England lost, Heeseung left, f1 a mess, sunoo hiatus, messi still alive, newjeans gone, im constipated, tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill myself
i truly don't understand how people can sit there and talk shit about heeseung saying how he's selfish and stuff. i understand being upset about the whole situation of him leaving the group, and it being so sudden. but we AS FANS shouldn't switch up like that and it really does show people's true colors. it isn't right and i don't think the OT6 engenes or engenes hating on heeseung/evan and other engenes realize that. they can see that stuff.
like do i have a small bit of hope that belift will put him back in enha. absolutely. but i do see how it can be unlikely at the same time. i just think that if you were an engene its fucked up to switch up so hard just because heeseung left. we all know that belift is a shit company and they love to jeopardize their idols, but at the end of the day, the only thing enhypen and heeseung need is the reassurance and love from their fans. not a whole fan base war that is so unnecessary and in my unbiased opinion. childish.
congratulations ateez on making an album entirely riddled with talking about hot women, bodies, having casual devastating sex, and falling in love and STILL, somehow, SOMEHOW, being FUNDAMENTALLY BITCHLESS. it takes a true artist
⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni
notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.
You almost don’t answer.
Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.
Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.
It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.
And now he’s calling.
You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.
Then you answer.
“...Hello?”
There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:
“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”
His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.
You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.
“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”
A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.
“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”
You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”
He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”
Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.
You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.
So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.
“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”
Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”
It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.
“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”
You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”
You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”
“That was one time.”
“Twice.”
“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”
You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.
Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.
The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.
And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.
Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.
He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.
“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”
You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”
A beat. Then—“Yeah.”
Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.
You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t even seen me since—”
“I know.”
He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.
“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.
His home.
It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.
But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.
“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.
You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.
It never was.
And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.
You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”
“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”
“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.
He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”
Right. The dog.
You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.
Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.
“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”
Your fingers tighten around your phone.
He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.
You don’t bring it up either.
Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”
“Okay.”
Neither of you say I missed you.
Neither of you say This is weird.
Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?
Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”
“For the dog?”
“For you.”
You close your eyes.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.
And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.
But the silence stays.
And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.
You wonder if it’s still there.
You wonder what else of you is.
The building hasn’t changed.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.
His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.
“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.
You roll your eyes and open the door.
It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.
You hear the growl before you see him.
Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.
“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”
He growls again. Louder.
You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”
He barks.
You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.
“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”
Kkami doesn’t find it funny.
You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.
You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.
Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.
“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.
A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.
Your throat tightens.
You don’t open it. Not yet.
You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.
Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.
“Truce?” you offer.
He sneezes. Well then.
You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.
Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.
You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.
And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.
You don’t sleep well that first night.
Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.
You get it.
You feel it too.
In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.
Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.
“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.
He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.
The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.
At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.
You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:
12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.
The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:
12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3
The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.
You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.
That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.
When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”
He whines again. Low and pitiful.
“Me too,” you whisper.
You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.
You haven’t opened it. Not yet.
You slept on the couch.
Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.
So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.
The second night is worse.
Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.
You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.
Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.
You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.
And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.
You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.
12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.
You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.
But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
Then answer.
And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.
Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.
The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it.
In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.
You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.
“Hi,” he says, quiet.
You swallow. “Hi.”
He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”
You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.
Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.
“God, he’s dramatic.”
“He gets it from you,” you mutter.
Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.
You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.
There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.
Then, gently:
“I left you something,” he says.
You swallow. “I know.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”
“I did.”
“You gonna open it?”
You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.
“Not yet,” you say.
And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”
Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.
“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.
“So are you.”
You blink. “What?”
“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”
You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.
“I’ll hang up,” he offers.
You don’t say no.
You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”
And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:
“Goodnight.”
You don’t sleep much better that night.
But Kkami doesn’t cry again.
The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.
Kkami still hates you by daylight.
He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.
But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.
Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.
You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.
He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.
“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”
“I never hated your work,” you say.
Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:
“You hated what it did to me.”
Your breath catches.
Because he’s right.
You did.
You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.
But you don’t say that.
You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.
“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”
Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”
Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.
He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”
You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”
“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”
“I almost didn’t.”
His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”
You don’t answer right away.
Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.
You look at him. Really look.
And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.
“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”
The silence after is different this time.
He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.
“Fuck.”
You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”
He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”
“Every night.”
“Why?”
“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”
His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.
Another pause. Then—
“I dream about you,” he says.
And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.
You blink. “Hyun—”
“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”
You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”
He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.
Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.
You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.
Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.
You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?
None of it would come out right.
So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”
The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.
Hyunjin stills.
On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.
“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”
Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.
