hyunjin suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award.
“San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”
The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.
Jisung sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”
You were thirteen when you landed in Korea, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Seoul was from anything familiar — your school, your grandma, the small room in Florida that always smelled like oranges.
Your dad had one rule:
“No Korean boys.”
You blinked.
He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom.
“They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and prostitution.”
You nodded. Not because you believed it — but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.
You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Korean:
"Hello" and "I don't understand."
The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Felix, who looked like he’d been born with bubble tea in his hand. Korean-Australian, bleach-blond, and soft-spoken, he spoke Korean in scattered syllables and English with an accent that made teachers squint and classmates swoon.
You and Felix became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.
Then there was Hyunjin.
The Korean boy who looked like he walked off a shampoo ad — with his floppy fringe and moody aura, and that stupid girls’ bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.
He tried to speak to you.
Often.
“Hi. Me am… Hyunjin… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”
You and Felix burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.
Hyunjin, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. you like me."
“No,” Felix wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”
“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Hyunjin declared, without understanding a thing.
“My English is very… constipation.”
“I feel you, I have many… hormone today.”
“This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”
“Today is Constipation Day in Korea!” and what not.
You and Felix lost it every single time.
You never corrected him.
Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.
Felix would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering:
“Popsex. He really said popsex.”
But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.
The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.
He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.
The cover was of an island. Amelia Island.
Inside, written in broken English:
“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”
You didn’t smile.
Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.
The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:
You: “Did you leave this?”
Hyunjin: “What? Me? This??”
(Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.)
“This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”
you told him you liked it very much. that for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.
“No dating Korean boys” Your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching Korean dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”
You’d just nodded.
He didn’t know about Hyunjin. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.
Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card — anonymous but obvious — you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.
So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.
Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.
You never saw Hyunjin after that.
Your sister was the golden one.
She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.
So when she came to you — eyes big and trembling — and said
“Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Korean. You know how Dad’ll be.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it — that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.
You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.
Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading — but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.
“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have Y/N, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”
You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.
But you didn’t say anything.
You smiled. A small one. A polite one.
You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.
The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.
Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.
“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”
You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you — sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.
Then the baby didn’t cry.
And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.
They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes.
Then he was gone.
The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.
Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.
“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”
And your sister just stood there.
Frozen.
One hand still resting on the tiny urn in her arms.
They never recovered.
You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.
And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.
Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.
“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”
You didn’t respond because she's right.
Years later, you’re still in Korea. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.
But something in you had started to twitch.
A thread pulling tight.
It stirred when you saw your sister's hands shake over her tea.
It stirred loudest when you saw Hyunjin again — in that photo. The boy who once said “goose pinples” with his whole chest. Who looked at you like you were a language he wanted to learn.
It started with a hand graze.
James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.
He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”
You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.
And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.
He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to—he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.
He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.
But when you finally told him—quietly, anxiously—that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.
“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”
You frowned. Not because he was wrong—but because that month already sounded like an escape route.
Still, you nodded.
You always wanted to believe the best of people.
One month turned into two. Then four.
He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.
2 years later.
Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.
“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Studied in Delhi. MBA. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”
You stared at the picture, you knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to—it was the sudden realization of what this meant.
He thought you were ready for marriage.
“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.
Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.
“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry.
“Don’t take it for granted.”
“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”
He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.
He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.
“Go” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”
You smiled.
But your eyes had guilt.
Packing didn’t take long.
Neither did the goodbyes.
You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.
Then came the early morning of departure.
The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.
“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.
You told her everything last night.
You nod and stop.
Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”
You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake.
Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did—waiting, quiet, gentle.
“Please” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”
And that was all.
You picked up your bag again.
And walked through the doors.
You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile—metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.
And then you saw it.
A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.
You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.
You didn’t even want to care.
You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.
A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.
You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.
And then you saw him.
Long legs stretched out.
Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself.
And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.
You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.
He didn’t even notice you—he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.
Your brows twitched.
You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.
But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.
And his face lit up like he wasn’t twenty-four years old but actually five.
A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then—because he had no self-preservation instinct—shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.
He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.
“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”
You blinked.
Squinted.
And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.
“Hwang Hyunjin!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”
“I told you I was inside—!”
“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”
“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”
You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”
He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”
You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”
“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby, Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”
You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”
“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”
You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.
He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.
“Milady,” he said in a terrible British accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”
“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.
