She/They 26 đDAY6đ đ§STRAYKIDSđ§ đĽGOT7đĽ đ§ĄWOODZđ Just your average fangirl. I write sometimes. âď¸ Chronic Illness girly âď¸
Jun Ji-hyun and Ji Chang-wook stun at the red carpet of the 79th Cannes Film Festival. Directed by Yeon Sang-ho (Train to Busan, Hellbound, The Ugly), COLONY held its world premiere at the ThÊâtre Lumière on May 15, 2026 as part of the festival's Midnight Screening section.
pairing: kim wonpil x (deaf) f!reader
genre: coworkers to lovers, meet-cute, mutual pining, fluff, soft romance
wc: 8.0k
synopsis: he speaks through piano keys. you speak with your hands. when wonpil is tasked to partake in the kindergartenâs upcoming theatre production, he doesnât expect to find inspiration in youâ quiet, kind, and often overlooked. it may seem like the two of you are worlds apart, but as it turns out, thereâs nothing so different about two people who listen with their hearts instead of their ears.
an: my attempt at something different, i tried my best to do my research so i do apologise if there are any inaccuracies (and please educate me if that's the case haha đââď¸) happy bday piripiri!!! đ°đŠľ
Wonpil shifts uncomfortably on his feet as he stands by the roadside, fingers gripping onto the handle of his briefcase as he stares at the one-story building before him.
It looks unassuming enough. If anything, itâs typical, like any other kindergarten in Seoul, but for some reason, heâs still hesitant to go in.
He thinks itâs likely because he hates change. Ratherâ heâs just not used to it. Heâs been working at his parentsâ piano school since he graduated university, and getting a career reset this late in his adult life just feels like a setup for failure.
But he knows he shouldnât think that way. Not when he should be thankful for getting an opportunity like this in the first place; not when there are people out there, counting on him to guide the next generation of future musicians-
Perhaps heâs being dramatic.
With a deep breath, Wonpil steps forward, pushing the wooden gate that leads to the front door open.
He doesnât really know who heâs supposed to report to, and walking around aimlessly while trying to find the general office feels intrusive in some wayâŚ
so he ends up in the garden.
Itâs really more like a small patch of dirt next to the cafeteria, though clearly well-tended to as could be seen by the neat rows of lettuce heads and baby tomatoes that are just only beginning to ripen. Also, the figure currently hunched over the dirtbed with a shovel in hand, and probably the reason behind why a garden so tiny could look so perfectly maintainedâ you.
âHi!â Wonpil greets, silently grateful that his voice hadnât cracked due to his nerves. âIâm the new music teacher thatâs supposed to start todayâŚ?â He trails off when you donât turn to him.
Weird. Were you ignoring him? You probably just hadnât heard him.
He clears his throat. âUm, Iâm looking for the general office. Or, if you could direct me to the principal, thatâd be great-â
âMr Kim! There you are!â Another voice sounds, and he turns to see Principal Lee, eyes crinkling behind her glasses as she smiles warmly at him. âMy apologies. I shouldâve given you directions during our call. Welcome to our school!â
âAh- thank you.â Wonpil bows his head slightly as he steps towards the lady, but not before glancing over his shoulder to look at you again.
Your back is still turned to him, though standing now as you water the crops. You donât acknowledge him, nor do you acknowledge the principalâ itâs as though youâre alone, and nobody else is there with you.
Strange.
Principal Lee mustâve caught him staring (shamelessly, as he only belatedly realises), when a small ah escapes her lips. She steps towards you, peeking at the side of your face before waving at you gently to get your attention.
Thatâs when you turn, andâ
Oh.
Youâre pretty.
Wonpil blinks when the principal starts introducing you. He only barely manages to catch your surname, slightly stunned as he realises that not only is she using her wordsâ sheâs also using her hands.
And thatâs when everything clicks.
Oh.
Thatâs why you hadnât turned when he spoke. It wasnât because you didnât hear himâ it was because you couldnât.
â- and this is our new music teacher, Mr. Kim,â Principal Lee says, signing at the same time.
You smile then, and Wonpil swears he could feel his heart leap out of his chest.
One, because heâs flustered, yesâ and slightly guilty that a small part of him had assumed you were being rude by ignoring him. Second, he doesnât know sign language.
At all.
Wonpil bows as he mutters out a hello, only to remember you canât hear him, so he ends up adding in a small wave for good measure.
If you notice how embarrassing heâs being, you donât show it.
âIâm really sorry, I didnât notice you. I donât have my processors on,â you say while signing, then tapping your ear.
Your gestures are unfamiliarâ heâs never had someone talk to him in sign language beforeâ but itâs your words that manage to catch him off-guard, not because theyâre unclear, but because theyâre even spoken at all.Â
And now, Wonpil feels even stupider for not considering it. Of course. Why did he assume you werenât able to speak?
But itâs different, he realises, the way you form your words. Not in a bad way. Just⌠softer. More deliberate, like youâre placing them exactly where they need to be. Theyâre careful in a way that makes him listen a little closer, and Wonpil realises that maybe, this has nothing to do with you being deaf, but everything to do with you.
âItâs okay.â And because his ears are still warm from earlier, he clumsily adds, âI look forward to working with you.â
You nod, the smile not leaving your face as you sign together with your words. âLikewise.â
And for some reason, that gesture sticks with him all the way until he gets home, when heâs sitting in front of his laptop and ready to start crafting his first lesson plan for the term.
Except, Wonpil finds himself opening another Naver tab instead, and before he could stop himself, he types:
how to say hello in sign language
Wonpil finds you in the garden again, this time closer to noon.
The last time he saw you was a few hours ago, during a meeting with the creative committee about an upcoming play thatâd be taking place in a few months. Itâs something that the school organises annually for the graduating batch, though theyâre planning to do something more special this year now that they have a music teacher. Heâd learnt during introductions that youâd be in-charge of prop-making, and even though Wonpil doesnât know you very well, he figures from your paint-stained jeans and crochet cardigan that it made the most sense.
Now, he tilts to look at you, waving his hand in your line of sight the same way he saw Principal Lee did to get your attention. From his research yesterday, heâd learned that tapping a Deaf person on the back without warning could startle them and potentially come off as invasive, and the last thing he wants is to be rude.
You look up when you see him from your peripheral vision, lips settling into your usual smile as you straighten your back. Before you could wave at him, he beats you to itâ
Hello.
Your brows raise, before a small laugh tumbles out of your lips.
You hadnât meant for it to happen, and it wasnât like you were making fun of him. In fact, he had done it perfectly, if you donât count the slightly-off placement of his hand near his forehead, and the way his eyebrows furrow like he wasnât sure if he was doing it right.
Still, you understood him, and the fact that he even tried is⌠kind of sweet.
Hello, you sign back, and Wonpil laughs in embarrassment as he mirrors you, properly this time. He shifts awkwardly for a while before blurting out a soft oh! under his breath, taking out his phone from his pocket.
Iâm Wonpil, he types.
âI still havenât gotten the hang of signing my name yet,â he says sheepishly, and you nod, seemingly in understanding. He wonders if you could lip-readâ not like heâd expect you to do that every time he speaks, of course.
You tell him your name and that itâs nice to see him again.
âI really like your garden.â He points to the dirtbed awkwardly, merely for the sake of having something to say.
You laugh again at that, but Wonpil knows it isnât mean-spirited.
You open your palm, placing your thumb and middle finger together before tapping your chest lightly twice. âLike this.â
His lips part as he studies your movements, fingers curling as he tries to mimic you.
You step forward, glancing at him as though to ask for his permission, before gently taking his wrist and adjusting his fingers for him.
âThere.â You smile. âLike.â
You step back, your lips still tugged upwards, and while Wonpil would like to think (or seriously hope) that heâd managed to school his expression, the sudden skip in his heartbeat clearly means otherwise, and only one thought crosses his head in that moment:
Shit. Heâs in trouble.
Wonpil is slowly starting to get used to his new routine.
His classes are spread throughout the week, and since there are only three age groups in the school, his Tuesdays and Fridays are usually left free.
Heâd often spend that time in the music roomâ itâs much easier to plan his classes there as compared to the staff room where itâs noisier. Occasionally, heâd find himself in the library, tooâ but only if youâre there.
Since the day at the garden, youâd gotten quite close to Wonpil. You believe itâs because his schedules arenât as tight as the other teachers, though it does make you wonder why he chooses to spend his free time with you.
Even when youâre busy organising bookshelves, heâd still be at his usual table by the window, focused on planning out his lessons on his laptop. Other times, heâd be scribbling something down in his notebook. Youâd dared to take a peek once, only to realise it wasnât words heâd be writing down, but music notes.
You didnât understand it, of course, since you had no reason to pick up a music module back when you were still in school, but Wonpil was kind enough to teach you the basics. In exchange, heâd ask you how to sign a colour, sometimes even a shapeâ depending on the material youâd be preparing that day.
Itâs like weâre exchanging languages, heâd once written down in his music book for you to read, earning a small laugh from you. He decides that no composition of his could even come close to how lovely that sounded in his ears.
Your language may be silent, but Wonpil thinks itâs beautiful, the same way you find the way he translates feeling into music mesmerising.
The idea for the play had just been confirmed, and Wonpilâs finally able to start composing.
The theme is going to be garden-inspired, following a tiny seed that grows into a flower. Along the way, the seed will make other garden friends, with each of them representing different aspects of life like growth and change.
Itâs cute, Wonpil thinks, fitting for six year-olds preparing to enter elementary school. The only problem is⌠heâs still new to working with children, and composing light, playful music isnât something heâs done before.
Basically, he hit a dead end before heâs even started.
The piano lets out a series of jumbled notes as Wonpil drops his hands on the keys. Heâd been hoping that inspiration would come to him naturally, what more now that heâs in a room full of drawings and colour, but his sudden creative block is making it hard for him to think straight.
Perhaps he should wrap up for the day and sleep on it.
A sudden knock interrupts him from his thoughts, and Wonpil looks up to see you.
You step in tentatively. âAre you okay?â
âYeah. Iâm okay.â He smiles briefly. âJust⌠brainstorming.â He taps the side of his head.
You nod, peeking at his music book balancing on the lid of the piano. It doesnât look like he's done much progressâ if you count the scribbled-out notes as progress at all.
âCan I ask for your opinion?â Wonpil asks you suddenly, and you raise a brow.
âOf course." You gesture for him to continue.
He picks up his pencil before scribbling down in his book.
The play is garden-themed, and you know the kids better than I do. What do you think the score should sound like?
You laugh. âWonpil, in case you forgot, Iâm Deaf.â
âI know.â He pauses for a moment before scooting to his left, prompting you to sit. You do, and your shoulders brush when you settle next to him.
âMusic isnât just about hearing,â Wonpil tells you slowly, tapping his ear. âItâs also about⌠feeling.â He signs the last word, one heâd learned from a random YouTube video he watched last night.
He turns back to the piano before hitting a note on the far leftâ A, if you remember correctly. He does it again, only this time, he brings his other hand to touch the top panel. He looks at you, prompting you to do the same.
He presses the key one more time, and the vibration thrums beneath your fingertips.
A0 is the lowest note on the piano. The vibration is slower. Deeper, he writes in his music book before putting down his pencil, hand skimming to the far right of the keyboard. You feel the vibration again as he presses the key, only this time, it feels different. Lighter, almost.
You laugh, mostly in awe, and he turns to beam at you.
âYou feel it, right?â
You nod eagerly. Now you understand why some Deaf people love attending concerts. Youâve personally never been to one, but today it feels like Wonpilâs teaching you things you never knew about yourself. Maybe youâd try it out one day.
His smile drops a fraction. âCan I ask you something?â
You tilt your head, prompting him to continue.
âI donât know if this is going to come off as rude, so you donât have to answer if you donât want to! But I was just curiousâŚâ he rambles nervously. âIs there a reason why you donât wear your processors?â
Thereâs a pause as you take in his words, before a small giggle escapes your lips. You could see the wariness leave his face, clearly relieved that you hadnât reacted otherwise, though his cheeks are now painted a faint pink hue, almost like heâs embarrassed.
You try not to dwell on how cute you think he looks, scrunching your nose instead as you sign, too noisy.
Wonpil laughs. That, he understood. Youâd taught him that one day when he was telling you about the kids in his nursery class during their first music lesson. Needless to say, managing a bunch of three-year olds by himself was not a walk in the park.
âAnyway," you continue, âwhy donât you join me at the garden tomorrow?â
âOh, garden. Thatâs a new one,â he utters as he follows your gesture. You notice how Wonpil tends to pick up on your signing despite most of your conversations being verbal, his eyes always trained on your hands like heâs trying to learn even if you werenât necessarily intending on teaching him.
You donât think youâve ever met anyone that keen in learning your language; itâs always been the other way round.
Then again, you donât think anyone could ever be as sweet as Kim Wonpil.
In an hour, Wonpilâs managed to learn a few new words from you: seed, caterpillar, bee, sunflower.
Granted, itâs difficult to remember all of them perfectly, and heâd often mix up the hand gestures, but youâd laugh it off before gently adjusting his hands for him.
Wonpil totally doesnât pretend to keep forgetting on purpose just so youâd continue helping him.
Not so bad, right? You beam at him as you pat the soil gently, having just planted a new row of peony roots.
Difficult, he signs with a pout. Your smile grows wider at that.
âThereâs a reason why I do music and not this,â he huffs as he rakes the dirt with a gardening fork. âBut I guess I did learn a thing or two.â
You nudge his shoulder playfully, and Wonpil stops sulking as he grins back at you. Itâs hard to even pretend to be upset when youâre around.
Even now, long after heâs out of the gardening apron youâd loaned him and a pen in hand instead of a trowel, Wonpil canât seem to stop thinking about earlier. He blames you for thatâ that gardening session was supposed to give him inspiration, not distract him further! And yet, the rows of music staff in his book still remain empty.
He sighs, mindlessly dragging his pencil across the paper. The random doodle eventually forms into a caterpillar, albeit a crooked one, and Wonpil smiles to himself. Youâd shown him how to sign the word earlierâ a little crawling motion across your armâ and there was something just so cute and silly about it that he couldnât help but to laugh as he copied you.
He absently mimics the movement with his pencil, and it ends in a squiggly line right beneath his drawing. It kind of reminds him of a staccato; a set of short, detached notes ascending along the staff-
Thatâs it.
Wonpilâs eyes widen as he stares at the page, before he pushes his book aside completely. Stretching his fingers, he tentatively presses on some keys, following the staccato rhythm he had gotten earlier. He tweaks the notes as he goes along, but for the most part, he doesnât think, he just does, until eventually, he ends up with a melody that sounds very much like it could belong in a kidsâ musical.
A laugh escapes his lips as he plays the sequence again and again, making sure to write it down in his music book so he doesnât lose it.
Finally, the first staff is filled. Even if itâs nothing much and heâd probably have to polish it later on, itâs still something, and Wonpil couldnât wait to show you.
You find Wonpil at the piano in the music room, pencil in one hand, while the other rests idly on the keyboard. He doesnât notice you standing by the door, too absorbed in scribbling something in the music book balancing on his lap. You canât help but to smile at the sight. Thereâs just something soâŚendearingâ and perhaps a little sillyâ about it; how someone as good-looking as him could also be so nerdy. You donât mean it in a bad way, of courseâ you think the passion he has for his craft is admirable, and in the short time that youâve gotten to know Wonpil, heâs easily one of the loveliest people youâve ever met.
That probably explains why your heart always feels a little funny whenever youâre around him.
âOh, youâre here!â Wonpil grins when he notices your presence, wasting no time as he shifts on the piano stool to make space for you. âI have something to show you. I finally figured it out! Ah, Iâm speaking too fast, arenât I? Hold on-â
You reach out to touch his arm just as heâs about to flip to a new page of his music book, nodding at him to signal that you understood. You donât think he realises it, but heâs always been careful with enunciating his words when talking to you, even if he's practically buzzing.
Wonpil relaxes before he continues, âI finally managed to start on the first song. Itâs still a work in progress, but- I wanted to tell you anyway,â he laughs sheepishly, like heâs embarrassed.
He pats the lid of the piano: your usual spot. You place your hand on the wood, and a second later, he starts to play.Â
The pulses come in quick taps. Light, almost playful. It reminds you of rubber boots splashing into puddles after a rainy day, or children hopping during a game of hopscotch. You could feel the space between each note, some high, some low, and somehow, even without sound, you understand what heâs trying to show you.
He turns to you when heâs done playing, a boyish grin on his lips before he signs: how did it feel?
And for some reason, thatâs the question that completely unravels you.
Because he didnât ask you how it sounded. He asked you how it felt. And maybe, youâre making it a bigger deal than it should be. Heâd probably said it mindlessly and youâre dwelling on it for no reason at all, but neither of that changed the fact that his words had stirred something in you. Something⌠soft, like a flower thatâs just beginning to bloom.
You sign back. I love it.
âYeah?â Wonpil lets out a breathy chuckle. âSee, I was thinking of what you taught me yesterday. The caterpillar.â He flips to a previous page of his book, pointing to a scrawny doodle at the top right of the page. âIt inspired me to write this. Itâs called a staccato. Whereâs my pencil?â He mutters under his breath in the midst of his explaining, searching the fallboard.
You tap his shoulder, splaying your palm upwards in front of him. âWrite it here instead.â
Wonpilâs lips part, like heâs taken aback at your request, before he nods, pulling your wrist towards him gently. He traces his index finger on the inside of your hand, spelling out the word. Staccato.
You smile, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles too. Itâs only then do you notice how close you are, and the lack of distance between you both causes your heart to stutter.
Just like a staccato.
You expect Wonpil to let go, but he doesnât, only hesitating slightly before bringing his finger to your palm once more and writing down another word. Thank you.
Your pulse quickens, and now it feels like there's a drum in the middle of your chest, fast and loud.
You wonder if thereâs a term for that too.
âOkay, class! Who remembers what song we learnt last week?â Wonpil points to the set of notes written on the whiteboard next to him before capping his marker.
A few hands shoot up, and Wonpil pretends to ponder loudly as he taps on his chin, earning a few giggles from the kids. âYes, Yijin?â
âHot Cross Buns!â The boy chirps enthusiastically, the triangle in his hands clinking at the sudden movement.
âThatâs right! Good job, Yijin!â Wonpil leans forward to give him a high-five. âToday, weâre going to move on to the second part of the song. But first, can anybody tell me the name of this note?â
You watch from the back of the class with a soft smile on your lips. Itâs clear that Wonpilâs gotten more comfortable at teaching now as compared to when he first arrived, especially since the kids love him so much. Heâd gone from standing awkwardly at the front of the class to sitting cross-legged with them on the foam mattress on the floor, opting to peruse the small whiteboard on the easel instead of the wall-mounted one behind him. Itâs easier to engage with the kids that way, heâd said.