You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”
“I know,” he replies, just as soft.
“I want to. But…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I think I need more time.”
“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”
You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.
“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.
A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.
Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.
Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.
Just you.
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”
“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.
“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
His smile softens into something quieter. More real.
“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”
You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”
Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.
And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”
You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.
“I haven’t been with anyone else.”
His jaw works. “Neither have I.”
The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.
Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.
“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.
“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”
But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.
Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”
You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”
His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.
“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”
You blink. “And tomorrow?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.
“That’s for you.”
It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.
Your throat tightens. “Oh.”
Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”
You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”
Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.
You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.
But you know you’ll answer.
And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.
“You’re on the bed.”
Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.
You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.
You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.
But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.
You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”
“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”
Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”
His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”
You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.
Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.
“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.
You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”
Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”
His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”
You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.
Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”
He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”
Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”
“What you’re thinking. Right now.”
You hesitate.
But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”
Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.
“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.
His breath stutters through the speaker.
“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”
Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.
“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”
Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.
“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.
He swallows hard. “Don’t.”
“I don’t want to.”
Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”
Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”
Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.
You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.
The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.
Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.
“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”
You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.
Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.
“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”
You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.
He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”
You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.
“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”
You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.
Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”
You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.
“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”
You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.
He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”
Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.
“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”
He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.
“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”
You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.
“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”
Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.
Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”
He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”
You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.
“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”
You nod, frantic. Desperate.
His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.
“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”
You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.
“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”
You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.
“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”
That breaks you.
You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.
“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”
You whimper, still trembling.
He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”
You nod, dizzy.
He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.
“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”
You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.
“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”
And then, through gritted teeth:
“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”
Your legs tremble again.
“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”
He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.
The silence after is sharp. Breathless.
Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.
Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.
Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.
“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”
You don’t.
You just stare back.
And then you hang up.
You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.
It takes less than a minute for him to call back.
Then again.
And again.
You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.
You don’t answer.
The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.
[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up.
[Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.
You don’t respond to those either.
You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.
The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.
You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.
It should feel comforting.
It doesn’t.
You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.
You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.
[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.
[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.
[You]: when’s your flight again?
You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.
How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him.
How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.
You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.
You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.
But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.
And it’s giving you vertigo.
[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.
You stare at the message for a long time.
Not because of what it says.
But because of what it doesn’t.
And what you don’t know is this:
Hyunjin’s lying.
His flight lands at 3:10.
He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.
He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.
And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.
You open the door and nearly collide with him.
You freeze.
The air catches.
Time does something strange.
Hyunjin’s just… there.
Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then—
“Hyun—?”
Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.
But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
He just stares at you.
And says, low, quiet, steady:
“You were really gonna leave.”
You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”
“I lied.”
You swallow. “I figured that part out.”
His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.
Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.
All of him is focused on you.
“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
“Bullshit.”
That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.
Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”
You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.
For him.
“Hyun—”
“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”
His voice breaks.
He swallows it down.
Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.
“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”
Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.
“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”
He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.
Not this time.
“Go get the note.”
His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.
You blink. “What?”
“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”
You freeze.
“I know you haven’t opened it.”
You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”
“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”
You hesitate.
“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.
You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.
You open it, and—
It’s not a letter.
Not really.
It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.
You glance up. He nods again.
“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”
You hesitate. Then you read.
“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”
You swallow hard. Keep going.
The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.
Your voice wavers.
“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”
Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.
“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”
Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric.
He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.
“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”
His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.
“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”
You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.
“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”
Your breath falters.
“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”
He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.
“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”
His voice cracks.
“And I love you now.”
You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.
All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.
Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.
Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.
You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.
You don’t care.
His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.
“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”
His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.
Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.
“Take it off,” you breathe.
He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.
He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.
Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.
His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.
“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”
“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”
Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.
The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.
His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.
You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.
And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.
You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.
Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.
He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.
The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.
When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.
You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.
Hyunjin goes still.
Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”
His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.
You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.
“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”
Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.
Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”
You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.
He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.
“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”
You nod, gasping. “Okay.”
But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.
“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.
Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”
You clench again, on purpose this time.
He snaps.
In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.
Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.
“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”
You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.
“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”
“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”
He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.
You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.
“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”
You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.
He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.
You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.
“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”
You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.
Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.
“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”
His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”
He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.
“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”
You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—
A tear slips down your cheek.
Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.
“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”
He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:
“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”
You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.
Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.
“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.
“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”
That last word shreds him.
He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.
A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.
He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.
The kind of silence that feels like safety.
His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.
Neither of you speaks.
There’s nothing left to say.
Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.
The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.
He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—
He kisses you.
Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.
Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.
And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.
The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.
It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.