He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”
“…Are you high?”
“I took two mints. Close enough.”
You started laughing despite yourself.
You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood—how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.
And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.
“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”
Hyunjin gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition banana milk—!”
You walked ahead, shaking your head.
And behind you, suitcase rolling, Hyunjin trailed after you with that same stupid smile—already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.
This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?
Flashback.
Hyunjin barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.
“Hwang Hyunjin. Office. Now.”
His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Minho never calls. Minho appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.
He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong—was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?
No time to wonder. He walked in.
Minho sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Minho. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet—deadly in its own way.
“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Minho said, without even looking up.
Hyunjin blinked. “...Okay?”
Minho leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”
Hyunjin tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.” He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”
“Exactly,” Minho said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”
He stared straight into Hyunjin’s soul.
“Who should be the model?”
And in that moment… Hyunjin knew he was absolutely screwed.
Minho never asks for opinions. Which meant—he already had someone in mind.
And he was called here, which meant—it was him.
An intrusive image assaulted his brain:
A massive banner over a subway station.
Hyunjin. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.
“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”
He swallowed thickly.
“Jisung,” he blurted. “Han Jisung’s got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a K-drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”
“Hyunjin,” Minho said flatly. “You’ll do it.”
“No—no no no,” Hyunjin stammered, waving his hands. “Minho-hyung, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites demons. My mom said—”
Minho didn’t even blink.
He turned to his monitor.
“Do it or resign.”
There it was. Classic Minho. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.
Hyunjin stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.
He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.
“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.
Minho didn’t glance up. “Take it.”
“Your time, sir,” Hyunjin added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.
Minho finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.
“What now?”
The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.
Minho sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.
Hyunjin sits like a man who is the warzone.
The waiter approaches with a notepad.
Minho: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.”
Hyunjin: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”
The waiter blinks. Looks at Hyunjin. Then at Minho. Then back at Hyunjin, silently judging his life choices.
“Hot… water?”
“Yes. Plain. Hot.”
“Lemon?”
“No. I’m not here to feel joy.”
The waiter backs away slowly.
Minho sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”
Hyunjin takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.
“Sir. I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”
Minho: “Uh huh.”
“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girls cycle.”
Minho freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.
“We were 13—”
Minho cuts in, deadpan:
“Yeah. I know. You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah.”
Hyunjin freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”
Minho sips his water now, mocking.
“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”
Hyunjin seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.
Then:
“There’s… more, sir. But I’ll have to go with the flow—”
Minho cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.
“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”
Hyunjin mutters under his breath:
“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”
“one night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, hyung. Our giraffes.”
“You had giraffes?”
“We once watched a giraffe documentary together in the office pantry. That was OUR moment.”
Minho slows down. Just a little.
“And she was dating a guy who was a small time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite”
Minho paused eating. “What”
“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at Canon messaged me to check if I died.”
Minho tosses his chopsticks down.
“Hyunjin. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your dad bought you a pink one. Are you the son of JYP that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”
Hyunjin looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”
“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”
“Sir—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”
“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”
Hyunjin looks like a dying goldfish.
“But hyung—sir—I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”
“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”
He stands. Leaves.
Hyunjin sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.
The waiter brings the bill.
Hyunjin also starts to get up, following Minho… when—
“Hyunjin,” Minho calls without turning.
“Pay the bill.”
He disappears around the corner.
Hyunjin opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.
“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”
The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.
Hyunjin stands in the middle of it.
Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER™” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.
He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.
The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.
His hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Minho said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.
He adjusts his collar. Winces.
The fabric itchy. The zipper mocking him.
Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams,
“You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”
Hyunjin mutters under his breath, eyes down.
“Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”
And then—
“...Hyunjin?”
A voice.
A very specific voice.
He freezes.
Not like, subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest.
His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.
Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.
And there she is.
HER.
The girl.
The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking.
The one who never judged him during his Girl Cycle™.
The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.
She’s standing there—slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest.
She’s dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, she looks like the goddess of Febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.
And then—
CLICK.
Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights.
They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.
Hyunjin flinches as it hits him in the face—full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes.
Because hers are on him. Just her eyes. On just him.
And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone—
Even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship—
Even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop—
All he can think is:
“Damn. I’m in love again.”
And this time, worse than before.
A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Hyunjin starts piecing things together.
She’s not just standing around.