You feel a tug on your sleeve, and you turn to see Sera, one of the quieter kids in his class. You realise that she has her arms reached out to you, a pair of castanets in her hands.
âWhatâs wrong?â You ask.
âI donât know how to play,â she mumbles shyly.
You smile, shaking your head as you put your hands over hers. âWeâll play together, okay? Iâll help you.â
The girl nods, your words seeming to calm her down slightly as she scoots closer towards you.
âNow, this one is called a semi-quaver.â Wonpil points to a set of four notes joined together with a line on top. âSee how theyâre holding hands? This means that theyâre really fastâ like theyâre running a race together! It sounds like this.â He raises his hands to clap a steady beat, like a metronome, before he sounds out the notes with his mouth. And even though you canât hear him, youâre somehow able to understand.
Ta-ta-ta-ta.
You find yourself mimicking the rhythm, tapping the back of Seraâs palm with your index finger mindlessly. Two semi-quavers make up one regular note, and you realise that what youâre playing feels familiarâ a staccato.
Thereâs another tug on your sleeve. When you look at Sera, sheâs already looking at you with a bashful smile, her small hands clicking the castanet according to your tapping.
Your lips part in surprise before they settle into a proud smile. Good job, you sign before patting her head, and the little girl giggles.
In the midst of it all, you donât notice Wonpil watching you, softly, longingly, like heâs the one on the receiving end of your gesture. He knows he should look away, but he canât, and even though the classroom is growing increasingly noisier, he thinks the thumping of his heart still remains the loudest.
And somehow, the realisation that he might just be falling for you isnât as scary as he thought it would be.
With only two months left to the play, both you and Wonpil start to get busierâ you with prop-making, and Wonpil with dry runs and rehearsals. Still, in a school this small, it isnât difficult to cross paths with him, because the garden has somehow turned into an unofficial spot for you to bump into each other in between your respective schedules.
You donât know if Wonpil is doing it on purpose. It wasnât like the both of you would intentionally agree to meet upâ the garden has always been âyoursâ even prior to knowing him, and when youâd be there tending to the crops after hours, heâd show up with his messenger bag slung over his torso, like heâs done for the day. And somehow, without fail, heâd end up kneeling beside you on the dirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a shovel in hand instead of going home.
Sometimes, heâd even be there before you, pacing aimlessly on the grass patch like heâs merely taking in the fresh outside air (though very obviously waiting for someone), only to break out into a wide grin when he sees you, quick to ask you how your day was as he hands you a cup of coffee heâd gotten from the cafeteria.
Even if Wonpil doesnât realise what heâs doing, you donât think you mind if it means getting to spend more time with him.
Today is the same, except now, heâs already clad in his apron, kneeling on the dirtbed with his back to you as he tends to the blooming peonies that youâve planted just a few weeks prior.
âOh, hi.â Wonpil turns to smile at you when he senses you approaching.
You wave, placing your bag on the grass before moving to join him. âWhat happened to not having green thumbs?â You ask teasingly.
He shrugs mindlessly. âFigured Iâd give you a head start.â He pauses, placing his shovel down to turn to you. Youâve been busy lately. I wanted to help, he explains in broken sign.
Your lips part at that; not out of shock that he was kind enough to go out of his way to help you, but more so the fact that he noticed. Itâs been a hectic last couple of weeks, with most of your time being spent in the school hall, making trees out of cardboard and patching up costumes with whatever scrap fabrics you could find in storage. Your days have been ending later and later because of that, today being no different, and even though youâve grown accustomed to the sight of Wonpil in the garden, you werenât expecting to see him still here at this hour.
I hope Iâm doing this right, Wonpil continues sheepishly, looking almost nervous at your lack of reaction, and completely unaware of the effect heâs left on you.
Heâs gotten better at that too, you realisedâ signing. Youâre not sure if this has anything to do with your conversation the other day, but it leaves a certain warmth in your chest nonetheless. You think itâs less about that and mostly to do with Wonpil himself, though.Â
Just as heâs about to start rambling again, probably something about his phone lying on the dirt currently playing a YouTube video about planting peonies, you quickly catch his wrist, and Wonpil startles at that.
I appreciate you, you trace the words right above his pulse, the same way he did to you the day in the music room.
Wonpil blinks once, maybe twice, before his lips bloom into a smile, soft and slow, like a flower unfurling in spring. Without a doubt, itâs a sight thatâs quietly grown to be your favourite.
After all, youâve always found blooming flowers to be beautiful.
Youâve never liked wearing your implants.
Youâd gotten them when you were younger, and while they helped a lot in school, you also had to deal with headaches often due to all the noise and layered sounds. It wasnât the most pleasant feeling, but back then, you knew you couldnât afford to stop wearing them completely no matter how badly you wanted toâ because removing them meant not being able to communicate with people. Removing them meant lesser job opportunities.
It wasnât ideal, but you learnt from a young age that not everyone was willing to accommodate to your needs just because you were a little different, so you had to learn to adapt. Until eventually, you were fortunate enough to land a job with people that accepted you as who you were.
You never saw the need to wear your processors anymore since you started being a teacherâs aide here. The children donât look at you like someone missing somethingâ to them, youâre just their art teacher. The one who helps them mix colours, who laughs when paint gets on their sleeves.
Sometimes, without meaning to, youâd end up teaching them your language too. Small signs slipped in between lessons, curious hands mimicking yours. Youâre not officially teaching it, but the fact that you can, makes this place feel a little more like it was meant for you.
You think that might also be the reason why you feel so comfortable signing with Wonpilâ heâs never once pressured you to communicate with him verbally, never made you feel like you were difficult despite the communication barrier. If anything, heâs always been the one to meet you halfway, putting in the effort to learn sign, to slow down whenever heâs speaking, to keep his pencil and music book with him in case he ever needed to write something for you, until eventually, you stopped feeling the need to rely on your voice to talk to him.
Kim Wonpil is too kind, which is why right now, the moment you reach home, the first thing you do is to pull out your cochlear case.Â
Youâve been thinking about it for a while, and with the date of the play approaching, you figure you should probably try to get used to your everyday sounds first. That also meant hearing Wonpilâs voice for the first time, and for a moment, you let yourself wonder what he could sound like.
Warm, probably. Gentle. Maybe a little breathy when he laughs due to how big his grins usually get. Youâd never be able to get the full picture even with your implants on, that much you knew, but itâs close enoughâ close enough to be him, and youâd take what you can get.
And suddenly, you feel like the you from many years ago, nervous to start school for fear of being different, only this time, it isnât the world that feels overwhelming.
Itâs how you feel for him.
You carefully drag the last tree into place before you take a step back on the stage, searching the completed set-up for any adjustments.
The assembly hall has always been colourful to begin with, but all the cardboard foliage and felt trees has made the room brighter, in a way.
You feel a sense of pride wash over you. Even though youâve been involved in the annual play since you started working here, somehow, it feels different this time.
The silence of the hall is interrupted when you hear the doors open, followed by children shuffling in noisily as they sing,
âLine up, line up, one by one!â
Youâd forgotten that thatâs how things usually work around here; how the teachers would use an instructional song for every task because it made managing the kids a little easier. Even though you havenât worn your processors in a while, you could recognise the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as the children sang-
But then, a voice cuts through.
Easy. Light.
That makes you turn around immediately.
âLeft foot, right foot, donât you run-â
The kids follow, some off-beat, some a little too loud, and Wonpil laughs.
Thatâs when it shifts.
Because even through the distortion, even through the sharpness, the sound spreads warm⌠and unmistakably his.
As if on cue, Wonpil meets your gaze, his lips instantly blooming into a wide grin as he waves at you, but his smile drops slightly when he notices your ears, almost like heâs confused.
You know he wants to approach you, but his attention is quickly stolen by his students asking him to continue the song. You quickly leave the stageâ rehearsal will be starting soon, and youâd be able to catch him later anyway.
It takes a couple of minutes to get the kids ready in formation, even with the help of the other teachers. Wonpil only takes his place at the keyboard when the lights start to dim, and out of instinct, he takes one last glance over his shoulder to look at you, now standing at the back of the hall. In the dark, he canât really make out your features, but he smiles anyway, though itâs mostly to ward off his own jitters. Itâs probably the nerves building up to the actual day of the play which is only a week away from now, but more than that, itâs also the first time heâd be playing the entire production in front of you. And especially now that youâve got your processors onâŚ
Wonpil isnât given the time to dwell on that fact before he receives the cue to start, though he knows youâd probably be sitting at the back of his mind regardless.
You always do.
His fingers fly across the keys like heâs practiced for the past couple of months. The stage, though, is anything but controlled.
One of the caterpillar kids is facing the wrong way. A sunflower is waving at an audience who isnât even there yet, and the line he spent more than five minutes drilling earlier dissolves within seconds.
Still, they keep going, guided more by enthusiasm than timing, and despite the missed cues and uneven steps, thereâs something so earnest in the way the kids move, unpolished and real.
Wonpil smiles to himself.
And out of instinct, he glances over again to look at you.
But youâre not there anymore.
He turns back to this keyboard, trying to ignore the worry thatâs starting to bloom in his chest. Youâre okay, right? Maybe you needed to take something from the classroom? Or the garden. You probably just needed to go to the washroom.
Shit. Wonpil knows he could make up all the excuses he wants, but nothing could stop his uneasiness, because he knows.
He knows how uncomfortable wearing your processors are. He knows how noisy it gets, how youâd get headaches just from trying to process sound alone. He might not know exactly what you go through, but the fact that you donât wear them on the daily is enough for him to understand.
âMr. Kim?â
Wonpil blinks out of his thoughts, only to realise everyone is staring at himâ including the kids on stage, no longer dancing as they wait for his cue. He looks down to his hands, resting idly on the keys.
âOh,â he mutters before clearing his throat. âOh- sorry.â
A giggle sounds on stage. âTeacher Wonpil, youâre silly!â
Despite himself, he chuckles. âYes. Sorry, everyone!â He calls out, louder. âShall we take a water break?â
Thereâs a chorus of agreements as the children skip to their water bottles, and Wonpil gives the teachers an apologetic smile before he excuses himself out of the hall.
Thatâs exactly where he finds you.
âHey.â
You look up, lips tugging into a smile, though it doesnât reach your eyes like it usually does.
Wonpil exhales softly. Are you okay?
You nod. âI just needed some air.â
Your hands are clasped together in front of you, and thatâs when he realisesâ you're no longer wearing both of your processors.
You mustâve noticed his staring. âI⌠wanted to hear you,â you admit quietly. âI havenât used these in a while, so my ears havenât really gotten used to it yet,â you chuckle as you fiddle with the one of the implants in your hands, then looking past his shoulder to peek into the assembly hall. âShouldnât you be inside?â
A beat.
âI wanted to see you if you were okay.â
Your lips part at that, as though having not expected his response.
âWonpil, I-,â you pause, shaking your head as you rephrase your next words. âIâm sorry. You didnât have to- I didnât mean to interrupt-â
âWhy are you apologising?â
You go quiet.
âItâs not fair,â he continues, frustrated. âItâs not fair that you had to push yourself like that. You shouldnât have to, given everything youâve done for the kids.â
Your heart skips at his words.
Youâve never had someone be so⌠passionate about your comfort.
Still, you chuckle. âI donât expect the world to cater to me, Wonpil. Seeing the kids happy is what matters most.â
Wonpilâs heart clenches at thatâ how are you still smiling? After everything?
âBut you matter too,â he mutters under his breath.
Your brows shoot up. Youâre not sure if youâd heard him correctly, if you'd read his lips properly, and as if reading your mind, carefully, he raises his hands to sign, clearer, this time.
You matter to me.
You havenât seen Wonpil since the last rehearsal.
With only a few days left to the play, itâs understandableâ heâs probably been occupied with practicing with the kids, if not by himself. You know heâs a perfectionist, even for something seemingly simple as a childrenâs play.
You also havenât worn your processors since, deciding thereâs no use in trying to strain yourself. Youâre still on the fence about wearing them on the day itself, but thatâll be a bridge youâd cross when you get to itâ regardless, youâre sure youâd enjoy the show either way.
You hum to yourself as you tend to the peonies in the garden. Amidst all the production preparations, you havenât been in a while, and somewhere along the way, your flowers have finally bloomed fully, petals unfurling in soft shades of pink. Youâre suddenly reminded of Wonpil from a few weeks ago, clumsily hovering over the soil, hands too careful for someone who clearly has no idea what heâs doing-
And there you go again. Youâre thinking of him. Again.
Itâs easy to come to terms with your feelings for Kim Wonpil, but admitting it out loud? Not so much. If anything, the thought of telling him hasnât even crossed your mindâ maybe because things have always been easy for the both of you. Natural, that thereâs never been a need for you to question it.
Until now, that is.
Because now that you do, you canât help but wonder if telling him would change anything. If itâd make things⌠strange. You do work together, after all.
You decide to file that thought for another timeâ the sun is setting, and you might get chased out by the security guard if you donât hurry and pack up.
You step back into the building to fetch your bag you left in the classroom, but your attention is quickly stolen by the fact that the assembly hall lights are still on.
Wonpil doesnât see you when you stand at the door, his back to you as he sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with something in front of him.
You knock once.Â
He turns around, slightly startled, before he realises that itâs just you.
âHi.â Heâs slightly breathless as he stands up. âYouâre still here?â He asks, a little too quickly.
You tilt your head as you slowly step in. You too, you sign.
Wonpil grins sheepishly. âYeah. I was just⌠testing something.â He motions awkwardly to the set-up behind him.
His keyboard sits next to the stage, like it has been for the past few rehearsals, though the lone speaker on the floorâ the thing you realise heâs been tampering with earlierâ is a new addition you havenât seen before. You highly doubt it belongs to the school seeing as the hall already has a built-in PA system, so you figure it must belong to Wonpil personally; though you canât really figure out why he even needs it in the first place.
Itâs nothing, he adds, like he knew you were going to ask. Are you leaving already?
You nod.
Okay. Let me⌠He turns around, clumsily turning off his set-up before picking up his bag. âIâll walk you to the bus stop.â
A small chuckle escapes your lips, mostly at how weird heâs being, given heâs mixing up both his speech and sign, like he doesnât know which one to use today. Are you sure youâre okay?
âYeah! Yeah. Just-â He pauses, switching to his hands. Nervous.
You nod, beaming. Youâll be fine. I know youâll do great.
Wonpil laughs before muttering under his breath, âthatâs not what Iâm worried about, though.â
You tilt your head, motioning for him to repeat. You hadnât caught what he said.
But he only smiles, shaking his head. Nothing.
And he knows youâre unconvinced, but you choose to let it go anyway.
Wonpil exhales a quiet sigh of relief.
That was close.
The seats in the hall are slowly starting to fill with parents, and from his place by the door, Wonpil swallows nervously.
Heâs been in a fit of jitters since he woke up this morningâ itâs been a while since he last performed in front of a crowd, and even though this is nothing compared to the larger-scale events heâs done in the past, thereâs still something so nerve-wracking about trying not to mess up in front of an audience.
Wonpil checks the time. About five more minutes before the doors would close, and heâd have to take his place below the stage, right in front of everybody.
He swallows again.
Thereâs a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see you.
You look different today, in a white dress dotted with tiny flowers and a blue wool cardigan in place of your usual tee and jeans. The colours of your outfit sort of matches his, he realises, and before Wonpil could even chide himself for how silly it is to be thinking about that right nowâ he sees the processors on your ears, peeking out slightly from behind your hair.
You mustâve noticed his staring.
âHey.â You pat his arm, and his eyes meet yours again. âDonât worry. Iâll be alright.â
âI-â Wonpil pauses before he shakes his head, switching to his hands. I want to show you something, he clumsily signs.
You tilt your head.
Now?
He nods, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no more parents are arriving before he takes your wrist, leading you inside.
In hindsight, he knows he shouldâve asked firstâ holding your hand like this out of the blue is kind of weird⌠even if he might not necessarily hate it.
But heâd overthink about that another time. Right now, the both of you stand before one of the chairs in the audienceâ specifically, the first one in the front row, right behind where his keyboard is set up. You notice your nameplate on the seat immediately, your name scribbled in colourful crayon and framed with crooked flowers. It was from an activity in the younger class you did a few weeks ago, to make one for each teacher as part of their contribution to the play. Youâd expected to see it today, of course.
Just⌠not here.
You smile at him, confused. This isnât my seat.
Wonpil shrugs as he purses his lips, like heâs trying to hold back a wide smile. I made some changes.
And thatâs when you notice itâ the same speaker you saw from last week, now tucked beneath your chair, the cable plugged in from its back just long enough to reach Wonpilâs set-up. The circular front presses slightly against one of the chairâs legs, like itâs deliberate. Like⌠itâs meant to be there.
The lights start to dim.
âI gotta go,â Wonpil mutters before you could say anything. A pause. Wish me luck?
Youâre still in the midst of processing everything, processing how he did this for you, but quickly, you reach out for his wrist before he could turn away.
And there, right above his pulse, you trace with your finger,
Iâll be right here.
Just in case he needed reminding.
Wonpil smiles at that, a little pink, before he nods shyly and takes his place in front of you.
You take a sharp breath as you settle in your own seat, your leg resting slightly against the speaker under you. And before you could second-guess yourself, you take off your processors, letting them rest on your lap.
The room falls into silence.
And thenâ the first note.
You canât hear it, but it reaches you anyway, the low, steady vibration travelling from the speaker, through your chair, and finally⌠into you. It goes on continuously, until it turns into a rhythm you can follow.
Just like that, you understand.
Just like that, you donât feel like youâre missing out on anything at all.
The school has settled into a comfortable quiet this time of night. You didnât need to hear to knowâ you could feel it in the way the hallways have dimmed, in the way the air is stiller. Calmer.
Itâs gotten colder, too. The leaves of your crops and the petals of your flowers sway softly with the gentle breeze, making you shiver just a little bit. You wrap your cardigan tighter around your frame.
The door swings open, and out steps Wonpil, still catching his breath, hair slightly out of place, energy spilling out of him before he could even utter a word.
âThat was- did you- okay, wait, the second part- I think I messed it up a little bit but I donât think anyone noti-â
He stops mid-sentence when he finally looks at you, properly.
Youâre already looking at him, of course, a soft smile playing on your lips.
âOh,â Wonpil exhales softly. âOh. Sorry. I forgot. Um.â He raises his arms to prepare to sign, only to shake his head in the end as he steps towards you instead, slowly reaching for your wrist.
The second time that night.
He traces your palm.
You felt it?
You meet his eyes. They seem to glimmer in the moonlight.
You nod. I did.