You weren’t supposed to come.
He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”
But now you’re here.
Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.
Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.
Then he glances up.
And freezes.
You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.
A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.
He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.
And then he’s moving.
Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.
You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”
You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”
He kisses you.
Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.
You giggle against his mouth.
It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.
“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”
He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.
Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”
You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.
And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.
His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”
You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.
Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”
You nod.
You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”
You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.
You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.
You only watch him.
And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.
You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.
The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.
synopsis: hyunjin promised to love you through sickness and health, but nothing could prepare him for losing you.
warnings: ⚠️ major character death, heavy angst and grief, hospitals and illness references, depictions of mourning, depression, and breakdowns.
wc: 3935
part of nini’s 3k special event (requests closed)
It had been exactly twenty-four hours. A single day since your chest stopped rising under his hands, since the heart that once beat in rhythm against his own had gone quiet. A single day since Hyunjin’s life collapsed.
And he was still in the hospital.
You were gone, and yet he remained. He hadn’t gone home, hadn’t changed clothes, hadn’t even washed the dried salt streaks clinging to his cheeks. He just sat. Sat and stared. Not at anything in particular, sometimes at the white walls, sometimes at the faint scuff marks on the linoleum floor, sometimes at the chair across from him that one of the members had sat in before he snapped at them to leave.
It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. It was that company didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.
The words echoed in his skull like a cruel metronome, keeping time with the silence of his grief: We’re so sorry for your loss. We’re so sorry for your loss.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the words apart, demand they give you back instead of this useless sympathy. But he had no voice left. He hadn’t cried since last night. He wasn’t even sure if he had any tears left to shed. All that remained was numbness, heavy and suffocating, pressing against his chest until he swore he couldn’t breathe.
Your family lingered nearby, your mother, eyes swollen from weeping, and your father who tried to stay strong but had broken down more than once. They’d stayed with him because they couldn’t bear to leave you either. Hyunjin’s own parents had tried, sitting by his side, whispering comforts. His mother’s hands had smoothed over his trembling shoulders, his father telling him softly that it wasn’t his fault. But he hadn’t responded. He hadn’t budged. Eventually, they’d gone home, their own grief too heavy, leaving him with nothing but silence.
The members had been in and out. Seven of them, each taking turns to sit with him, beg him to rest, try to coax him out of his chair, try to get him to eat. He’d snapped at them more times than he could count. He’d snapped at the nurses, too, when they suggested rest, and even at your family when they suggested stepping outside for air.
But how could he move? How could he leave? You were here, even if only in absence. You were everywhere. Your ghost was in the sterile hallways, in the still-warm sheets of your hospital bed, in the faint trace of your shampoo lingering in the air. Leaving meant acknowledging you weren’t coming back. Leaving meant admitting this was real.
And Hyunjin wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready.
The cruelest part of it all was that he had known. He had known from the very beginning. When you were just friends, laughing in practice rooms, waiting for each other after schedules, talking on the phone until sunrise, he knew you were sick. You’d told him, matter-of-factly, like it was just another detail about yourself. You lived with it. You fought through it.
He hadn’t treated you differently. Not at first. He didn’t want you to feel like a fragile thing, someone who needed pity. He admired your strength. He admired the way you smiled even when you were tired, the way you kept going, the way you fought without ever losing the warmth in your voice.
And slowly, somewhere between friendship and late-night confessions, he realized he loved you. He loved you fiercely. He loved you even knowing the risks, even knowing your body was at war with itself.
When you started dating, it wasn’t a question of if he could handle it. It was a promise. He would be there. Always. Through good days and bad. Through pain and fleeting moments of relief. Through hospitals and medications.
When he married you, he did it knowing all of this. He knew. He accepted it. He thought he was prepared.
But nothing could have prepared him for losing you.
For a while, things were good. The medication worked. The doctors said it was controlled. You smiled more, laughed more, lived more. Hyunjin let himself believe in a future trips you’d take, milestones you’d share, maybe even children one day.
But a few weeks ago, he started to notice.
You were tired. More than usual. At first, he thought it was because of your insomnia, you’d struggled with sleep for so long. Some nights he’d wrap you in his arms, whispering softly until your body finally gave in to rest. Other nights you’d grow frustrated, pushing him away, crying yourself into exhaustion. Hyunjin hated those nights the most, not because you pushed him away, but because he could feel your pain and couldn’t fix it.
He felt it. He knew something was wrong. But he didn’t let it sink in. Because if he did, if he accepted it, that meant acknowledging that maybe you were getting worse. That maybe the fight was becoming too much for you. And he couldn’t accept that. Not then.