She’s not observing.
She’s holding a camera.
No.
No.
No, no, no—
“Y/N,” Minho’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”
Green mat.
Green mat.
Green mat.
Hyunjin’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain Breeze Blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.”
He doesn't even know what that means.
She’s behind the camera. Adjusting the lens.
Professional. Focused. The way she bites the inside of her cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.
He’s smiling in the photos.
But only his teeth are participating.
The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.
Click. Click. Click.
He poses.
She shoots.
They don’t say a word.
Until—
It’s over.
Minho walks up, grabs the camera from her hands casually, scrolls through the display.
He stops at a photo of Hyunjin holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.
“Good job,” Minho mutters.
Hyunjin exhales.
“Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Minho looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Not to you,” Minho says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”
Hyunjin wilts.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.
It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.
You’re not sure how you ended up here.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building—like it remembered you both still had things to say.
Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot.
Like he was trying not to look at you.
Like looking might hurt.
Like not looking already was.
You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.
He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His curls are messier. Looser. The way you remember them from last year’s winter, when he used to post black-and-white mirror selfies captioned with song lyrics and emotionally concerning emojis.
You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.
“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.
You shrug.
“You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face.
“Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”
You laugh a little.
Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.
There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking.
Now it just hums.
“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”
You nod. Slowly.
But he notices. You don’t say yes.
And he doesn’t press.
Because he knows you.
The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.
He’s doing it now.
Looking away.
Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.
“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”
You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously.
“What, are you stalking me now?”
“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, going red. “I just saw it.”
“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.
He groans.
“I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”
You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly.
“Yeah. We broke up.”
“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”
Your lips quirk.
“He cheated on me.”
That wipes the color from his face in less than a second.
He stiffens.
Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. Eyes darkening like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.
“Hyunjin,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”
“Tempting.”
“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”
You laugh again—softly. Only a little.
But his eyes flick up instantly.
And then, suddenly—he goes dramatic.
He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.
“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this?You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”
You nod slowly, amused.
“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.”
His eyes widen for emphasis.
“And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”
He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven the theory of relativity.
“That. That’s what your breakup is.”
You stare.
He waits.
You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now.
“I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”
You blink again.
And then—
You snort.
And then you actually laugh.
Hyunjin freezes. Mouth parting slightly.
“Wait. Did you just laugh?”
He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light.
“Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! Go green, baby, let’s save the planet!”
You roll your eyes, still laughing.
“Sit down, idiot.”
“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis with your solar power.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late.
He sees it.
And for a second, he just stares.
Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.
The room is packed.
Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Minho paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.
Hyunjin’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone.
Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.
Your text thread.
Your name. Sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.
He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.
Hyunjin:
where are you
you weren’t at the shoot
you didn’t reply this morning
are you okay
is minho making you quit
blink twice if you need rescuing
Three dots pop up.
Then:
You:
Going to a friend’s wedding!
Wanna come?
His thumb freezes.
Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.
Hyunjin:
I’M COMING
I’M COMING OMG
Then GASP.
An actual, audible gasp in the dead quiet room.
Minho pauses his monologue mid-sentence.
Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.
Hyunjin is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news.
“No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”
Minho narrows his eyes. “Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint.
“I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”
He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Minho stares at him, completely unmoved.
“You’re not even crying.”
Hyunjin forces a high-pitched sob.
“NOW I AM.”
Minho doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans.
“Go.”
Hyunjin immediately drops the act, grins.
“Thanks, boss!! Love you!”
He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.
Minho sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much.
“Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”
The sun’s dipping low, painting gold on the windshield. The soft hum of the AC fills the silence.
He’s in the passenger seat, hoodie slightly wrinkled, hair a little messy from air playing with it five minutes ago. His bag’s in his lap, untouched.
Your cars parked right outside his house, engine off, not saying a word.
Neither of you are.
Until suddenly you reach across the console and hold his hand.
Hyunjin blinks.
Looks down at your fingers.
Then up at you.
You’re serious.
Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly as you ask—
“Will you marry me?”
He freezes like someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is you.
“Wait—wait. Hold on. What.”
You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand.
“You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”
He stares. Then swallows.
Then stares some more.
And finally, very softly:
“You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.
Only the horror is…
His father.
Hyunjin sighs dramatically into the void.
“Appa’s going to kill me.”
His eyes widen.
“No—worse. He’ll disown me. Then resurrect me just to kill me again.”