âThatâs a relief,â he exhales, his usual grin making its way back to his lips. âI was so scared it wouldnât work out. That speaker, I had to drag it from my parentsâ studio-â
âWonpil.â
âRight- my parentsâ studioâŚâ He trails off as he attempts to sign the words, but you quickly catch his hands with yours. That gets his attention.
Finally.
You turn his hand slightly, opting to write the words on the inside of his palm, because saying itâ even signing itâ out loud feels too much for your heart to handle, but after tonight, after everything, you don't think you could keep it in anymore.
I like you.
He blinks.
Once. Then twice.
Like heâs forgotten to do anything else.
Until eventually, he exhales slowly. âYeah?â
You nod. And because you feel a little braver now, you lift your hands to sign.
A lot.
Finally, he exhales a laugh, somewhere between a mix of disbelief and relief, before shaking his head at himself.
âGosh, I-â He stops himself. I like you too, he signs, slower this time. Careful. More certain. And then, softer,
I think I have for a while.
And just like that, you understand himâ completely, effortlessly, the way you always have.
pairing: kim wonpil x (deaf) f!reader
genre: coworkers to lovers, meet-cute, mutual pining, fluff, soft romance
wc: 8.0k
synopsis: he speaks through piano keys. you speak with your hands. when wonpil is tasked to partake in the kindergartenâs upcoming theatre production, he doesnât expect to find inspiration in youâ quiet, kind, and often overlooked. it may seem like the two of you are worlds apart, but as it turns out, thereâs nothing so different about two people who listen with their hearts instead of their ears.
an: my attempt at something different, i tried my best to do my research so i do apologise if there are any inaccuracies (and please educate me if that's the case haha đââď¸) happy bday piripiri!!! đ°đŠľ
Wonpil shifts uncomfortably on his feet as he stands by the roadside, fingers gripping onto the handle of his briefcase as he stares at the one-story building before him.
It looks unassuming enough. If anything, itâs typical, like any other kindergarten in Seoul, but for some reason, heâs still hesitant to go in.
He thinks itâs likely because he hates change. Ratherâ heâs just not used to it. Heâs been working at his parentsâ piano school since he graduated university, and getting a career reset this late in his adult life just feels like a setup for failure.
But he knows he shouldnât think that way. Not when he should be thankful for getting an opportunity like this in the first place; not when there are people out there, counting on him to guide the next generation of future musicians-
Perhaps heâs being dramatic.
With a deep breath, Wonpil steps forward, pushing the wooden gate that leads to the front door open.
He doesnât really know who heâs supposed to report to, and walking around aimlessly while trying to find the general office feels intrusive in some wayâŚ
so he ends up in the garden.
Itâs really more like a small patch of dirt next to the cafeteria, though clearly well-tended to as could be seen by the neat rows of lettuce heads and baby tomatoes that are just only beginning to ripen. Also, the figure currently hunched over the dirtbed with a shovel in hand, and probably the reason behind why a garden so tiny could look so perfectly maintainedâ you.
âHi!â Wonpil greets, silently grateful that his voice hadnât cracked due to his nerves. âIâm the new music teacher thatâs supposed to start todayâŚ?â He trails off when you donât turn to him.
Weird. Were you ignoring him? You probably just hadnât heard him.
He clears his throat. âUm, Iâm looking for the general office. Or, if you could direct me to the principal, thatâd be great-â
âMr Kim! There you are!â Another voice sounds, and he turns to see Principal Lee, eyes crinkling behind her glasses as she smiles warmly at him. âMy apologies. I shouldâve given you directions during our call. Welcome to our school!â
âAh- thank you.â Wonpil bows his head slightly as he steps towards the lady, but not before glancing over his shoulder to look at you again.
Your back is still turned to him, though standing now as you water the crops. You donât acknowledge him, nor do you acknowledge the principalâ itâs as though youâre alone, and nobody else is there with you.
Strange.
Principal Lee mustâve caught him staring (shamelessly, as he only belatedly realises), when a small ah escapes her lips. She steps towards you, peeking at the side of your face before waving at you gently to get your attention.
Thatâs when you turn, andâ
Oh.
Youâre pretty.
Wonpil blinks when the principal starts introducing you. He only barely manages to catch your surname, slightly stunned as he realises that not only is she using her wordsâ sheâs also using her hands.
And thatâs when everything clicks.
Oh.
Thatâs why you hadnât turned when he spoke. It wasnât because you didnât hear himâ it was because you couldnât.
â- and this is our new music teacher, Mr. Kim,â Principal Lee says, signing at the same time.
You smile then, and Wonpil swears he could feel his heart leap out of his chest.
One, because heâs flustered, yesâ and slightly guilty that a small part of him had assumed you were being rude by ignoring him. Second, he doesnât know sign language.
At all.
Wonpil bows as he mutters out a hello, only to remember you canât hear him, so he ends up adding in a small wave for good measure.
If you notice how embarrassing heâs being, you donât show it.
âIâm really sorry, I didnât notice you. I donât have my processors on,â you say while signing, then tapping your ear.
Your gestures are unfamiliarâ heâs never had someone talk to him in sign language beforeâ but itâs your words that manage to catch him off-guard, not because theyâre unclear, but because theyâre even spoken at all.Â
And now, Wonpil feels even stupider for not considering it. Of course. Why did he assume you werenât able to speak?
But itâs different, he realises, the way you form your words. Not in a bad way. Just⌠softer. More deliberate, like youâre placing them exactly where they need to be. Theyâre careful in a way that makes him listen a little closer, and Wonpil realises that maybe, this has nothing to do with you being deaf, but everything to do with you.
âItâs okay.â And because his ears are still warm from earlier, he clumsily adds, âI look forward to working with you.â
You nod, the smile not leaving your face as you sign together with your words. âLikewise.â
And for some reason, that gesture sticks with him all the way until he gets home, when heâs sitting in front of his laptop and ready to start crafting his first lesson plan for the term.
Except, Wonpil finds himself opening another Naver tab instead, and before he could stop himself, he types:
how to say hello in sign language
Wonpil finds you in the garden again, this time closer to noon.
The last time he saw you was a few hours ago, during a meeting with the creative committee about an upcoming play thatâd be taking place in a few months. Itâs something that the school organises annually for the graduating batch, though theyâre planning to do something more special this year now that they have a music teacher. Heâd learnt during introductions that youâd be in-charge of prop-making, and even though Wonpil doesnât know you very well, he figures from your paint-stained jeans and crochet cardigan that it made the most sense.
Now, he tilts to look at you, waving his hand in your line of sight the same way he saw Principal Lee did to get your attention. From his research yesterday, heâd learned that tapping a Deaf person on the back without warning could startle them and potentially come off as invasive, and the last thing he wants is to be rude.
You look up when you see him from your peripheral vision, lips settling into your usual smile as you straighten your back. Before you could wave at him, he beats you to itâ
Hello.
Your brows raise, before a small laugh tumbles out of your lips.
You hadnât meant for it to happen, and it wasnât like you were making fun of him. In fact, he had done it perfectly, if you donât count the slightly-off placement of his hand near his forehead, and the way his eyebrows furrow like he wasnât sure if he was doing it right.
Still, you understood him, and the fact that he even tried is⌠kind of sweet.
Hello, you sign back, and Wonpil laughs in embarrassment as he mirrors you, properly this time. He shifts awkwardly for a while before blurting out a soft oh! under his breath, taking out his phone from his pocket.
Iâm Wonpil, he types.
âI still havenât gotten the hang of signing my name yet,â he says sheepishly, and you nod, seemingly in understanding. He wonders if you could lip-readâ not like heâd expect you to do that every time he speaks, of course.
You tell him your name and that itâs nice to see him again.
âI really like your garden.â He points to the dirtbed awkwardly, merely for the sake of having something to say.
You laugh again at that, but Wonpil knows it isnât mean-spirited.
You open your palm, placing your thumb and middle finger together before tapping your chest lightly twice. âLike this.â
His lips part as he studies your movements, fingers curling as he tries to mimic you.
You step forward, glancing at him as though to ask for his permission, before gently taking his wrist and adjusting his fingers for him.
âThere.â You smile. âLike.â
You step back, your lips still tugged upwards, and while Wonpil would like to think (or seriously hope) that heâd managed to school his expression, the sudden skip in his heartbeat clearly means otherwise, and only one thought crosses his head in that moment:
Shit. Heâs in trouble.
Wonpil is slowly starting to get used to his new routine.
His classes are spread throughout the week, and since there are only three age groups in the school, his Tuesdays and Fridays are usually left free.
Heâd often spend that time in the music roomâ itâs much easier to plan his classes there as compared to the staff room where itâs noisier. Occasionally, heâd find himself in the library, tooâ but only if youâre there.
Since the day at the garden, youâd gotten quite close to Wonpil. You believe itâs because his schedules arenât as tight as the other teachers, though it does make you wonder why he chooses to spend his free time with you.
Even when youâre busy organising bookshelves, heâd still be at his usual table by the window, focused on planning out his lessons on his laptop. Other times, heâd be scribbling something down in his notebook. Youâd dared to take a peek once, only to realise it wasnât words heâd be writing down, but music notes.
You didnât understand it, of course, since you had no reason to pick up a music module back when you were still in school, but Wonpil was kind enough to teach you the basics. In exchange, heâd ask you how to sign a colour, sometimes even a shapeâ depending on the material youâd be preparing that day.
Itâs like weâre exchanging languages, heâd once written down in his music book for you to read, earning a small laugh from you. He decides that no composition of his could even come close to how lovely that sounded in his ears.
Your language may be silent, but Wonpil thinks itâs beautiful, the same way you find the way he translates feeling into music mesmerising.
The idea for the play had just been confirmed, and Wonpilâs finally able to start composing.
The theme is going to be garden-inspired, following a tiny seed that grows into a flower. Along the way, the seed will make other garden friends, with each of them representing different aspects of life like growth and change.
Itâs cute, Wonpil thinks, fitting for six year-olds preparing to enter elementary school. The only problem is⌠heâs still new to working with children, and composing light, playful music isnât something heâs done before.
Basically, he hit a dead end before heâs even started.
The piano lets out a series of jumbled notes as Wonpil drops his hands on the keys. Heâd been hoping that inspiration would come to him naturally, what more now that heâs in a room full of drawings and colour, but his sudden creative block is making it hard for him to think straight.
Perhaps he should wrap up for the day and sleep on it.
A sudden knock interrupts him from his thoughts, and Wonpil looks up to see you.
You step in tentatively. âAre you okay?â
âYeah. Iâm okay.â He smiles briefly. âJust⌠brainstorming.â He taps the side of his head.
You nod, peeking at his music book balancing on the lid of the piano. It doesnât look like he's done much progressâ if you count the scribbled-out notes as progress at all.
âCan I ask for your opinion?â Wonpil asks you suddenly, and you raise a brow.
âOf course." You gesture for him to continue.
He picks up his pencil before scribbling down in his book.
The play is garden-themed, and you know the kids better than I do. What do you think the score should sound like?
You laugh. âWonpil, in case you forgot, Iâm Deaf.â
âI know.â He pauses for a moment before scooting to his left, prompting you to sit. You do, and your shoulders brush when you settle next to him.
âMusic isnât just about hearing,â Wonpil tells you slowly, tapping his ear. âItâs also about⌠feeling.â He signs the last word, one heâd learned from a random YouTube video he watched last night.
He turns back to the piano before hitting a note on the far leftâ A, if you remember correctly. He does it again, only this time, he brings his other hand to touch the top panel. He looks at you, prompting you to do the same.
He presses the key one more time, and the vibration thrums beneath your fingertips.
A0 is the lowest note on the piano. The vibration is slower. Deeper, he writes in his music book before putting down his pencil, hand skimming to the far right of the keyboard. You feel the vibration again as he presses the key, only this time, it feels different. Lighter, almost.
You laugh, mostly in awe, and he turns to beam at you.
âYou feel it, right?â
You nod eagerly. Now you understand why some Deaf people love attending concerts. Youâve personally never been to one, but today it feels like Wonpilâs teaching you things you never knew about yourself. Maybe youâd try it out one day.
His smile drops a fraction. âCan I ask you something?â
You tilt your head, prompting him to continue.
âI donât know if this is going to come off as rude, so you donât have to answer if you donât want to! But I was just curiousâŚâ he rambles nervously. âIs there a reason why you donât wear your processors?â
Thereâs a pause as you take in his words, before a small giggle escapes your lips. You could see the wariness leave his face, clearly relieved that you hadnât reacted otherwise, though his cheeks are now painted a faint pink hue, almost like heâs embarrassed.
You try not to dwell on how cute you think he looks, scrunching your nose instead as you sign, too noisy.
Wonpil laughs. That, he understood. Youâd taught him that one day when he was telling you about the kids in his nursery class during their first music lesson. Needless to say, managing a bunch of three-year olds by himself was not a walk in the park.
âAnyway," you continue, âwhy donât you join me at the garden tomorrow?â
âOh, garden. Thatâs a new one,â he utters as he follows your gesture. You notice how Wonpil tends to pick up on your signing despite most of your conversations being verbal, his eyes always trained on your hands like heâs trying to learn even if you werenât necessarily intending on teaching him.
You donât think youâve ever met anyone that keen in learning your language; itâs always been the other way round.
Then again, you donât think anyone could ever be as sweet as Kim Wonpil.
In an hour, Wonpilâs managed to learn a few new words from you: seed, caterpillar, bee, sunflower.
Granted, itâs difficult to remember all of them perfectly, and heâd often mix up the hand gestures, but youâd laugh it off before gently adjusting his hands for him.
Wonpil totally doesnât pretend to keep forgetting on purpose just so youâd continue helping him.
Not so bad, right? You beam at him as you pat the soil gently, having just planted a new row of peony roots.
Difficult, he signs with a pout. Your smile grows wider at that.
âThereâs a reason why I do music and not this,â he huffs as he rakes the dirt with a gardening fork. âBut I guess I did learn a thing or two.â
You nudge his shoulder playfully, and Wonpil stops sulking as he grins back at you. Itâs hard to even pretend to be upset when youâre around.
Even now, long after heâs out of the gardening apron youâd loaned him and a pen in hand instead of a trowel, Wonpil canât seem to stop thinking about earlier. He blames you for thatâ that gardening session was supposed to give him inspiration, not distract him further! And yet, the rows of music staff in his book still remain empty.
He sighs, mindlessly dragging his pencil across the paper. The random doodle eventually forms into a caterpillar, albeit a crooked one, and Wonpil smiles to himself. Youâd shown him how to sign the word earlierâ a little crawling motion across your armâ and there was something just so cute and silly about it that he couldnât help but to laugh as he copied you.
He absently mimics the movement with his pencil, and it ends in a squiggly line right beneath his drawing. It kind of reminds him of a staccato; a set of short, detached notes ascending along the staff-
Thatâs it.
Wonpilâs eyes widen as he stares at the page, before he pushes his book aside completely. Stretching his fingers, he tentatively presses on some keys, following the staccato rhythm he had gotten earlier. He tweaks the notes as he goes along, but for the most part, he doesnât think, he just does, until eventually, he ends up with a melody that sounds very much like it could belong in a kidsâ musical.
A laugh escapes his lips as he plays the sequence again and again, making sure to write it down in his music book so he doesnât lose it.
Finally, the first staff is filled. Even if itâs nothing much and heâd probably have to polish it later on, itâs still something, and Wonpil couldnât wait to show you.
You find Wonpil at the piano in the music room, pencil in one hand, while the other rests idly on the keyboard. He doesnât notice you standing by the door, too absorbed in scribbling something in the music book balancing on his lap. You canât help but to smile at the sight. Thereâs just something soâŚendearingâ and perhaps a little sillyâ about it; how someone as good-looking as him could also be so nerdy. You donât mean it in a bad way, of courseâ you think the passion he has for his craft is admirable, and in the short time that youâve gotten to know Wonpil, heâs easily one of the loveliest people youâve ever met.
That probably explains why your heart always feels a little funny whenever youâre around him.
âOh, youâre here!â Wonpil grins when he notices your presence, wasting no time as he shifts on the piano stool to make space for you. âI have something to show you. I finally figured it out! Ah, Iâm speaking too fast, arenât I? Hold on-â
You reach out to touch his arm just as heâs about to flip to a new page of his music book, nodding at him to signal that you understood. You donât think he realises it, but heâs always been careful with enunciating his words when talking to you, even if he's practically buzzing.
Wonpil relaxes before he continues, âI finally managed to start on the first song. Itâs still a work in progress, but- I wanted to tell you anyway,â he laughs sheepishly, like heâs embarrassed.
He pats the lid of the piano: your usual spot. You place your hand on the wood, and a second later, he starts to play.Â
The pulses come in quick taps. Light, almost playful. It reminds you of rubber boots splashing into puddles after a rainy day, or children hopping during a game of hopscotch. You could feel the space between each note, some high, some low, and somehow, even without sound, you understand what heâs trying to show you.
He turns to you when heâs done playing, a boyish grin on his lips before he signs: how did it feel?
And for some reason, thatâs the question that completely unravels you.
Because he didnât ask you how it sounded. He asked you how it felt. And maybe, youâre making it a bigger deal than it should be. Heâd probably said it mindlessly and youâre dwelling on it for no reason at all, but neither of that changed the fact that his words had stirred something in you. Something⌠soft, like a flower thatâs just beginning to bloom.
You sign back. I love it.
âYeah?â Wonpil lets out a breathy chuckle. âSee, I was thinking of what you taught me yesterday. The caterpillar.â He flips to a previous page of his book, pointing to a scrawny doodle at the top right of the page. âIt inspired me to write this. Itâs called a staccato. Whereâs my pencil?â He mutters under his breath in the midst of his explaining, searching the fallboard.
You tap his shoulder, splaying your palm upwards in front of him. âWrite it here instead.â
Wonpilâs lips part, like heâs taken aback at your request, before he nods, pulling your wrist towards him gently. He traces his index finger on the inside of your hand, spelling out the word. Staccato.
You smile, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles too. Itâs only then do you notice how close you are, and the lack of distance between you both causes your heart to stutter.
Just like a staccato.
You expect Wonpil to let go, but he doesnât, only hesitating slightly before bringing his finger to your palm once more and writing down another word. Thank you.
Your pulse quickens, and now it feels like there's a drum in the middle of your chest, fast and loud.
You wonder if thereâs a term for that too.
âOkay, class! Who remembers what song we learnt last week?â Wonpil points to the set of notes written on the whiteboard next to him before capping his marker.
A few hands shoot up, and Wonpil pretends to ponder loudly as he taps on his chin, earning a few giggles from the kids. âYes, Yijin?â
âHot Cross Buns!â The boy chirps enthusiastically, the triangle in his hands clinking at the sudden movement.