The day your mother called him, his heart nearly stopped.
You had admitted yourself to the hospital. The pain was too much.
Hyunjin dropped everything practice, schedule, everything and rushed to you. When he walked into that hospital room, his chest ached at the sight of you. You looked weak. Pale. But when you saw him, you still smiled. Always smiling for him, even when it hurt.
He stayed. He couldn’t leave you there alone. Nights on that awful plastic chair by your bed, holding your hand when you let him, fetching water, calling the nurse when you winced. He stayed because if he didn’t, who would remind you to keep fighting? Who would hold the hope for you when you were too tired?
Then came the conversation. The one that shattered him.
The doctor had come in, hesitant, careful. They told him you had mentioned assisted death to the nurse.
Hyunjin froze. The words didn’t make sense. Assisted death? You?
When the doctor left, he asked you why. His voice was already shaking, breaking. And you looked at him with those tired eyes, the ones he loved so much, and said you were just… tired. That you’d only mentioned it because you’d read about it online.
Hyunjin snapped.
“You’re not going to do that,” he’d said, his voice too loud, too harsh. “Don’t ever say that again.”
You’d gone quiet. Your lips trembled, your eyes filling, but you didn’t cry. Not then. You just whispered that you were exhausted. That you were tired of medications, of pain, of hospitals and clinics. That no matter how much comfort he gave, it didn’t change the reality, you were tired of fighting.
And he should have held you. He should have taken your face in his hands and told you he understood, that he loved you, that it was okay to be tired.
But instead, anger flared. Not at you, never at you but at the thought of losing you, at the world, at the unfairness of it all. And in that rage, he slammed your hospital door behind him and left. He’d never forgive himself for that.
He didn’t need to worry about that. Because within days, you declined on your own. Your body gave out.
You passed in his arms.
He remembered every second. The way your hand went limp in his, the way your chest rose shakily and then stilled. The way the machines screamed alarms that he didn’t care about, because all he cared about was you. The way he begged, pleaded, sobbed for you to stay.
And when the doctors came, when they pulled him away from you, he fought them. He screamed. He begged. They threatened to throw him out if he didn’t let go. And even then, even when your body was still and cold, he clung to you like maybe if he held tight enough, you’d wake up again.
Now, a day later, he was still here.
Numb.
He couldn’t cry anymore. He couldn’t speak without his throat closing. He couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest. Couldn’t move.
He snapped at the nurses who told him he should go home. He snapped at the members who tried to coax him into fresh air. He snapped at your family when they told him you wouldn’t want him to suffer like this.
Because what did they know? How could they possibly understand that his world had ended the moment yours did?
He stared at the floor, the walls, the chair. He heard the words over and over again: We’re so sorry for your loss.
Loss.
As if he’d misplaced you. As if you weren’t everything.
But you weren’t misplaced. You were gone. And Hyunjin was still here. And he didn’t know how to live in a world where you weren’t.
-
It was almost unbearable to leave the hospital. The sterile walls and cold smell of disinfectant clung to Hyunjin’s skin, and yet the idea of stepping out into the world without you by his side felt more impossible than staying where your body had just been. He resisted for hours, lingering in the waiting area, staring at doors that would never open for you again.
It was his mother who finally coaxed him, gentle but firm, her arm around his shoulders. “Come home, Hyunjin,” she whispered, her voice thick with the same grief she tried to hide. “You can’t stay here forever.”
But wasn’t that the point? Forever? You had been forever. Leaving the hospital felt like betraying you, like acknowledging that life had no choice but to move on.
He went, but not by choice. His mother and father helped him stand, their presence steady as he moved like a ghost through the corridors. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The only sound was the drag of his feet against the tile and the occasional sniff when the lump in his throat grew too sharp to swallow down.
When the car pulled up in front of your home, the home you’d chosen together. Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. He felt sick. His body screamed at him not to step inside, because he knew. He knew what awaited him.
Every inch of that house was you.
He remembered how it had gone, months of searching, visiting listings, debating between three different houses. He had argued for one with a wider kitchen because he liked the idea of cooking together, but you had fallen in love with this one. The way the light poured into the living room in the late afternoon, the little alcove in the bedroom where you’d joked about putting a bookshelf you never got around to buying, the garden out back where you swore you’d try to keep plants alive but instead ended up with wilted herbs and too many weeds.
You’d won the debate. Of course you had. He couldn’t deny you anything when your eyes lit up with excitement, when you were already imagining where the two of you would put the couch, what color to paint the walls.
Now, standing in front of it, Hyunjin wanted to burn it all down.