He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.
“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humour.”
“I’m dating everything my father prayed against during family offerings.”
He throws the blanket over his face.
You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan.
It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers.
Neither do you.
“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”
You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.
“I’m marrying a Korean guy. A model. An AD model.”
You sit up.
They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling.
Then simultaneously:
“Maybe we should elope.”
Beat.
“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”
“So would my dad. With a shaman.”
You’re already there when Hyunjin shows up.
You're pacing.
Hands shaking.
Mind spinning.
He sees you from across the street—crosses quickly, no goofy wave today.
You're chewing your lip. Hard.
"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"
You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er.
“Why did you call me here?”
“plan” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”
You squint.
He opens the door. You walk in with him—reluctantly.
Small booth. Two cups between you—one coffee, one untouched hot water.
You're silent. Hyunjin keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets.
Then:
“Let’s elope.”
You stare at him.
Like stare stare.
As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Hyunjin—my parents—”
You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons.
“Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”
Hyunjin’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly.
“Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”
“What?”
“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”
“Oh my god—”
“As if my father’s ever looked at me and thought: wow, my son’s going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! He once told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”
You blink.
“Turnip?”
“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”
You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly.
“I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”
You begin walking away—heels clicking, exit in sight.
And then—
Hyunjin stands too.
Loud.
Passionate.
Chaotic.
“THAT’S WHY GANDHI SAID!”
Everyone turns. You freeze mid-step.
Turn back slowly.
“…What did Gandhi say?”
He blinks.
Raises his finger again like he’s summoning wisdom from the heavens.
“He said: ‘If you ask me everything—what the fuck will you do, you shithead!’”
Pin-drop silence.
A waiter spills a fork in the corner. A kid starts crying.
You stare at him.
Hyunjin’s chest is rising. He looks like a revolutionary who forgot the script.
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Gandhi said that?”
“Absolutely,” he lies confidently.
Your lips twitch.
You fight it. But it’s coming.
And then—it breaks. You laugh.
Covering your mouth. But laughing.
“You’re such a dumbass.”
“And you’re the dumbass who proposed to me in your car.”
“…Touche”
You sigh, walking back to him, rubbing your temples.
“So what do we do, Gandhi?”
“Let’s go home for now”
It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour—still, almost forgiving.
You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.
But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket.
You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it—he can feel it.
“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”
You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest.
He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”
You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue—but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”
Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your dad—my mom—my sister—”
“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”
You nod slowly against his chest.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”
You shove his chest, laughing for real this time.
“You’re so full of it.”
He tightens his grip on you.
“Full of love, actually.”
“Jinnie”
“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”
Your fingers are lazily tangled in Hyunjin’s hair.
The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Hyunjin’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep—smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.
You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other.
Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.
“I’m pregnant again.”
You blink.
“Wow”
“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”
You glance down at Hyunjin’s messy hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”
“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”
You snort softly.
“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”
You freeze.
“…who?”
“Joseph.”
“…who the hell is Joseph?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”
Your heart rate spikes.
“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. Y/N, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”
“What the fu—”
“BYE! Love you!”
Click.
The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror.
A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you.
You shake Hyunjin by the shoulder—gently at first.
“Hyunjin.”
He groans sleepily.
You slap his arm.
“Hyunjin.”
“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine”
You yank the pillow out from under his head.
He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.
“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”
You grab his face.
“My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”
He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once.
“…who the fuck is Joseph?”
“EXACTLY.”
You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find.
Hyunjin finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.
“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”
THE PLAN.
You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Hyunjin’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.
You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes.
He finally speaks.
“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”
You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Hyunjin.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”
He stays quiet, waiting.
You lift your head, eyes watery.
“My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”
A tear escapes without permission.
“I’m the worst person alive.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours.
“Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie be saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”
You laugh through your tears.
He pulls you gently into his arms.
“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”
You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes.
“I don’t want to lose you either.”
A pause.
Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”
You don’t reply for a long time.
He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.
“I’m in love with you” he says.
He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”
Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”
“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”
“But we’re doing it anyway?”
He nods, forehead resting against yours.
“Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”
You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging.
Messily. Painfully.
But with him.
You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scarier. And Amelia island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.
“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”
He grinned.
And hence……
To jisung:
“Can I have… one hour?”
Jisung blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
To your dad:
“dad” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