âThatâs right! Good job, Yijin!â Wonpil leans forward to give him a high-five. âToday, weâre going to move on to the second part of the song. But first, can anybody tell me the name of this note?â
You watch from the back of the class with a soft smile on your lips. Itâs clear that Wonpilâs gotten more comfortable at teaching now as compared to when he first arrived, especially since the kids love him so much. Heâd gone from standing awkwardly at the front of the class to sitting cross-legged with them on the foam mattress on the floor, opting to peruse the small whiteboard on the easel instead of the wall-mounted one behind him. Itâs easier to engage with the kids that way, heâd said.
You feel a tug on your sleeve, and you turn to see Sera, one of the quieter kids in his class. You realise that she has her arms reached out to you, a pair of castanets in her hands.
âWhatâs wrong?â You ask.
âI donât know how to play,â she mumbles shyly.
You smile, shaking your head as you put your hands over hers. âWeâll play together, okay? Iâll help you.â
The girl nods, your words seeming to calm her down slightly as she scoots closer towards you.
âNow, this one is called a semi-quaver.â Wonpil points to a set of four notes joined together with a line on top. âSee how theyâre holding hands? This means that theyâre really fastâ like theyâre running a race together! It sounds like this.â He raises his hands to clap a steady beat, like a metronome, before he sounds out the notes with his mouth. And even though you canât hear him, youâre somehow able to understand.
Ta-ta-ta-ta.
You find yourself mimicking the rhythm, tapping the back of Seraâs palm with your index finger mindlessly. Two semi-quavers make up one regular note, and you realise that what youâre playing feels familiarâ a staccato.
Thereâs another tug on your sleeve. When you look at Sera, sheâs already looking at you with a bashful smile, her small hands clicking the castanet according to your tapping.
Your lips part in surprise before they settle into a proud smile. Good job, you sign before patting her head, and the little girl giggles.
In the midst of it all, you donât notice Wonpil watching you, softly, longingly, like heâs the one on the receiving end of your gesture. He knows he should look away, but he canât, and even though the classroom is growing increasingly noisier, he thinks the thumping of his heart still remains the loudest.
And somehow, the realisation that he might just be falling for you isnât as scary as he thought it would be.
With only two months left to the play, both you and Wonpil start to get busierâ you with prop-making, and Wonpil with dry runs and rehearsals. Still, in a school this small, it isnât difficult to cross paths with him, because the garden has somehow turned into an unofficial spot for you to bump into each other in between your respective schedules.
You donât know if Wonpil is doing it on purpose. It wasnât like the both of you would intentionally agree to meet upâ the garden has always been âyoursâ even prior to knowing him, and when youâd be there tending to the crops after hours, heâd show up with his messenger bag slung over his torso, like heâs done for the day. And somehow, without fail, heâd end up kneeling beside you on the dirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a shovel in hand instead of going home.
Sometimes, heâd even be there before you, pacing aimlessly on the grass patch like heâs merely taking in the fresh outside air (though very obviously waiting for someone), only to break out into a wide grin when he sees you, quick to ask you how your day was as he hands you a cup of coffee heâd gotten from the cafeteria.
Even if Wonpil doesnât realise what heâs doing, you donât think you mind if it means getting to spend more time with him.
Today is the same, except now, heâs already clad in his apron, kneeling on the dirtbed with his back to you as he tends to the blooming peonies that youâve planted just a few weeks prior.
âOh, hi.â Wonpil turns to smile at you when he senses you approaching.
You wave, placing your bag on the grass before moving to join him. âWhat happened to not having green thumbs?â You ask teasingly.
He shrugs mindlessly. âFigured Iâd give you a head start.â He pauses, placing his shovel down to turn to you. Youâve been busy lately. I wanted to help, he explains in broken sign.
Your lips part at that; not out of shock that he was kind enough to go out of his way to help you, but more so the fact that he noticed. Itâs been a hectic last couple of weeks, with most of your time being spent in the school hall, making trees out of cardboard and patching up costumes with whatever scrap fabrics you could find in storage. Your days have been ending later and later because of that, today being no different, and even though youâve grown accustomed to the sight of Wonpil in the garden, you werenât expecting to see him still here at this hour.
I hope Iâm doing this right, Wonpil continues sheepishly, looking almost nervous at your lack of reaction, and completely unaware of the effect heâs left on you.
Heâs gotten better at that too, you realisedâ signing. Youâre not sure if this has anything to do with your conversation the other day, but it leaves a certain warmth in your chest nonetheless. You think itâs less about that and mostly to do with Wonpil himself, though.Â
Just as heâs about to start rambling again, probably something about his phone lying on the dirt currently playing a YouTube video about planting peonies, you quickly catch his wrist, and Wonpil startles at that.
I appreciate you, you trace the words right above his pulse, the same way he did to you the day in the music room.
Wonpil blinks once, maybe twice, before his lips bloom into a smile, soft and slow, like a flower unfurling in spring. Without a doubt, itâs a sight thatâs quietly grown to be your favourite.
After all, youâve always found blooming flowers to be beautiful.
Youâve never liked wearing your implants.
Youâd gotten them when you were younger, and while they helped a lot in school, you also had to deal with headaches often due to all the noise and layered sounds. It wasnât the most pleasant feeling, but back then, you knew you couldnât afford to stop wearing them completely no matter how badly you wanted toâ because removing them meant not being able to communicate with people. Removing them meant lesser job opportunities.
It wasnât ideal, but you learnt from a young age that not everyone was willing to accommodate to your needs just because you were a little different, so you had to learn to adapt. Until eventually, you were fortunate enough to land a job with people that accepted you as who you were.
You never saw the need to wear your processors anymore since you started being a teacherâs aide here. The children donât look at you like someone missing somethingâ to them, youâre just their art teacher. The one who helps them mix colours, who laughs when paint gets on their sleeves.
Sometimes, without meaning to, youâd end up teaching them your language too. Small signs slipped in between lessons, curious hands mimicking yours. Youâre not officially teaching it, but the fact that you can, makes this place feel a little more like it was meant for you.
You think that might also be the reason why you feel so comfortable signing with Wonpilâ heâs never once pressured you to communicate with him verbally, never made you feel like you were difficult despite the communication barrier. If anything, heâs always been the one to meet you halfway, putting in the effort to learn sign, to slow down whenever heâs speaking, to keep his pencil and music book with him in case he ever needed to write something for you, until eventually, you stopped feeling the need to rely on your voice to talk to him.
Kim Wonpil is too kind, which is why right now, the moment you reach home, the first thing you do is to pull out your cochlear case.Â
Youâve been thinking about it for a while, and with the date of the play approaching, you figure you should probably try to get used to your everyday sounds first. That also meant hearing Wonpilâs voice for the first time, and for a moment, you let yourself wonder what he could sound like.
Warm, probably. Gentle. Maybe a little breathy when he laughs due to how big his grins usually get. Youâd never be able to get the full picture even with your implants on, that much you knew, but itâs close enoughâ close enough to be him, and youâd take what you can get.
And suddenly, you feel like the you from many years ago, nervous to start school for fear of being different, only this time, it isnât the world that feels overwhelming.
Itâs how you feel for him.
You carefully drag the last tree into place before you take a step back on the stage, searching the completed set-up for any adjustments.
The assembly hall has always been colourful to begin with, but all the cardboard foliage and felt trees has made the room brighter, in a way.
You feel a sense of pride wash over you. Even though youâve been involved in the annual play since you started working here, somehow, it feels different this time.
The silence of the hall is interrupted when you hear the doors open, followed by children shuffling in noisily as they sing,
âLine up, line up, one by one!â
Youâd forgotten that thatâs how things usually work around here; how the teachers would use an instructional song for every task because it made managing the kids a little easier. Even though you havenât worn your processors in a while, you could recognise the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as the children sang-
But then, a voice cuts through.
Easy. Light.
That makes you turn around immediately.
âLeft foot, right foot, donât you run-â
The kids follow, some off-beat, some a little too loud, and Wonpil laughs.
Thatâs when it shifts.
Because even through the distortion, even through the sharpness, the sound spreads warm⌠and unmistakably his.
As if on cue, Wonpil meets your gaze, his lips instantly blooming into a wide grin as he waves at you, but his smile drops slightly when he notices your ears, almost like heâs confused.
You know he wants to approach you, but his attention is quickly stolen by his students asking him to continue the song. You quickly leave the stageâ rehearsal will be starting soon, and youâd be able to catch him later anyway.
It takes a couple of minutes to get the kids ready in formation, even with the help of the other teachers. Wonpil only takes his place at the keyboard when the lights start to dim, and out of instinct, he takes one last glance over his shoulder to look at you, now standing at the back of the hall. In the dark, he canât really make out your features, but he smiles anyway, though itâs mostly to ward off his own jitters. Itâs probably the nerves building up to the actual day of the play which is only a week away from now, but more than that, itâs also the first time heâd be playing the entire production in front of you. And especially now that youâve got your processors onâŚ
Wonpil isnât given the time to dwell on that fact before he receives the cue to start, though he knows youâd probably be sitting at the back of his mind regardless.
You always do.
His fingers fly across the keys like heâs practiced for the past couple of months. The stage, though, is anything but controlled.
One of the caterpillar kids is facing the wrong way. A sunflower is waving at an audience who isnât even there yet, and the line he spent more than five minutes drilling earlier dissolves within seconds.
Still, they keep going, guided more by enthusiasm than timing, and despite the missed cues and uneven steps, thereâs something so earnest in the way the kids move, unpolished and real.
Wonpil smiles to himself.
And out of instinct, he glances over again to look at you.
But youâre not there anymore.
He turns back to this keyboard, trying to ignore the worry thatâs starting to bloom in his chest. Youâre okay, right? Maybe you needed to take something from the classroom? Or the garden. You probably just needed to go to the washroom.
Shit. Wonpil knows he could make up all the excuses he wants, but nothing could stop his uneasiness, because he knows.
He knows how uncomfortable wearing your processors are. He knows how noisy it gets, how youâd get headaches just from trying to process sound alone. He might not know exactly what you go through, but the fact that you donât wear them on the daily is enough for him to understand.
âMr. Kim?â
Wonpil blinks out of his thoughts, only to realise everyone is staring at himâ including the kids on stage, no longer dancing as they wait for his cue. He looks down to his hands, resting idly on the keys.
âOh,â he mutters before clearing his throat. âOh- sorry.â
A giggle sounds on stage. âTeacher Wonpil, youâre silly!â
Despite himself, he chuckles. âYes. Sorry, everyone!â He calls out, louder. âShall we take a water break?â
Thereâs a chorus of agreements as the children skip to their water bottles, and Wonpil gives the teachers an apologetic smile before he excuses himself out of the hall.
Thatâs exactly where he finds you.
âHey.â
You look up, lips tugging into a smile, though it doesnât reach your eyes like it usually does.
Wonpil exhales softly. Are you okay?
You nod. âI just needed some air.â
Your hands are clasped together in front of you, and thatâs when he realisesâ you're no longer wearing both of your processors.
You mustâve noticed his staring. âI⌠wanted to hear you,â you admit quietly. âI havenât used these in a while, so my ears havenât really gotten used to it yet,â you chuckle as you fiddle with the one of the implants in your hands, then looking past his shoulder to peek into the assembly hall. âShouldnât you be inside?â
A beat.
âI wanted to see you if you were okay.â
Your lips part at that, as though having not expected his response.
âWonpil, I-,â you pause, shaking your head as you rephrase your next words. âIâm sorry. You didnât have to- I didnât mean to interrupt-â
âWhy are you apologising?â
You go quiet.
âItâs not fair,â he continues, frustrated. âItâs not fair that you had to push yourself like that. You shouldnât have to, given everything youâve done for the kids.â
Your heart skips at his words.
Youâve never had someone be so⌠passionate about your comfort.
Still, you chuckle. âI donât expect the world to cater to me, Wonpil. Seeing the kids happy is what matters most.â
Wonpilâs heart clenches at thatâ how are you still smiling? After everything?
âBut you matter too,â he mutters under his breath.
Your brows shoot up. Youâre not sure if youâd heard him correctly, if you'd read his lips properly, and as if reading your mind, carefully, he raises his hands to sign, clearer, this time.
You matter to me.
You havenât seen Wonpil since the last rehearsal.
With only a few days left to the play, itâs understandableâ heâs probably been occupied with practicing with the kids, if not by himself. You know heâs a perfectionist, even for something seemingly simple as a childrenâs play.
You also havenât worn your processors since, deciding thereâs no use in trying to strain yourself. Youâre still on the fence about wearing them on the day itself, but thatâll be a bridge youâd cross when you get to itâ regardless, youâre sure youâd enjoy the show either way.
You hum to yourself as you tend to the peonies in the garden. Amidst all the production preparations, you havenât been in a while, and somewhere along the way, your flowers have finally bloomed fully, petals unfurling in soft shades of pink. Youâre suddenly reminded of Wonpil from a few weeks ago, clumsily hovering over the soil, hands too careful for someone who clearly has no idea what heâs doing-
And there you go again. Youâre thinking of him. Again.
Itâs easy to come to terms with your feelings for Kim Wonpil, but admitting it out loud? Not so much. If anything, the thought of telling him hasnât even crossed your mindâ maybe because things have always been easy for the both of you. Natural, that thereâs never been a need for you to question it.
Until now, that is.
Because now that you do, you canât help but wonder if telling him would change anything. If itâd make things⌠strange. You do work together, after all.
You decide to file that thought for another timeâ the sun is setting, and you might get chased out by the security guard if you donât hurry and pack up.
You step back into the building to fetch your bag you left in the classroom, but your attention is quickly stolen by the fact that the assembly hall lights are still on.
Wonpil doesnât see you when you stand at the door, his back to you as he sits cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with something in front of him.
You knock once.Â
He turns around, slightly startled, before he realises that itâs just you.
âHi.â Heâs slightly breathless as he stands up. âYouâre still here?â He asks, a little too quickly.
You tilt your head as you slowly step in. You too, you sign.
Wonpil grins sheepishly. âYeah. I was just⌠testing something.â He motions awkwardly to the set-up behind him.
His keyboard sits next to the stage, like it has been for the past few rehearsals, though the lone speaker on the floorâ the thing you realise heâs been tampering with earlierâ is a new addition you havenât seen before. You highly doubt it belongs to the school seeing as the hall already has a built-in PA system, so you figure it must belong to Wonpil personally; though you canât really figure out why he even needs it in the first place.
Itâs nothing, he adds, like he knew you were going to ask. Are you leaving already?
You nod.
Okay. Let me⌠He turns around, clumsily turning off his set-up before picking up his bag. âIâll walk you to the bus stop.â
A small chuckle escapes your lips, mostly at how weird heâs being, given heâs mixing up both his speech and sign, like he doesnât know which one to use today. Are you sure youâre okay?
âYeah! Yeah. Just-â He pauses, switching to his hands. Nervous.
You nod, beaming. Youâll be fine. I know youâll do great.
Wonpil laughs before muttering under his breath, âthatâs not what Iâm worried about, though.â
You tilt your head, motioning for him to repeat. You hadnât caught what he said.
But he only smiles, shaking his head. Nothing.
And he knows youâre unconvinced, but you choose to let it go anyway.
Wonpil exhales a quiet sigh of relief.
That was close.
The seats in the hall are slowly starting to fill with parents, and from his place by the door, Wonpil swallows nervously.
Heâs been in a fit of jitters since he woke up this morningâ itâs been a while since he last performed in front of a crowd, and even though this is nothing compared to the larger-scale events heâs done in the past, thereâs still something so nerve-wracking about trying not to mess up in front of an audience.
Wonpil checks the time. About five more minutes before the doors would close, and heâd have to take his place below the stage, right in front of everybody.
He swallows again.
Thereâs a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see you.
You look different today, in a white dress dotted with tiny flowers and a blue wool cardigan in place of your usual tee and jeans. The colours of your outfit sort of matches his, he realises, and before Wonpil could even chide himself for how silly it is to be thinking about that right nowâ he sees the processors on your ears, peeking out slightly from behind your hair.
You mustâve noticed his staring.
âHey.â You pat his arm, and his eyes meet yours again. âDonât worry. Iâll be alright.â
âI-â Wonpil pauses before he shakes his head, switching to his hands. I want to show you something, he clumsily signs.
You tilt your head.
Now?
He nods, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no more parents are arriving before he takes your wrist, leading you inside.
In hindsight, he knows he shouldâve asked firstâ holding your hand like this out of the blue is kind of weird⌠even if he might not necessarily hate it.
But heâd overthink about that another time. Right now, the both of you stand before one of the chairs in the audienceâ specifically, the first one in the front row, right behind where his keyboard is set up. You notice your nameplate on the seat immediately, your name scribbled in colourful crayon and framed with crooked flowers. It was from an activity in the younger class you did a few weeks ago, to make one for each teacher as part of their contribution to the play. Youâd expected to see it today, of course.
Just⌠not here.
You smile at him, confused. This isnât my seat.
Wonpil shrugs as he purses his lips, like heâs trying to hold back a wide smile. I made some changes.
And thatâs when you notice itâ the same speaker you saw from last week, now tucked beneath your chair, the cable plugged in from its back just long enough to reach Wonpilâs set-up. The circular front presses slightly against one of the chairâs legs, like itâs deliberate. Like⌠itâs meant to be there.
The lights start to dim.
âI gotta go,â Wonpil mutters before you could say anything. A pause. Wish me luck?
Youâre still in the midst of processing everything, processing how he did this for you, but quickly, you reach out for his wrist before he could turn away.
And there, right above his pulse, you trace with your finger,
Iâll be right here.
Just in case he needed reminding.
Wonpil smiles at that, a little pink, before he nods shyly and takes his place in front of you.
You take a sharp breath as you settle in your own seat, your leg resting slightly against the speaker under you. And before you could second-guess yourself, you take off your processors, letting them rest on your lap.
The room falls into silence.
And thenâ the first note.
You canât hear it, but it reaches you anyway, the low, steady vibration travelling from the speaker, through your chair, and finally⌠into you. It goes on continuously, until it turns into a rhythm you can follow.
Just like that, you understand.
Just like that, you donât feel like youâre missing out on anything at all.
The school has settled into a comfortable quiet this time of night. You didnât need to hear to knowâ you could feel it in the way the hallways have dimmed, in the way the air is stiller. Calmer.
Itâs gotten colder, too. The leaves of your crops and the petals of your flowers sway softly with the gentle breeze, making you shiver just a little bit. You wrap your cardigan tighter around your frame.
The door swings open, and out steps Wonpil, still catching his breath, hair slightly out of place, energy spilling out of him before he could even utter a word.
âThat was- did you- okay, wait, the second part- I think I messed it up a little bit but I donât think anyone noti-â
He stops mid-sentence when he finally looks at you, properly.
Youâre already looking at him, of course, a soft smile playing on your lips.
âOh,â Wonpil exhales softly. âOh. Sorry. I forgot. Um.â He raises his arms to prepare to sign, only to shake his head in the end as he steps towards you instead, slowly reaching for your wrist.
The second time that night.
He traces your palm.
You felt it?
You meet his eyes. They seem to glimmer in the moonlight.
You nod. I did.
âThatâs a relief,â he exhales, his usual grin making its way back to his lips. âI was so scared it wouldnât work out. That speaker, I had to drag it from my parentsâ studio-â
âWonpil.â
âRight- my parentsâ studioâŚâ He trails off as he attempts to sign the words, but you quickly catch his hands with yours. That gets his attention.
Finally.
You turn his hand slightly, opting to write the words on the inside of his palm, because saying itâ even signing itâ out loud feels too much for your heart to handle, but after tonight, after everything, you don't think you could keep it in anymore.
I like you.
He blinks.
Once. Then twice.
Like heâs forgotten to do anything else.
Until eventually, he exhales slowly. âYeah?â
You nod. And because you feel a little braver now, you lift your hands to sign.
A lot.
Finally, he exhales a laugh, somewhere between a mix of disbelief and relief, before shaking his head at himself.
âGosh, I-â He stops himself. I like you too, he signs, slower this time. Careful. More certain. And then, softer,
I think I have for a while.
And just like that, you understand himâ completely, effortlessly, the way you always have.
5:44pm â kang younghyun
c/w: death (i'm sorry don't hate me)
Brian doesnât cry.
Youâve known this since the day you married him.
Youâve seen him frustrated. Angry. But never sad. Never broken.
You know thatâs just how he isâ never one to lean on people, even on his worst days. Usually, youâd leave him aloneâ let him deal with it until it passes. Because that was how you were raised, and you were never really good at making peopleâs problems your own, anyway.
But this time, itâs different.
Youâre standing a few feet away from Brian as he converses with a doctor, and even with his back facing you, you could tell from his slouch that this isnât something that you could just wait for to pass. Something you could sleep on.
This⌠is grief.
âHe hasnât said anything to us since we got here,â Brianâs mum mutters quietly as she moves to stand next to you. âI just-â she chokes on her words, and you quietly take her hands into yours, awkward, but gentle. You begin to rub soothing circles on her skin, the way Brian always does for you.
âItâs not like we havenât been expecting it. But you know how Younghyunâs been so close to his grandma growing up. I think the news hit him harder than it did anyone else.â
Your eyes find him once more, and you see the doctor patting his shoulder, lips pursed as he offers his words of condolences. For the first time since you arrived, you finally get to see your husbandâs face, though it isnât like anything youâre used to.
His skin is dull, devoid of the usual colour in his cheeksâ gosh, his cheeks. Theyâre sunken, like his features are slowly caving in on himself. His eyes, always so sharp, always so steady, barely lift to meet anyoneâs.
Not even yours.
âGo.â Brianâs mum squeezes your hand when the doctor excuses himself. âHe needs you right now.â
So you nod, giving her a tight-lipped smile before moving towards Brian.
He doesnât look up when you near him, only shuts his eyes tightly like heâs trying to will away a headache.
âBriâŚâ you whisper, slowly lacing your fingers with his. For once, you donât hesitate to reach for him firstâ
But Brian only catches your wrist with his other hand, before weakly pushing yours away.
He still doesnât look at you, eyes casted downwards at where your fingers tangled with his just moments prior, and he takes in a shaky breath.
âDonât,â he says quietly. âIâm okay.â
You want to tell him that you know itâs not trueâ that thereâs no way anyone could be fine after this. And even though it hurts to have him push you away like that, you know the last thing he needs right now is to fall apart.
So you settle with a nod.
âOkay.â
But you donât leave.
You stay with him, trailing behind him as he signs papers, calls relatives, speaks to the funeral home. The entire time, he was steady. Calm. Too calm. Like he was making arrangements while handling a work dispute, and not burying the woman who practically raised him.
Even now, as youâre driving back after spending hours at the hospital, Brian doesnât cryâ but he doesnât talk to you, either. Heâs merely⌠silent, staring out of the window with his hands crossed on his lap.
Itâs only when you reach home do you attempt to speak to him again.
âYou hungry?â
He stops, glancing over his shoulder to look at you. Brian manages a weak smile before he shakes his head. âMâjust tired. Going to bed.â
He doesnât wait for you to reply before he disappears into the room, and youâre left standing in the middle of the foyer as you contemplate on what to do.
Should you go after him? Comfort him? Or give him the space he needs?
You end up in the kitchen, whipping up a quick stew for when he wakes. But your mind is far, because God, youâre bad at this. You donât know how to make things better, how to console himâ even if you did know how, it doesnât seem like he wants you around, anyway.
But then youâre reminded of how Brian is when youâre the one struggling, how heâd stay even when youâd push him away.
And suddenly, the answer becomes clear to you.
You push the door to your shared room quietly, and you instantly see Brian on the bed, fast asleep. Heâs still in his clothes from earlier, having not bothered to take a shower when usually, heâd make a big deal about not touching the sheets until heâs changed out of his outside clothes.
Heâs facing your side of the bed, hand resting on the space where youâd lay, like his bodyâs reaching out for you even if he might not know it.
The sight causes your heart to clench, especially when you take in the knit in his eyebrows, still there even in his sleep.Â
Quietly, you climb under the sheets, careful not to wake him as you lie on your side to face him. You donât touch him yetâ you just stare.
Brian, your Brian, whoâs never failed a day in his life, now carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Your fingers reach out to smooth out his frown, before you let your hand rest lightly on hisâ touching, but not exactly holding, as if afraid he might crumble if you did.
You fall asleep like that.
⌠⌠âŚ
Itâs well past midnight when you wake to an empty bed.
Your heart thuds as you sit up, eyes instinctively darting to the balcony to see if the doors are ajarâ you know Brian tends to go out for some air if he couldnât sleep.
Heâs not there.
Youâre out of the bed in an instant, thinking that he may have gone to his study, drowning himself in work the way he always does when he needs a distraction.
But the moment you step out into the living room, you hear a faint sound coming from the kitchen.
You quickly head towards it, and the sight that greets you slices your heart clean into two.
Brianâs there, shoulders hunched, elbows braced on the counter with his fist pressed against his mouth, like doing so would stop his ragged sobs from escaping. And when he sees you, he doesnât freeze, doesnât turn away the way he always would when he doesn't want you to worryâ his tears only fall harder, face crumpled in a way youâve never seen before.
You cross the room in two steps, instantly pulling him towards you, and finallyâ finally, Brian lets go. No longer holding on for the sake of being strong. No longer the man who always knew what to do, who carried everyoneâs pain but his own.
The weight of his body slumps against yours, and he hides his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling shakily like he needs you to help him breathe. His arms tightens around you, desperate, like a lifeline.
âI shouldâve been there,â he croaks. âShe was alone. I shouldâve-â
âBrian, stop,â you whisper, voice shaky. You couldnât afford to cryâ not right now. Not when you need to be the strong one. âYouâve always been there.â
He shakes his head, and you feel him hiccup against your throat. âNot at the end.â
Your hand finds the nape of his neck, and you rub his skin soothingly, hoping itâd be able to make up for all the words you arenât able to say.
âI didnât want to push you away,â he utters between shaky breaths. âI wanted to hold your hand.â
You bite your bottom lip hard, determined not to let your first tear fall. âI know,â you whisper. âBut you donât have to be strong anymore. Not as long as Iâm here.â
At this, Brian pulls back slightly to look at you, eyes rimmed red and lips still quivering. Your hand slides from his neck to cup his cheek, thumbing away the tears that stain his skin.
âSo annoying,â you mutter. âEven when youâre crying, youâre handsome.â
For the first time that day, Brian laughs. A broken, ragged sound, but still a laugh nonetheless.
âYou havenât eaten all day,â you murmur, still caressing his face. âI made soup. The one you like.â
Brian tilts his head to lean further into your touch. âWill you stay with me?â
âOf course,â you assure him softly. âThen we can lie down. We donât have to talk. Just⌠let me hold you.â
Brian nods, shutting his eyes before he turns his head, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist. âOkay. Iâd like that.â
And you make sure to keep to your word, tucking him under your chin as you let him lie on your chest, let him hold you tightly like heâs afraid youâd disappear too.
Itâs quiet at first, only the sound of your breathing and his occasional hiccups while you rub his back, until eventually, his voice cracks through the silence, weak, but sure.
Brian talks about his grandma, the way she laughed, the way she hummed while she cooked, the way sheâd always pick up his calls no matter how late it got.
You donât interrupt. You just listen, just hold him a little tighter through every shuddered breath. Even after heâs fallen asleep with his arm still wrapped loosely around your waist, you donât let go.
When you look down, your heart clenches at the sight of his features, still broken even in his sleep, the remnants on his tears barely drying on his skin.
You press your lips against his cheek, right below his lashes; a kiss that's barely-there, but means everything you couldn't say out loud. "How heavy was the world when you were forced to carry it, baby?" You whisper.
Brian stirs but doesn't wake, nuzzling against your collarbone like he's searching for a heartbeat to anchor to.
So you tighten your hold around him, brushing a final kiss on his hairline as you settle down. You won't let him go.
okay iâm gonna say it: fandoms are kinda dying on tumblr, and theyâre starving because nobody reblogs anymore.
like⌠i donât wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you âloveâ a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES⌠reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.
half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. thatâs why people stop posting. thatâs why fandoms feel empty. content doesnât magically fall from the sky â it comes from people who feel seen.
and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly youâre personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just donât let creators feel like theyâre shouting into a void.
reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).
support the creators you love !!!!!! or else weâre all gonna be sitting in empty tags like clowns.
Arguments with Brian arenât common. But there are days where they do happen, days where you feel like he isnât listening to you enough or hovering around you too much. For him, itâs when you begin to shut him out again after only barely letting him in, or when your words would come out sharper than intended and heâs tired of taking it in. And despite everything, your fights would never go on for more than a day.Â
You think itâs Brianâs fault.
For some reason, itâs gotten extremely difficult to stay angry at him. Even if you tried, heâd somehow always find a way to coax you, and itâd often end up with you in his arms⌠if not under him.
Point is, your husband is infuriatingly good at persuading. You donât know if itâs because youâve changedâ youâve been told that youâve gotten softer after getting married. Or maybe, itâs just because you love him.
This time, however, itâs different. Longer. Because for the first time, the both of you were upset at each other at the same time.
In Brianâs defense, he was just trying to mediate, because you hadnât returned any of your parentsâ calls since the incident at the family estate a few weeks ago. In your defense, he had no right butting into business that wasnât his, no matter how much he claimed he was trying to help.
That led to him accusing you of being hardheaded, and though he was quick to take it back, that didnât mean it didnât land like a slap.
So you called him a prick before slamming the bedroom door shut.
And now, you refuse to talk to him at all, because youâre furiousâ more furious than you ever were last week, when the incident happened. The incident, which involved you and a cousin whoâd had one too many to drink, and thought it was a good idea to talk smack about Brian to your face.
Naturally, that led to a fist to her mouth. Because no one gets to talk about your husband like that and get away with it.
You knew your parents were outraged, but you didnât stay long enough to find out. Brian wasnât too happy about it eitherâ not because youâd initiated a fight you couldnât win (you did), but because youâd gotten hurt at his expense. Still, youâd do it again, youâd told him, and heâd only let you off with a sigh and a kiss to your bruised knuckles. Probably because he knew you meant it.
And now, everythingâs ruined, all because heâd chosen to go straight to the people whoâve never treated you fairly instead of telling you first. Even if he was trying to smooth things over, or reassure them that youâd call them soon, you never needed him to decide things for you on your behalf in the first place. It makes you feel like you arenât in control of your own life, and thatâs something your parents have already done for you plenty.
So yes, youâre angry at Brian Kang.
Absolutely livid.
You could sense Brian wanting to say something the moment he steps into the kitchen, your back facing him as youâre preparing his lunchbox. Because even when you refuse to talk to him, you donât want him to starve at work.
He leans against the counter, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He's been trying to talk to you for over a day now, quick to put aside his own feelings the moment you slammed the door on him. Yes, he was upset, but that didn't matter as much as you giving him the silent treatment.
âYou still mad at me, baby?â
You donât answer. You donât even look at him when you turn around to pack the container into his lunchbag. You could see from the corner of your eye that his tie is done, unlike most days where heâd purposely leave it untied for you to do it for him.
You bite back a scoff. So now he doesnât need your help anymore?
How dare he.
âOkay,â he says quietly as he picks the bag up from the table.
And before you could move awayâ
He bends down to place a chaste kiss on your forehead.
âIâll see you later,â he murmurs against your skin, immediately stepping back. Then, tentatively, as if he isnât sure if heâs allowed to say it or not,
âI love you.â
You nod, but you still donât look at him as you busy yourself with whateverâs left on the counter, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of winning. But that doesnât stop the hint of a smile that tugs at his lips, smug, like he knows heâs halfway to reaching you.
And Brian knows he is, because come lunchtime, when he opens the bento box youâd prepared for him, he sees five rice balls arranged neatly in the compartment, each one decorated with seaweed strips cut into little angry faces.
He takes a picture to send it to you.
Brian
[12:32pm] 1 Attachment
[12:32pm] Youâre cute.
You
[12:34pm] donât call me that right now
Brian
[12:34pm] Why not?
You
[12:35pm] because iâm mad at you
Brian
[12:36pm] Not mad enough to stop making me food hahaha
You
[12:36pm] STOP pushing it brian.
Brian
[12:37pm] Iâm joking baby. Iâm sorry.
[12:37pm] I really am.
You
[12:38pm] whatever
Brian
[12:40pm] Wait for me for dinner?
You
[12:43pm] ya whatever
Brian
[12:44pm] đĽ°đ
[12:45pm] One more thing.
You
[12:45pm] what
Brian
[12.46pm] I love you.
Brian
[12:52pm] ?
[12:52pm] Youâre not gonna say it back?
You
[12:53pm] no
Brian
[12:54pm] You donât love me?
[12:54pm] Iâm calling you right now.
You
[12:54pm] DONâT.
[12:54pm] I DONâT WAnt to talk to you. oh my god
[12:54pm] fine. ILYT.Â
Brian
[12:55pm] Hahahahahaha ok Iâll take that
[12:55pm] See you at home baby
Youâre still grumbling under your breath by the time he reaches home, something along the lines of the audacity and so insufferable.
So Brian doesnât push, not yet, opting to smile at you sweetly when you place his bowl before him.
Kalguksu. His favourite.
Brian compliments you on your cooking. Just once, because he knows youâre not ready to give in yet. He offers to do the dishes when the both of you are done with your meals, and you nod silently, already moving to grab a container to pack the leftovers.
Almost there.
He makes sure to take his time, occasionally glancing over his shoulder just to make sure youâre still there. And when he sees you wiping the same spot on the table over and over, clearly pretending to be busyâ
âAlright.â He shuts the tap, turning to you completely as he dries his hands on his pants. âCâmere.â
You donât look up, only shuffle towards him until youâre foot to foot. Brian lifts you up with ease, letting you sit at the edge of the counter before caging you between his arms.
A few beats pass. Then,
âYou were waiting for me, werenât you?â
Finally, after what seems like days, you look at him. Your eyes are sharp, lips twisted into a snarl, but youâre looking at him. âI wasnât!â
He laughs. âOkay, okay.â His smile softens, and his hand slowly intertwines with yours resting on the marble surface. âLetâs talk?â
You nod wordlessly, a sign that youâre ready to listen. Brian takes in a breath.
âIâm sorry,â he murmurs. âIâm sorry I flipped out at you, baby. I just⌠I guess I just didnât understand why you kept avoiding the issue, and I got upset that you werenât letting me in.â
âBrian,â you finally sigh. âYou know how my family is. Talking to them wonât do anything. You doing that probably made them think that Iâm incapable of handling my own battles. Like I need you to fight them for me.â You hand trembles under his. âI donât need any of that. I just need you on my side.â
âI know. And I am, baby. Always.â He brings your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
âYou canât keep trying to fix everything before I even ask you to.â Your voice breaks a little at the warmth of him against your skin. âIâve already spent my whole life trying to appease them, and you doing that just- it made me feel so alone.â
âYouâre never alone. Not as long as Iâm here,â he exhales, shutting his eyes as his forehead drops to yours. âIâm sorry I made you feel that way.â
You shake your head. Even though he isnât looking at you, your gaze drops anyway. âYou didnât mean it.â
âNo. I should know better by now,â he murmurs, lifting his chin to press a shaky kiss to your forehead before resting against you again. âThank you for telling me, baby. Iâm glad you did. Because I want to do better for you. I always want to do better for you.â
You carefully reach up to cup his face, thumbing away the bags under his lashes. You hadnât noticed how tired he looks until now; he probably hasnât had a good sleep since the argument.
You know itâs your fault.
When he opens his eyes, theyâre glassy, tears pooling at the bottom of his lash line like theyâre barely holding on. Brian never criesâ at least not when you argueâ and the sight is starting to unravel you.
You think thatâs just because you love him so much.
âI didnât mean it when I called you a prick.â Your lip wobbles with guilt, and the words feel foreign on your tongue. Youâve never been one for apologies, though thatâs slowly starting to change. âI was just- so angry, and I wanted to hurt you. But I swear I didnât mean it, Brian. I didnât.â
Brian smiles at you then, brushing your cheek gently with the back of his hand. âI know, sweetheart.â
âI shouldnât even have lashed out at you. I just let my pride take over. It was easy to blame you and be angry at you because youâre- youâre there, when really it should be my parents. Itâs them I should be angry at.â
âBaby-â
You shake your head harshly. âNo- this is all Daeunâs fault. If she hadnât opened her damn mouth, none of this wouldâve happened. I wouldnât have punched her and my parents wouldnât be mad at me and we- we wouldnât have fought. Brian, you know I meant it when I said Iâd do it again, right? Iâd sock anyone in the mouth if they so much say a single word about you, because youâre mine, and I-â
âHey, hey, slow down.â Brian brings his hands to hold your face, prompting you to halt your rambling. He chuckles, a soft, ragged sound, eyes still moist as he thumbs away the tears staining your cheeks.
You didnât even realise you were crying.
âYou donât talk to me for two days, and suddenly everythingâs coming out, hm?â He teases. You nod anyway, sniffling.
Brian laughs softly. âGod, you stress me out,â he mutters, tilting his head to the ceiling before looking at you again. âBut then youâll say the most dumb, wonderful, things like you just didâ and you wonder why I love you so much?â
Your lip quivers with the remnants of your tears, your cheeks now beginning to heat up in embarrassment. âDonât call me dumb,â you protest weakly.
âMm.â Brian smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer. âIs there anything else you want to tell me?â
There is, because heâd interrupted you when you werenât done. So you nod again.
âDonât tie your tie without me,â you mumble, subconsciously raising a hand to fiddle with his collar. âLet me do it for you. Even when weâre fighting.â
His brows raise slightly as he processes your words, and when he gets it, he laughs. Soft and fond, as if he couldnât believe you had to tell him that. He presses his lips to your forehead, then your cheek, like he couldnât help himself. âOkay, baby.â
âAnd donât⌠donât go to sleep without holding me. Or go to work without kissing me first. Even if I push you away, or even if I yell- just do it. Because I think about it a lot when you do.â
âYeah?â Brian tilts his head, his smile widening into something almost giddy. âDid you think of me just now?â
âOf course,â you admit quietly. âI always think of you, Bri.â
He hums, satisfied, his eyes flickering to your lips before he gives you a peck. Once, then twice. You know his mind is already starting to drift elsewhere, his concentration slipping together with the tension from before. It always happens after every argument; like his brain has a switch he could turn off the moment you reconcile, promptly abandoning the conversation entirely. If you donât stop him now, heâd probably pin you to the counter in the next five seconds and make you forget what words are.
His lips start to trail down your jaw, and a small gasp escapes your throat. Your fingers tighten around his shoulders. âBrian-â
He hums against your skin. âIâm listening, baby.â
You donât answerâ not because you donât want to, but because your breath stutters the moment his mouth finds that one spot below your ear.
At this, Brian slowly lifts his head.
He looks⌠fuck. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide like heâs fully in a daze and youâre the only thing he can see. His lips are parted, breaths unevenâ
But the moment he really sees you, he sobers up.
âHey.â His voice drops to that careful, gentle tone he only ever uses with you. His hands stay on your waist, though more gentle now than greedy. âWhat is it, baby? Iâm here. Tell me.â
Your cheeks burn, mostly because now it feels silly, but you need to tell him anyway.
You want to.
âIâŚâ your fingers curl around his shirt as you look for the words. You want to look away, but you donât, because if thereâs any time he deserves to be seeing your face, itâs now.
âI do. I do love you.â
It takes a while for him to realise what youâre talking about: his text from earlier.
Brian chuckles, a soft exhale thatâs fond and broken and so hopelessly in love.
Of course he knows that you love him. How could he not, when he feels it everyday?
Only you would make him angry little rice balls for lunch, because you still care enough to make sure he eats even when you wouldnât talk to him. Only you would wake up in the middle of the night to adjust the blanket for him, making sure heâs all covered before curling closer, seeking his warmth even if you wouldnât admit it.
Only you would punch someone in the face for him; not like he condones it, but still.Â
He takes your hand in his, thumb brushing over the small cuts on your knuckles that are only beginning to heal before bringing them to his lips, kissing away each mark, memorising every cut like theyâre proof of how fiercely you care.
He doesnât need you to say it for him to know that you love him.
Because every day, you show it. And for Brian, itâs enough.
Arguments with Brian arenât common. But there are days where they do happen, days where you feel like he isnât listening to you enough or hovering around you too much. For him, itâs when you begin to shut him out again after only barely letting him in, or when your words would come out sharper than intended and heâs tired of taking it in. And despite everything, your fights would never go on for more than a day.Â
You think itâs Brianâs fault.
For some reason, itâs gotten extremely difficult to stay angry at him. Even if you tried, heâd somehow always find a way to coax you, and itâd often end up with you in his arms⌠if not under him.
Point is, your husband is infuriatingly good at persuading. You donât know if itâs because youâve changedâ youâve been told that youâve gotten softer after getting married. Or maybe, itâs just because you love him.
This time, however, itâs different. Longer. Because for the first time, the both of you were upset at each other at the same time.
In Brianâs defense, he was just trying to mediate, because you hadnât returned any of your parentsâ calls since the incident at the family estate a few weeks ago. In your defense, he had no right butting into business that wasnât his, no matter how much he claimed he was trying to help.
That led to him accusing you of being hardheaded, and though he was quick to take it back, that didnât mean it didnât land like a slap.
So you called him a prick before slamming the bedroom door shut.
And now, you refuse to talk to him at all, because youâre furiousâ more furious than you ever were last week, when the incident happened. The incident, which involved you and a cousin whoâd had one too many to drink, and thought it was a good idea to talk smack about Brian to your face.
Naturally, that led to a fist to her mouth. Because no one gets to talk about your husband like that and get away with it.
You knew your parents were outraged, but you didnât stay long enough to find out. Brian wasnât too happy about it eitherâ not because youâd initiated a fight you couldnât win (you did), but because youâd gotten hurt at his expense. Still, youâd do it again, youâd told him, and heâd only let you off with a sigh and a kiss to your bruised knuckles. Probably because he knew you meant it.
And now, everythingâs ruined, all because heâd chosen to go straight to the people whoâve never treated you fairly instead of telling you first. Even if he was trying to smooth things over, or reassure them that youâd call them soon, you never needed him to decide things for you on your behalf in the first place. It makes you feel like you arenât in control of your own life, and thatâs something your parents have already done for you plenty.
So yes, youâre angry at Brian Kang.
Absolutely livid.
You could sense Brian wanting to say something the moment he steps into the kitchen, your back facing him as youâre preparing his lunchbox. Because even when you refuse to talk to him, you donât want him to starve at work.
He leans against the counter, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He's been trying to talk to you for over a day now, quick to put aside his own feelings the moment you slammed the door on him. Yes, he was upset, but that didn't matter as much as you giving him the silent treatment.
âYou still mad at me, baby?â
You donât answer. You donât even look at him when you turn around to pack the container into his lunchbag. You could see from the corner of your eye that his tie is done, unlike most days where heâd purposely leave it untied for you to do it for him.
You bite back a scoff. So now he doesnât need your help anymore?
How dare he.
âOkay,â he says quietly as he picks the bag up from the table.
And before you could move awayâ
He bends down to place a chaste kiss on your forehead.
âIâll see you later,â he murmurs against your skin, immediately stepping back. Then, tentatively, as if he isnât sure if heâs allowed to say it or not,
âI love you.â
You nod, but you still donât look at him as you busy yourself with whateverâs left on the counter, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of winning. But that doesnât stop the hint of a smile that tugs at his lips, smug, like he knows heâs halfway to reaching you.
And Brian knows he is, because come lunchtime, when he opens the bento box youâd prepared for him, he sees five rice balls arranged neatly in the compartment, each one decorated with seaweed strips cut into little angry faces.
He takes a picture to send it to you.
Brian
[12:32pm] 1 Attachment
[12:32pm] Youâre cute.
You
[12:34pm] donât call me that right now
Brian
[12:34pm] Why not?
You
[12:35pm] because iâm mad at you
Brian
[12:36pm] Not mad enough to stop making me food hahaha
You
[12:36pm] STOP pushing it brian.
Brian
[12:37pm] Iâm joking baby. Iâm sorry.
[12:37pm] I really am.
You
[12:38pm] whatever
Brian
[12:40pm] Wait for me for dinner?
You
[12:43pm] ya whatever
Brian
[12:44pm] đĽ°đ
[12:45pm] One more thing.
You
[12:45pm] what
Brian
[12.46pm] I love you.
Brian
[12:52pm] ?
[12:52pm] Youâre not gonna say it back?
You
[12:53pm] no
Brian
[12:54pm] You donât love me?
[12:54pm] Iâm calling you right now.
You
[12:54pm] DONâT.
[12:54pm] I DONâT WAnt to talk to you. oh my god
[12:54pm] fine. ILYT.Â
Brian
[12:55pm] Hahahahahaha ok Iâll take that
[12:55pm] See you at home baby
Youâre still grumbling under your breath by the time he reaches home, something along the lines of the audacity and so insufferable.
So Brian doesnât push, not yet, opting to smile at you sweetly when you place his bowl before him.
Kalguksu. His favourite.
Brian compliments you on your cooking. Just once, because he knows youâre not ready to give in yet. He offers to do the dishes when the both of you are done with your meals, and you nod silently, already moving to grab a container to pack the leftovers.
Almost there.
He makes sure to take his time, occasionally glancing over his shoulder just to make sure youâre still there. And when he sees you wiping the same spot on the table over and over, clearly pretending to be busyâ
âAlright.â He shuts the tap, turning to you completely as he dries his hands on his pants. âCâmere.â
You donât look up, only shuffle towards him until youâre foot to foot. Brian lifts you up with ease, letting you sit at the edge of the counter before caging you between his arms.
A few beats pass. Then,
âYou were waiting for me, werenât you?â
Finally, after what seems like days, you look at him. Your eyes are sharp, lips twisted into a snarl, but youâre looking at him. âI wasnât!â
He laughs. âOkay, okay.â His smile softens, and his hand slowly intertwines with yours resting on the marble surface. âLetâs talk?â
You nod wordlessly, a sign that youâre ready to listen. Brian takes in a breath.
âIâm sorry,â he murmurs. âIâm sorry I flipped out at you, baby. I just⌠I guess I just didnât understand why you kept avoiding the issue, and I got upset that you werenât letting me in.â
âBrian,â you finally sigh. âYou know how my family is. Talking to them wonât do anything. You doing that probably made them think that Iâm incapable of handling my own battles. Like I need you to fight them for me.â You hand trembles under his. âI donât need any of that. I just need you on my side.â
âI know. And I am, baby. Always.â He brings your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles.
âYou canât keep trying to fix everything before I even ask you to.â Your voice breaks a little at the warmth of him against your skin. âIâve already spent my whole life trying to appease them, and you doing that just- it made me feel so alone.â
âYouâre never alone. Not as long as Iâm here,â he exhales, shutting his eyes as his forehead drops to yours. âIâm sorry I made you feel that way.â
You shake your head. Even though he isnât looking at you, your gaze drops anyway. âYou didnât mean it.â
âNo. I should know better by now,â he murmurs, lifting his chin to press a shaky kiss to your forehead before resting against you again. âThank you for telling me, baby. Iâm glad you did. Because I want to do better for you. I always want to do better for you.â
You carefully reach up to cup his face, thumbing away the bags under his lashes. You hadnât noticed how tired he looks until now; he probably hasnât had a good sleep since the argument.
You know itâs your fault.
When he opens his eyes, theyâre glassy, tears pooling at the bottom of his lash line like theyâre barely holding on. Brian never criesâ at least not when you argueâ and the sight is starting to unravel you.
You think thatâs just because you love him so much.
âI didnât mean it when I called you a prick.â Your lip wobbles with guilt, and the words feel foreign on your tongue. Youâve never been one for apologies, though thatâs slowly starting to change. âI was just- so angry, and I wanted to hurt you. But I swear I didnât mean it, Brian. I didnât.â
Brian smiles at you then, brushing your cheek gently with the back of his hand. âI know, sweetheart.â
âI shouldnât even have lashed out at you. I just let my pride take over. It was easy to blame you and be angry at you because youâre- youâre there, when really it should be my parents. Itâs them I should be angry at.â
âBaby-â
You shake your head harshly. âNo- this is all Daeunâs fault. If she hadnât opened her damn mouth, none of this wouldâve happened. I wouldnât have punched her and my parents wouldnât be mad at me and we- we wouldnât have fought. Brian, you know I meant it when I said Iâd do it again, right? Iâd sock anyone in the mouth if they so much say a single word about you, because youâre mine, and I-â
âHey, hey, slow down.â Brian brings his hands to hold your face, prompting you to halt your rambling. He chuckles, a soft, ragged sound, eyes still moist as he thumbs away the tears staining your cheeks.
You didnât even realise you were crying.
âYou donât talk to me for two days, and suddenly everythingâs coming out, hm?â He teases. You nod anyway, sniffling.
Brian laughs softly. âGod, you stress me out,â he mutters, tilting his head to the ceiling before looking at you again. âBut then youâll say the most dumb, wonderful, things like you just didâ and you wonder why I love you so much?â
Your lip quivers with the remnants of your tears, your cheeks now beginning to heat up in embarrassment. âDonât call me dumb,â you protest weakly.
âMm.â Brian smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer. âIs there anything else you want to tell me?â
There is, because heâd interrupted you when you werenât done. So you nod again.
âDonât tie your tie without me,â you mumble, subconsciously raising a hand to fiddle with his collar. âLet me do it for you. Even when weâre fighting.â
His brows raise slightly as he processes your words, and when he gets it, he laughs. Soft and fond, as if he couldnât believe you had to tell him that. He presses his lips to your forehead, then your cheek, like he couldnât help himself. âOkay, baby.â
âAnd donât⌠donât go to sleep without holding me. Or go to work without kissing me first. Even if I push you away, or even if I yell- just do it. Because I think about it a lot when you do.â
âYeah?â Brian tilts his head, his smile widening into something almost giddy. âDid you think of me just now?â
âOf course,â you admit quietly. âI always think of you, Bri.â
He hums, satisfied, his eyes flickering to your lips before he gives you a peck. Once, then twice. You know his mind is already starting to drift elsewhere, his concentration slipping together with the tension from before. It always happens after every argument; like his brain has a switch he could turn off the moment you reconcile, promptly abandoning the conversation entirely. If you donât stop him now, heâd probably pin you to the counter in the next five seconds and make you forget what words are.
His lips start to trail down your jaw, and a small gasp escapes your throat. Your fingers tighten around his shoulders. âBrian-â
He hums against your skin. âIâm listening, baby.â
You donât answerâ not because you donât want to, but because your breath stutters the moment his mouth finds that one spot below your ear.
At this, Brian slowly lifts his head.
He looks⌠fuck. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide like heâs fully in a daze and youâre the only thing he can see. His lips are parted, breaths unevenâ
But the moment he really sees you, he sobers up.
âHey.â His voice drops to that careful, gentle tone he only ever uses with you. His hands stay on your waist, though more gentle now than greedy. âWhat is it, baby? Iâm here. Tell me.â
Your cheeks burn, mostly because now it feels silly, but you need to tell him anyway.
You want to.
âIâŚâ your fingers curl around his shirt as you look for the words. You want to look away, but you donât, because if thereâs any time he deserves to be seeing your face, itâs now.
âI do. I do love you.â
It takes a while for him to realise what youâre talking about: his text from earlier.
Brian chuckles, a soft exhale thatâs fond and broken and so hopelessly in love.
Of course he knows that you love him. How could he not, when he feels it everyday?
Only you would make him angry little rice balls for lunch, because you still care enough to make sure he eats even when you wouldnât talk to him. Only you would wake up in the middle of the night to adjust the blanket for him, making sure heâs all covered before curling closer, seeking his warmth even if you wouldnât admit it.
Only you would punch someone in the face for him; not like he condones it, but still.Â
He takes your hand in his, thumb brushing over the small cuts on your knuckles that are only beginning to heal before bringing them to his lips, kissing away each mark, memorising every cut like theyâre proof of how fiercely you care.
He doesnât need you to say it for him to know that you love him.
Because every day, you show it. And for Brian, itâs enough.
pairing: lee minho x reader (no pronouns mentioned)
summary: minho dislikes you, and you dislike him. but when he calls you late at night because his cat had hurt himself, you make your way over to him without having to think about it twice.
genre: enemies to ?lovers?, fluff, bickering {~3.5k words}
warnings: reader is a vet's assistant, soonie cutting his leg on glass, mentions of blood and stitches, mentions of snacks
you were sprawled across hanâs couch, half-buried in a blanket you had stolen from his closet, lazily scrolling through your phone while he sat at his desk, headphones around his neck. the friendship between the two of you had grown into something familiar with him becoming like a brother to you.
most of the times you hung out, it was him rambling about whatever new lyrics he was working on and you offering commentary that was mostly unhelpful but always entertained him. han never seemed to mind when you drifted in and out of the dorm like it was a second home.
you heard the front door click open, followed by soft footsteps down the hall. before you even looked up, you knew who it was from how the atmosphere changed.
minho stepped into the doorway like he owned the place, which, to be fair, he did. his eyes landed on you instantly, and he raised one perfectly judgey eyebrow, his signature expression where you were concerned. âoh⌠you again. what a surprise.â
you snorted, not bothering to hide your irritation. âtrust me, i donât enjoy the view either.â
han let out a long, pained groan, like the two of you had physically reached into his skull and squeezed. âcan you two not do this today?â he muttered, spinning in his chair so his back was to both of you.
but it was too late. the atmosphere had already shifted into familiar territory: sharp edges, eye rolls, and the kind of tension that made the air feel too warm.
it hadnât always been like this. at the beginning, minho had thrown sarcastic remarks your way every time you showed up, each one coated in disdain so thick you could practically taste it. you used to ignore him, or at least try to. but one day you got fed up. maybe it was the way he had mocked your laugh, maybe it was the way he acted like your presence contaminated the room. so you fired back.
and now the bickering had become a routine neither of you seemed willing to break.
later that day, the dorm felt fuller. chan and jeongin had wandered in with the promise of a movie night, chan carrying an armful of drinks while jeongin was already scrolling through streaming apps like his life depended on choosing the perfect film. you ended up in the kitchen, opening bags of chips and pouring them into bowls, arranging everything in a neat little line on the counter because someone had to keep these boys from living entirely in chaos.
you had just reached for another bag when you felt someoneâs presence behind you, judgemental even before he spoke.
minho stepped in, arms crossed, watching you line up the bowls. âwow,â he said, tone dripping with unnecessary sarcasm, âi didnât realise we were hosting a banquet. planning to alphabetise the snacks too?â
you didnât look up. âyeah, actually. i like my snacks organised. unlike some people who live like raccoons in human form.â
chan, who had just taken a sip of water, choked so violently he had to grip the counter. jeongin burst into laughter. minho just blinked at you, his mouth parting slightly, somewhere between offended and impressed.
his eyes lingered a little too long, that judgey look he had perfected now softened with something almost curious.
after chan walked back into the living room, he leaned closer to han, dropping his voice so you couldnât hear. âhow do you deal with this all the time?â he whispered, amusement tugging at his lips.
han didnât even glance up from the remote he was fiddling with. âi donât deal with it,â he said flatly. âiâm just extremely invested in when theyâll finally stop pretending they hate each other.â
chan snorted, âyouâre kidding.â
ânope,â han said, still focused on the tv. âiâm waiting for the day one of them snaps and kisses the other out of spite.â
you didnât hear any of that. you were too busy elbowing minho out of the way as he reached for a chip. âhands off,â you warned him. âiâm arranging those.â
he stepped closer, deliberately invading your space, close enough that you felt his breath on your cheek. âi know,â he murmured. âthatâs why iâm touching them.â
you glared up at him, your pulse betraying you with the way it jumped. âyouâre the worst.â
âand yet,â he said, leaning just a little closer, âyou always come back here.â his voice carried a softness you absolutely ignored on purpose.
you shoved a bowl of popcorn into his hands. âgo bother someone else.â
he lingered another beat before walking away with a smug half-smile that made your stomach twist.
when you finally returned to the living room, chan and jeongin were sitting a little too casually, like they had been caught watching something they werenât supposed to. han just smirked knowingly, and minho, spread across the couch with his arms behind his head, gave you that same look from the kitchen. the kind that made your chest feel uncomfortably warm.
a couple of days passed, uneventful enough that you had almost forgotten how thoroughly minho had gotten under your skin during movie night. it was a quiet tuesday evening, the kind where the sky felt too dark and the living room too still. you were half-asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket with some random show flickering on the tv, one you werenât even watching. your eyes were heavy, your mind drifting, when your phone buzzed. you blinked, reaching for it lazily. the name on the screen snapped you awake.
minho.
your eyebrows pulled together, confusion cutting through the sleepiness. minho had never called you. ever. you werenât sure he even had your number saved.
you stared at the screen, debating. pick up? ignore it? let him suffer if he needed to ask something? before you could decide, the call ended. your screen went black. you snorted softly. figures. probably misdialed.
you shifted back into the couch cushions, but then your phone vibrated again.
minho. calling.
your heartbeat sped up, your feelings mixing with curiosity and worry, something that made your throat tighten. why would he call twice?
your mind immediately jumped to the one thing that mattered more than his pride or yours.
han. had something happened?
you answered before the second ring even finished.
âwhatâ"
his voice cut you off. it didnât sound like him. not even a little. no sarcasm. no coldness. no sharp bite hidden between words. just pure panic. âsomethingâs happened to soonie,â he breathed, the words tumbling into each other shakily.
you sat straight up, blanket falling to the floor. âwhat? minho, slow down! what happened?â
in the background you heard chaos. hurried footsteps, something clattering to the ground, fabric rustling as he moved around frantically. there was a hitched breath, almost a sob, quickly swallowed like he was trying not to lose it.
âheâs⌠heâs bleeding,â minho said, voice cracking on the last word. âiâ i donât know what to do.â
and that was the moment your stomach dropped.
you had never heard him sound like that.
not even close.
âminho, heyâ calm down for a second,â you said, forcing your voice to stay steady even though your own pulse had started hammering. âyou need to tell me exactly what happened, okay?â
there was a shaky inhale on the other end, like he was trying to pull himself together just enough to speak.
âdoongie⌠knocked a glass off the counter,â he said, the words rushed. âand soonieâ he stepped on it. his legâ thereâs so much blood, i donâtâ"
âokay,â you cut in gently, already pushing off the couch and heading to your bedroom where your emergency kit was stored. âokay, hereâs what you have to do, minho.â
you yanked open the cabinet, grabbing the kit with one hand while pressing your phone tighter to your ear with the other. âis someone with you? anyone who can help hold him?â
âno,â he said, voice still tight, breath still uneven. âiâm home alone.â
âalright.â you took a steadying breath. âput me on speaker. youâll need both hands.â there was a rustle, and then his voice sounded slightly more distant, but still trembling. âokay.â
âgood. now listen carefully,â you said, already stuffing supplies into a bag. âyou need to get a clean towel and whatever first aid stuff you have. gauze, disinfectant, anything.â
âiâve got a towel,â he said quickly. âand the first aid kit.â
âperfect. now, is it his front or hind leg?â
âhind.â
âokay. sit down on the floor or the couch, wherever you have space. put the towel on your lap. then pick him up and hold him against you with one arm. use your free hand to put pressure on the cut. not too hard, but firm enough to slow the bleeding.â
there was fumbling, a muffled curse, then the sound of him settling down.
you could hear soonieâs distressed meow, and minho whispering something soft to him, comforting words you had never heard in that tone before.
you grabbed your keys. âare you at the dorm orâ"
you stopped mid-sentence, wincing at yourself. âright. that was a stupid question.â
cats meant he was with his family. you braced yourself for the snark, the obvious jab he would normally throw. but instead, his answer was so soft you almost missed it.
âno,â he murmured, voice lower than youâd ever heard it. âiâm with my family.â
then, before you could respond, he added quietly, âthe address isâŚâ and listed it off without hesitation, without you even having to ask. the gentleness in his tone hit you like a physical thing.
this wasnât the minho who rolled his eyes at you. not the minho who mocked your snack-arranging skills. this was someone scared and vulnerable, and weirdly... trusting you.
you typed the address into your phone with quick, practiced motions, your bag already slung over your shoulder. once the route lit up on the screen, you brought the phone back to your ear.
âiâll be there in fifteen minutes,â you said, already heading for the door.
you were seconds from hanging up, thumb hovering over the screen, when you heard it: your name, breathed out in a voice you had never heard from him before. âcan you⌠can you stay on the phone?â
it was barely above a whisper. too soft and too un-minho. you froze for half a heartbeat, something warm blooming in your chest before you could stop it.
âyeah,â you said quietly, the corners of your lips lifting without permission. âyeah, sure.â
the line went silent, but not empty. you could hear him breathing, uneven but slowly calming, the soft rustle of fabric as he adjusted soonie on his lap. you climbed into your car, started the engine, and began the drive.
the ride was mostly quiet, peaceful in a way that didnât match the adrenaline rushing through your veins. every few minutes, minho murmured an update. soft, like he was afraid to disturb the quiet between you.
âthe bleeding slowed down a littleâŚâ
âheâs not shaking as muchâŚâ
âi think heâs calmer nowâŚâ
each update was gentle, so completely unlike the minho who snarked at you across the dorm. there was no edge to his voice, no bite, no carefully crafted sarcasm meant to keep you at armâs length.
you tightened your grip on the steering wheel, ignoring the way your chest felt too full. you shouldnât be softening. not when he had spent months acting like you were a thorn in his side. not when you had convinced yourself you hated him.
but hearing him like this⌠it scraped at something deep inside you.
on the other end of the line, minhoâs voice became steadier. the panic had eased, replaced by a strange kind of calm. you didnât know it, but for him, the simple fact that you hadnât hung up, that you had stayed with him, felt grounding in a way he couldnât explain.
you pulled up to the building exactly fifteen minutes later, parking crookedly in your rush to get inside. before you could even knock, the door swung open.
minho stood there, breath shallow, shoulders tense, soonie cradled tightly in his arms. his eyes were frantic, wide and glossy with leftover panic, but the second they landed on you, something in them softened.
you didnât comment on it. you were too focused on the trembling cat pressed against his chest.
âhey, soonie,â you murmured gently, your voice instinctively lowering as you reached out to stroke his head. âpoor baby. letâs take a look at you.â
minho stepped aside instantly, ushering you in like you were the only person who knew how to breathe in the entire building. he followed you closely to the table, placing soonie down with trembling hands.
"put him here,â you said, already opening your kit. âi need better light.â
he did exactly as told, then stayed right beside you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. one of his hands rested on soonieâs back, moving in slow circles, soothing both the cat and himself.
you slipped into work mode effortlessly, your movements precise and calm as you examined the wound. your mind focused on the injury, on what needed to be done. but even then, you could feel minhoâs gaze burning into the side of your face.
when you looked up, his eyes were already on you. searching and scared.
âhe needs stitches,â you said, your tone gentle. minhoâs mouth parted slightly, the breath catching in his throat. he looked like the words hit him in the chest. shock first, then worry, then something else entirely. relief. because you were here. because you knew what to do. because he didnât have to figure this out alone.
âokay,â he whispered, nodding quickly. âokay. whatever he needs.â
you gave him a reassuring look before reaching for the syringe, trying not to think too hard about the way his entire posture had changed the moment you walked in.
the minho you knew would have let a sarcastic comment slip in by now. the minho you knew wouldâve smirked or rolled his eyes or said something snide. but this was a whole different side of hin.
âcan you help me with this?â you asked quietly, glancing at him. minho nodded so quickly it almost startled you. âyeah. whatever you need.â
his eagerness tugged at something in your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing on preparing the small syringe.
âthis is just a local anaesthetic,â you explained softly as you checked the dosage. âa few tiny jabs, then he wonât feel anything in his leg while i stitch it.â
minho swallowed hard but nodded again, shifting closer to hold soonie gently but securely. his hands trembled just a little, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
you injected the anaesthetic around the wound in careful spots. soonie protested immediately, a soft, pained meow leaving him. both you and minho leaned forward at the same time.
âshh, baby, itâs okay,â you murmured.
âyouâre alright, soonie,â minho whispered, voice cracking ever so slightly as he stroked behind the catâs ear.
once the anaesthetic started to kick in, you positioned soonie onto his side and handed minho one of the towels.
âhold him like this,â you guided, placing his hand where it needed to be. âkeep him steady.â he followed without hesitation, his focus entirely on your instructions.
you opened the sterile suture kit, laid out your tools, cleaned the wound with disinfectant, and began your work in practiced motions. the bleeding had slowed drastically thanks to the pressure minho had applied earlier. "you did a good job stopping the bleeding,â you said, your voice soft with genuine praise. he didnât respond.
when you glanced up, his eyes were locked on your hands, on the steady way you moved, on the care you took. there was something intense in his expression, something warm and unguarded. he didnât even blink.
you huffed a small laugh. âstop watching me, minho.â your tone was playful, trying to break the tension you absolutely felt growing in the air. but he didnât tease back. didnât roll his eyes. didnât smirk.
he just breathed out, âcanât help it.â
your fingers froze for the smallest fraction of a second. your pulse skipped. but you forced yourself to keep going, guiding the needle through skin with practiced precision.
silence settled, broken only by the occasional soft sound from soonie.
after a moment, you spoke, your voice low. âwhy did you call me?â you kept your gaze on the stitches, but your ears strained for his answer.
there was a beat of silence. two. three.
then, quietly he said, âyouâre the only person i could think of.â your breath caught.
he added quickly, almost tripping over the words, âi mean, youâre a vetâs assistant. obviously.â
you almost smiled at the weak attempt to cover himself, but you stayed focused, tying off the final stitch with a small, precise knot.
as you did, minho whispered, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it: âyouâre amazing.â
you looked up immediately.
you raised an eyebrow at him, the question slipping out before you could filter it.
âdid you just praise me? or did i mishear?â
minho swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. his eyes flicked away for a fleeting moment, like he needed that second to gather himself, before they returned to yours.
âi mightââ he started, voice barely above a whisper, âi might not hate you as much as you think i do.â your lips twitched. âoh?â
he blinked once, twice, then the words spilled out of him like something heâd been holding in far too long.
âi⌠i might like you,â he said, each word placed carefully, like he was afraid you would interrupt him. âa little too much.â
his gaze dropped to his hands, to the soft rise and fall of soonieâs breathing. âand itâs kind of annoying.â
a breathy laugh escaped him, humourless and nervous. âyouâre annoying.â
you huffed, but he kept going, eyes flicking up to meet yours for half a second before sliding back down.
âbut youâre alsoâ" his voice faltered. âgod, you drive me crazy.â a beat. âin the worst and best way.â
you stared at him, stunned into silence.
this wasnât the minho who weaponised sarcasm like breathing. this was earnest. and it was real.
you felt heat rise to your cheeks before you could hide it. âyou call this liking me?â
the corners of his mouth lifted, just barely, his eyes still trained downward like he didnât trust himself to look directly at you.
âitâs the only way i know how,â he murmured.
your chest tightened, terrifying in its clarity. all the irritation you thought you had felt toward him, all the frustration, all the fire, none of it looked like hatred anymore. not even close.
you reached out to stroke soonieâs fur, steadying yourself and your fingers brushed his. both of you froze. minho looked up instantly, eyes wide, breath catching like that single touch had unraveled something inside him.
you withdrew your hand immediately, pulse jumping, your throat suddenly tight.
âmaybe i donât hate you as much either,â you admitted, trying, and failing, to sound casual.
the words hung between you.
clearing your throat in a pathetic attempt to pull yourself together, you quickly started gathering your tools, cleaning up with hands that felt a little too warm.
minho helped you, wordlessly handing you gauze wrappers, holding open the trash bin, wiping down the table beside you. the silence was warm in a way that wrapped around you both like a blanket.
once everything was packed away, you crouched beside soonie, giving him one last check. minho hovered beside you, watching closely as you stroked the catâs head.
âjust⌠keep an eye on him,â you said softly. âheâs not allowed to lick the stitches, so if he tries, stop him. distract him. whatever works.â
minho nodded, âi will.â
you stood, grabbing your bag. minho moved with you, almost instinctively, walking you to the door. the tension between you lingered. it was something tender now. something new.
when you reached the doorway, he stopped, his hand brushing lightly against your elbow.
âthank you,â he said. âtruly.â you opened your mouth to reply, but he spoke again, quieter this time, almost hesitant.
âi know itâs late but⌠i can, umâ" he cleared his throat, eyes flicking away for a second before returning to yours, âi can make you some tea, if you like? you could⌠stay for a bit?â
your breath caught. the fact that he meant it made heat rise behind your ribs, made your lips curl before you could stop them.
minho noticed, of course he did. his own mouth softened into a small smile, barely there but unmistakably genuine. âokay,â you murmured.
his shoulders eased, as he stepped aside to let you back in. his hand brushed against yours before settling steadily at the small of your back, guiding you gently down the hall.
the touch was careful. like he wasnât sure he was allowed to hold you closer, but he wanted to.
in the quiet kitchen, with soonie resting safely in the next room and minhoâs hand lingering against you, the truth settled between you:
you were never enemies.
not really.
not even close.
a/n: i'm an absolute sucker for this man. you will probably be getting a lot of enemies to lovers, bantering until the tension boils over and he kisses you fiercely lee know fics
You know what? I'm a bit fed up with the guys and their constant talk of âhealthy livingâ and âdiets and exerciseâ. No, eating only tuna, seaweed and rice for months is not healthy, nor is being so obsessed with exercise that you can't eat anything tasty without immediately doing squats to compensate âI'm talking to you, Lee Minhoâ. No, it's not healthy to stop eating carbohydrates to get six-pack abs âI'm talking to you, Seo Changbinâ, and it's not a good message for anyone to be talking about diets and exercise almost every day âI'm talking to you, Christopher Chahnâ.
I don't think they realise that their obsession is unhealthy, let alone that the message they are sending could affect their fans. I've been on diets since I was 11, I have horrible body image issues and I have an eating disorder that I have to deal with every day, and their comments don't help. If I, an adult woman, am affected by their comments, imagine how they might affect young girls.
They have to stop. If they decide to live their lives that way, fine, but they shouldn't try to convince everyone else that what they're doing âand how they're doing itâis good.
For God's sake, they've turned into the unpleasant type of gym bros...
showing affection in public â kang younghyun (requested)
a/n: slightly suggestive! to anon who requested this i hope you don't mind that i kinda tweaked your prompt a lil bit, i only realised that maybe you wanted something more cutesy after i finished writing haha. T_T apologiessss if it's not what you envisioned đ
Youâve never been a stranger to attending galas. In fact, growing up, it was all you knew.
While the other little girls in school were having tea parties, you were attending real, adult ones, sat in between your parents while they had adult conversations six-year old you could barely comprehend.
When you reached high school and all your classmates talked about was what dress to wear to prom, you were, too, except it wasnât prom you were attending, but another one of your parentsâ charity events you couldnât care less about.
Hell, it was so beyond inescapable that it was also where you found you were getting married.
You havenât been to an event sinceâ not until tonight, that isâ and even though itâs been a while, itâs nothing youâre not used to. The only difference is that youâre here as Brianâs plus-one now, and though youâre relieved that you could just stand there and sip on your champagne while he does the talking, thereâs one thing you havenât expected to have to account for.
Brianâs conversation with one of his associates blur into the background when your eyes land on somethingâ rather, someone. A lady, one you donât recognise, a few tables away from you, champagne flute in hand as she talks, red lips pulled into a smirk. But her eyes arenât on her friend, theyâre on⌠Brian.
Your Brian.
You take a sip from your own drink, studying her through the rim of your glass. What the hell is this girlâs deal?
Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning towards him, your shoulder now brushing his arm. Brian glances at you, lips still moving, but you donât look up as you fiddle with your glass. You know heâs surprisedâ it isnât like you to initiate touch at all, let alone in public.
Slowly, he brings a hand to rest on your lower back, barely-there, but firm enough for you to feel the heat of his palm seep through the silk of your dress as he wraps up his conversation.
And when his acquaintance finally excuses himselfâ
âYou okay?â Brian bends down to whisper in your ear.
You turn to him. His eyes sweep across your features as he waits for your reply, as though to really check if anythingâs wrong. Heâs standing close, close enough for his cologne to warp your senses, and because you could practically feel that womanâs eyes still zeroed on himâ your husbandâ you do the one thing you never wouldâve expected yourself to do in public.
You tilt your chin to place a kiss on his jaw.
You donât pull away immediately, and when you do, the red of your lipstick remains on his skin.
And that leaves Brian stunned, his brows shooting upwards, but he quickly recovers as he pulls you closer to him, a small smile on his lips. âHm? Whatâre you doing, baby?â
You hum, non-committal, bringing a thumb to the stain you left. Not to rub it off, but merely just to touch.
âNothing.â
Brian looks like heâs about to say something else, but before he could, a shrill voice snaps the both of you out of your bubble.
âYounghyun? Kang Younghyun?â
You turn, and the lady from earlier now stands before you, a cheshire grin on her lips. Instantly, you note the way her eyes study Brianâ your Brianâ from head to toe, like a predator canvassing its prey.
You donât like it one bit. But with the way Brianâs still holding you, one arm around your waist and the other resting on the cocktail table, hand enveloping yours, you canât help but to let the small feeling of satisfaction bloom in your chest.
Because no one gets to look at your husband like thatâ especially not this woman who looks like sheâs undressing him with her eyes alone.
âYumi, hey. How are you?â Brian greets politely, the way heâs been doing to everyone here the entire night.
âIâve been well. Landed just this morning, actually. Then my parents told me there was a gala tonight, so I decided, why not?â She flips her hair. âItâs been a while, hasnât it? I see youâre doing good.â
Finally, her sharp eyes turn to you, and you match her scrutiny with a glare of your own.
âI heard you got married. Congratulations.â She continues, hawk eyes not leaving yours. Her lips tug at the corners, like she knows something you donât. âShe looks like⌠she takes care of you well.â
You feel Brian tense. âYumi-â
âI do,â you cut him off brusquely, before plastering on a smile that matches hers. âEvery night, without fail, actually. He never has a reason to complain. Do you, baby?â You murmur as you turn to him, fingers brushing the ring on his finger.
Brianâs staring at you, and you recognise the look in his eyes. Itâs how he looks at you when youâre the one leaning in first; when you forget to be shy. Itâs how he looks at you when you stop holding back, when you decide you want him just as much as heâs always wanted you. Itâs a look between restraint and want, with you being the only thing he sees while also being the one who makes it hard to breathe.
Your hand finds his face again, though this time you do swipe the lipstick away. Not all, though, making sure to leave just enough for that woman to see. You simper up at him sweetly.
She scoffs. âWell, youâve always been easy to please. Iâll tell my parents you said hi.â She smiles tersely, giving Brian one last look before stalking off.
He exhales like heâs been holding his breath, while a humourless chuckle leaves your lips. âWhat a bitch, your ex-girlfriend is.â
Brianâs arm tightens around you, and when you look at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes still trained on you. âSheâs not my ex,â he mutters.
âRegardless.â You shrug flippantly as you look down to your conjoined hands, mostly to break away from his intense gaze. You figure youâd been too caught up in your emotions earlier to notice how heâs looking at you, but with that woman now gone, itâs all youâre aware of.
âSheâs had to mean something to you, right?â Against your better judgement, the words slip out under your breath. Your words are dry, but if thereâs anyone who could make out the edge in your voice no matter how subtle, then itâd be Brian.
He inhales sharply. âLetâs go home.â
You look up, brows furrowing. âWerenât you supposed to meet-â
âIâll just call him tomorrow. Just- letâs go home, baby. Yeah?â
The urgency in his voice causes you to nod, though youâre still slightly confused at the sudden shift in mood. You donât think heâs angry at you given heâs still calling you baby, but the knit in his brows and tick in his jaw tells you that somethingâs definitely up.
Maybe youâd crossed a line without meaning to. You were never one to be so crassâ at least not after marrying him anywayâ but you did call his exâ or whoever that woman isâ a bitch. And bragged about your sex life like it was something to be proud of.
Or maybe it was because youâd kissed him in public. The faint red still stains his skin, catching in the streetlights during the drive home, a reminder of your temporary lapse in judgement when youâd decided it was a good idea to mark him like some kind of wild animal.
And suddenly, you feel shame wash all over you, and you quickly turn your head to the window. Did he not like it? Did you misjudge the look in his eyes after you told that woman off?
Did you⌠embarrass him?
Youâre racking your brain to blurt out some sort of apology when you reach home, trailing behind him as he unlocks the door.
But the moment you enter, it barely clicks shut before heâs on you.
You gasp when your back hits the wall, Brianâs arms already finding your waist. He kisses you like heâs been holding his breath the entire way homeâ urgent, hungry, but still impossibly gentle when it comes to you.
âBrian-â you try, only to gasp when his lips move to your jaw.
âYou shouldnât have done that,â he murmurs against your skin, words half sigh, half groan. âDo you know what that did to me? Looking at me like that- touching me like that, and I couldnât even-â he stops short, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
You shiver under his touch. âI thought you were mad,â you manage to whisper, clutching onto the lapels of his suit like itâs the only thing that can hold you upright.
âMad?â Brian lifts his head to look at you, eyes glassy, and you can feel how hard heâs trying to steady himself. âNever. Never at you.â He lets his lips brush yours, and he smiles weakly. âWere you jealous, baby?â
Your breath hitches. âN-No.â
âNo?â He echoes, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. âThen whyâd you look at me like that?â
You shake your head, breathless. âI wasnât-â
He hums. Another kiss. âSay it,â he murmurs. âSay you were jealous. I want to hear it.â
âBrian,â you whine, eyes fluttering shut as you pull him closer in hopes that heâd drop the teasing and just take you already.
But he doesnât, his breath still fanning your lips, as though he wonât do anything until you answer him.
âYou hated it, didnât you?â He asks. âWhen she called me Younghyun.â
This time, you nod, partly because thereâs no use lying anymore, but mostly because your resolve is rapidly breaking with the feeling of his chest against yours, and his hot breath against your skin. You can't lie anymoreâ not to yourself, and not to him. So you decide to give it to him. You want to give him everything.
âI was so fucking jealous, Younghyun,â you breathe.
âThere she is.â He smiles against your mouth, and when he finally kisses you properlyâ slower, deeperâ you stop fighting it. You stop pretending you donât want him, and just let yourself fall.
Prior to your marriage with Brian, you didnât know how to cook. Didnât need toâ you had private chefs for that. Even on days when youâd argue with your parents which would lead to you avoiding them and skipping mealtimes as a whole, youâd still find a plate of hot food left by your housekeepers in front of your bedroom door.
You knew things were going to be different when you moved into your new home. You had no butlers, no cooks, no helpersâ just you and your new husband, co-existing in a space that felt far too big for two strangers. In the beginning, you had no plans on being a dutiful wifeâ you werenât interested in playing house, and you definitely werenât interested in making your marriage feel like it was something more than a signed piece of paper.
Brian never pushed. If anything, he still took care of you. Cooked a little over two servings, leaving a plate for you under the food cover because he knew you wouldnât want to eat with him.
But you were stubborn. Cruel. Not once did you touch the food he made you, wanting to prove that you didnât need him. That you were fine on your own. Until eventually, Brian seemed to pick up on the hint and stopped cooking for you entirely.
It worked for a while, until days turned into months and youâve tried just about everything on your food delivery app, leaving you no choice but to learn how to cook for yourselfâ though that also meant having to risk bumping into Brian in the kitchen, the living room, and anywhere else that wasnât your bedroom.
No matter. Youâd just cook when heâs asleep or isnât home.
And that, too, worked for a while; until tonight, just when you thought he was fast asleep, you find him in the kitchen reheating some leftoversâ the same ones heâd made earlier that week.
Brian looks exhausted, but he still greets you with the same soft smile you never return.
âYou already ate? I didnât mean to wake you.â
You donât reply immediately, moving to the refrigerator to take out your ingredients.
âI wasnât asleep,â you mutter.
Brian nods, and he doesnât say anything after that as he leans against the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep.
You spare him another glance. His eyebags are heavy and dull, the reading glasses he dons not doing much to hide them. His shirt hangs loosely over his shoulders, crumpled, like heâd just been tossing and turning in bed before dragging himself to the kitchen to force himself to eat.
And before you know it, the words escape your lips.
âYou look pathetic.â
Brian looks up from the floor, his lips quirking into a faint, pressed smile as he hums at your words.
You hold back an annoyed sigh. âSit down. Iâll make you something.â
âYou donât have to,â he says gently. âI should finish my food before it goes bad, anyway.â
âAll the more reason why you shouldnât be consuming it. Iâm not going to be the one responsible if you keel over, Brian,â you utter sharply, back already facing him as you busy yourself with chopping your vegetables.
A pause. Then,
âOkay,â he says quietly. âThank you.â
And for the first time since you got married, you donât leave the kitchen when Brian takes a seat beside you. For the first time since you got married, the both of you share a mealâ quiet, but together.
⌠⌠âŚ
You hadnât planned on staying.
Youâd merely wanted to drop off his lunchâ maybe see him for a few minutesâ before heading home. But by the time you stepped into his office, you could sense that something was off.
Brian doesnât look as composed as he usually does. His tie is half-loosened, jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair. You donât think he even notices you there, his glassy eyes trained blankly on his computer screen.
âBrian?â
Only then does he turn to you, brows raising slightly as though surprised to see you. He quickly recovers by smiling, only a faint upwards tug on the corner of his mouth, as though trying to mask how drained he looked only a few seconds prior.
âHi, baby. What are you doing here?â
Your heart tugs at the name. You donât know how it happenedâ when you started letting him call you thatâ but for some reason, you donât hate it as much as you thought you would.
You set the lunchbag on his desk quietly. âYou didnât wake me up just now.â
Brianâs smile softens then, and he reaches out a hand.
Automatically, you go to him.
âI didnât want to disturb you,â he murmurs, pulling you to stand in between his knees. âItâs your day off. You should be resting, sweetheart.â
You frown at thatâ because itâs not like you mind. Youâve been making Brian his lunch every day for the past couple of months nowâ been waking up earlier in the mornings just so you could have everything packed for him by the time heâd step out of the shower. Without fail, heâd find you in the kitchen, hair still damp and tie undone as heâd hug you from behind, murmuring a âsmells good, baby.â
After that, youâd help him with his tie, fingers deftly looping the fabric while heâd watch you with that faint, sleepy smile he wore in the mornings. Once done, heâd kiss you on the forehead, quick and gentle, before taking your hand and leading you out the door, his other hand holding the lunch youâd packed.
Itâs become a routine now; a part of your morning rhythm before youâd part ways for work, but today, however, youâd only remembered the faint brush of his lips against your forehead while you were dreaming before he was gone. And because youâd woken up almost two hours later, that led to you scrambling to put together something quick in hopes of getting it to him by lunchtime.
âYou wouldâve skipped lunch then,â you mutter, suddenly embarrassed at the thought of you going out of your way for him.
He hums, his fingers brushing your knuckles. âStay?â
You hesitate. âBrian-â
âJust for a bit,â he murmurs. âPlease?â
So you nod, giving in before you know it. Brian pulls you closer, until eventually he tugs you gently to sit on his lap, arms circling around your waist like itâs the most natural thing in the world. He presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.
âYou okay?â You ask quietly, fingers gently brushing his nape.
He nods. âJust⌠need to recharge.âÂ
You donât say anything, just let him continue holding you, because you know he needs it. And when the tension finally starts to melt from his body and heâs reaching for his food on the table, Brian doesnât let you move, only shifting slightly so youâre still sitting on his lap while he eats.
âThis is so good, baby,â he says in between bites. âYou havenât made this before, have you?â
âGrandma taught me how to make it,â you answer, almost shyly. The first time youâd called Brianâs grandmother, it was to ask her to teach you how to cook some of his favourite dishes. Sheâd been more than elated to help, and now, most weekends are spent either in your kitchen or hers as you try out new recipes.
âYeah?â Brianâs lips quirk into a smile, his hold on you tightening slightly. âYou really are the best thing to ever happen to me, you know that?â He murmurs, quieter, like he hadnât meant for you to hear it.
Your cheeks heat up as you turn away. âYou need to stop saying stuff like that.â
âWhy? Itâs true.â He leans in closer, chin now resting on your shoulder. âYouâve been trying so hard. For me. Doesnât that make me the luckiest guy in the world?â
When you donât say anything, he gently cups your cheek. âDon't hide from me.â
You hesitate, but you slowly turn your head to face him. His smile softens, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
âYou never believe me when I tell you how much I love you,â he says quietly, eyes roaming your face as though heâs trying to memorise your every feature.
You exhale shakily. âI do.â Your voice comes off in a hushed whisper, and your grip on his shoulder tightens with your words. âI just⌠donât know what to do with it yet.â
Brian smiles, always patient, and always sincere. âYou donât have to do anything,â he says gently, taking your hand into his as he brings your knuckles to his lips. âJust stay with me. Iâve got you, baby.â
And when he pulls you closer, you don't push him away, not when he kisses your forehead, and not when he murmurs "my sweet girl" against your jaw. Because for the first time, you allow yourself to feel this much without wanting to run away.
taglist: @zozojella @worldpeaceforyoongi @def-not-daria @bbirongkke @xsyuxx @jazziwritesthings @hykiu82 @sxfterhearts @kwenchanha @cherryhwas @outroprpsed @bootiful-jinki
the book of us collection masterlist
Prior to your marriage with Brian, you didnât know how to cook. Didnât need toâ you had private chefs for that. Even on days when youâd argue with your parents which would lead to you avoiding them and skipping mealtimes as a whole, youâd still find a plate of hot food left by your housekeepers in front of your bedroom door.
You knew things were going to be different when you moved into your new home. You had no butlers, no cooks, no helpersâ just you and your new husband, co-existing in a space that felt far too big for two strangers. In the beginning, you had no plans on being a dutiful wifeâ you werenât interested in playing house, and you definitely werenât interested in making your marriage feel like it was something more than a signed piece of paper.
Brian never pushed. If anything, he still took care of you. Cooked a little over two servings, leaving a plate for you under the food cover because he knew you wouldnât want to eat with him.
But you were stubborn. Cruel. Not once did you touch the food he made you, wanting to prove that you didnât need him. That you were fine on your own. Until eventually, Brian seemed to pick up on the hint and stopped cooking for you entirely.
It worked for a while, until days turned into months and youâve tried just about everything on your food delivery app, leaving you no choice but to learn how to cook for yourselfâ though that also meant having to risk bumping into Brian in the kitchen, the living room, and anywhere else that wasnât your bedroom.
No matter. Youâd just cook when heâs asleep or isnât home.
And that, too, worked for a while; until tonight, just when you thought he was fast asleep, you find him in the kitchen reheating some leftoversâ the same ones heâd made earlier that week.
Brian looks exhausted, but he still greets you with the same soft smile you never return.
âYou already ate? I didnât mean to wake you.â
You donât reply immediately, moving to the refrigerator to take out your ingredients.
âI wasnât asleep,â you mutter.
Brian nods, and he doesnât say anything after that as he leans against the counter, waiting for the microwave to beep.
You spare him another glance. His eyebags are heavy and dull, the reading glasses he dons not doing much to hide them. His shirt hangs loosely over his shoulders, crumpled, like heâd just been tossing and turning in bed before dragging himself to the kitchen to force himself to eat.
And before you know it, the words escape your lips.
âYou look pathetic.â
Brian looks up from the floor, his lips quirking into a faint, pressed smile as he hums at your words.
You hold back an annoyed sigh. âSit down. Iâll make you something.â
âYou donât have to,â he says gently. âI should finish my food before it goes bad, anyway.â
âAll the more reason why you shouldnât be consuming it. Iâm not going to be the one responsible if you keel over, Brian,â you utter sharply, back already facing him as you busy yourself with chopping your vegetables.
A pause. Then,
âOkay,â he says quietly. âThank you.â
And for the first time since you got married, you donât leave the kitchen when Brian takes a seat beside you. For the first time since you got married, the both of you share a mealâ quiet, but together.
⌠⌠âŚ
You hadnât planned on staying.
Youâd merely wanted to drop off his lunchâ maybe see him for a few minutesâ before heading home. But by the time you stepped into his office, you could sense that something was off.
Brian doesnât look as composed as he usually does. His tie is half-loosened, jacket slung carelessly over the back of his chair. You donât think he even notices you there, his glassy eyes trained blankly on his computer screen.
âBrian?â
Only then does he turn to you, brows raising slightly as though surprised to see you. He quickly recovers by smiling, only a faint upwards tug on the corner of his mouth, as though trying to mask how drained he looked only a few seconds prior.
âHi, baby. What are you doing here?â
Your heart tugs at the name. You donât know how it happenedâ when you started letting him call you thatâ but for some reason, you donât hate it as much as you thought you would.
You set the lunchbag on his desk quietly. âYou didnât wake me up just now.â
Brianâs smile softens then, and he reaches out a hand.
Automatically, you go to him.
âI didnât want to disturb you,â he murmurs, pulling you to stand in between his knees. âItâs your day off. You should be resting, sweetheart.â
You frown at thatâ because itâs not like you mind. Youâve been making Brian his lunch every day for the past couple of months nowâ been waking up earlier in the mornings just so you could have everything packed for him by the time heâd step out of the shower. Without fail, heâd find you in the kitchen, hair still damp and tie undone as heâd hug you from behind, murmuring a âsmells good, baby.â
After that, youâd help him with his tie, fingers deftly looping the fabric while heâd watch you with that faint, sleepy smile he wore in the mornings. Once done, heâd kiss you on the forehead, quick and gentle, before taking your hand and leading you out the door, his other hand holding the lunch youâd packed.
Itâs become a routine now; a part of your morning rhythm before youâd part ways for work, but today, however, youâd only remembered the faint brush of his lips against your forehead while you were dreaming before he was gone. And because youâd woken up almost two hours later, that led to you scrambling to put together something quick in hopes of getting it to him by lunchtime.
âYou wouldâve skipped lunch then,â you mutter, suddenly embarrassed at the thought of you going out of your way for him.
He hums, his fingers brushing your knuckles. âStay?â
You hesitate. âBrian-â
âJust for a bit,â he murmurs. âPlease?â
So you nod, giving in before you know it. Brian pulls you closer, until eventually he tugs you gently to sit on his lap, arms circling around your waist like itâs the most natural thing in the world. He presses his face into your shoulder, inhaling deeply.
âYou okay?â You ask quietly, fingers gently brushing his nape.
He nods. âJust⌠need to recharge.âÂ
You donât say anything, just let him continue holding you, because you know he needs it. And when the tension finally starts to melt from his body and heâs reaching for his food on the table, Brian doesnât let you move, only shifting slightly so youâre still sitting on his lap while he eats.
âThis is so good, baby,â he says in between bites. âYou havenât made this before, have you?â
âGrandma taught me how to make it,â you answer, almost shyly. The first time youâd called Brianâs grandmother, it was to ask her to teach you how to cook some of his favourite dishes. Sheâd been more than elated to help, and now, most weekends are spent either in your kitchen or hers as you try out new recipes.
âYeah?â Brianâs lips quirk into a smile, his hold on you tightening slightly. âYou really are the best thing to ever happen to me, you know that?â He murmurs, quieter, like he hadnât meant for you to hear it.
Your cheeks heat up as you turn away. âYou need to stop saying stuff like that.â
âWhy? Itâs true.â He leans in closer, chin now resting on your shoulder. âYouâve been trying so hard. For me. Doesnât that make me the luckiest guy in the world?â
When you donât say anything, he gently cups your cheek. âDon't hide from me.â
You hesitate, but you slowly turn your head to face him. His smile softens, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
âYou never believe me when I tell you how much I love you,â he says quietly, eyes roaming your face as though heâs trying to memorise your every feature.
You exhale shakily. âI do.â Your voice comes off in a hushed whisper, and your grip on his shoulder tightens with your words. âI just⌠donât know what to do with it yet.â
Brian smiles, always patient, and always sincere. âYou donât have to do anything,â he says gently, taking your hand into his as he brings your knuckles to his lips. âJust stay with me. Iâve got you, baby.â
And when he pulls you closer, you don't push him away, not when he kisses your forehead, and not when he murmurs "my sweet girl" against your jaw. Because for the first time, you allow yourself to feel this much without wanting to run away.
taglist: @zozojella @worldpeaceforyoongi @def-not-daria @bbirongkke @xsyuxx @jazziwritesthings @hykiu82 @sxfterhearts @kwenchanha @cherryhwas @outroprpsed @bootiful-jinki
the book of us collection masterlist
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