His mother unlocked the door with the spare key. His father lingered quietly, waiting, his grief hidden behind the stoicism of a man who had already wept too much. They guided him in gently, like they were afraid he might collapse.
And he might have.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, Hyunjin’s lungs tightened. The scent hit him immediately, your scent. The faint perfume you always wore, the shampoo you left in the shower, the lingering trace of detergent on the blanket you loved. It was everywhere. A ghost that clung to the walls, wrapping around him, suffocating.
He staggered a little, catching himself against the wall.
“Hyunjin,” his mother said softly, “we’ve put some food in the fridge for you. You don’t have to think about cooking. Just… heat something up, alright?”
He nodded weakly. A meaningless movement, more to make her stop looking at him with such pity than because he understood. He wanted them gone. He wanted silence.
“We’ll check on you tomorrow,” his father added, hesitant. “Call if you need us. For anything.”
He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. His throat was locked.
When the front door closed behind them, the weight of it all came crashing down.
Hyunjin’s knees buckled, and he dropped onto the floor in the entryway. The sobs tore through him, violent and raw, ripping out of the chest that had been silent since yesterday. He cried until his throat burned, until he couldn’t breathe, until he thought he might choke on his own grief.
He should have gotten a hotel. Anywhere but here. This house was a shrine to you. Torture disguised as home.
-
The next day Hyunjin didn’t leave the bedroom. He barely left the bed.
The sheets still smelled like you. The pillow you had always clutched in your sleep carried your scent so strongly that pressing his face into it almost felt like having you near. Almost. But not enough. Never enough.
He held it anyway. The pillow became his lifeline. He was terrified that the smell would fade. Terrified that one day he would wake up and it would be gone, and then he would lose you all over again.
The members tried to visit. He didn’t answer the door. He ignored their texts, their calls. He couldn’t handle the pity, the words of comfort that did nothing but remind him of what he no longer had.
Your family came too. Hyunjin knew it was arranged by his parents, something they thought might “help.”
He hated it.
When he opened the door, your mother stood there, her hands trembling as she clutched a box. Your father stood beside her, his lips pressed into a thin line. They looked broken, hollowed out. He recognized the same grief in their eyes that lived in his own chest, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want them there.
“We thought—” your father’s voice cracked before he started again. “We thought maybe you’d want to see these.”
He opened the box. Photographs.
Pictures of you as a baby, wrapped in a blanket. Pictures of you as a little girl, missing teeth and grinning wide. Pictures of you growing, school photos, family trips, birthdays.
Your father’s voice shook as he explained, “We’re choosing some pictures for the funeral. We… we wanted you to be part of it. To help us.”
Hyunjin’s chest caved in. Funeral. The word echoed in his ears, deafening.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t stand the idea of your life being condensed into photographs and a service. You weren’t supposed to be a memory. You were supposed to be here.
The rage came fast. He kicked them out. His voice rose, sharp and trembling, telling them he wanted to be alone. He stormed off before he could even see their faces as they left, before he could see your mother’s tears or your father’s grief.
Because he knew. He knew they were hurting just as much as he was. Maybe even more. You had been their child.
But Hyunjin couldn’t care in that moment. He couldn’t carry their grief on top of his own.
He locked himself in your shared bedroom, the box of photographs left untouched on the table by the door. He clutched your pillow to his chest, burying his face in it until his body shook again with sobs.
Because no matter how much he tried to push it away, the truth remained.
You were gone.
And he didn’t know how to keep living without you.
-
Nearly a week had passed since you slipped away. Seven days, though to Hyunjin it could have been one endless night stretched thin, blurring at the edges. The clocks moved, the sun rose and set, but time no longer made sense without you.
The funeral was approaching. He could feel it breathing down his neck even when no one mentioned it, a cold weight pressing against his chest. Your family had stepped in to handle nearly everything, the arrangements, the flowers, the calls. He was grateful for that in some distant, detached way. Grateful, because he knew he wasn’t capable of making decisions. He wasn’t capable of planning a goodbye.
All they asked of him, all they allowed him to do was choose some photographs of you.
That was supposed to be his contribution. As if picking frozen smiles from the past could possibly represent who you were.
He had put it off for days, avoiding the request, until now. With the funeral only days away, he couldn’t avoid it anymore. His mother had reminded him gently. Your father had called, his voice shaking, asking if he had found anything yet. Hyunjin had lied and said yes. But he hadn’t even looked.
He forced himself now.
The closet in your shared bedroom stood like a sealed vault, heavy with the life you had built together. He hadn’t opened it since the day he came back from the hospital. He was terrified of what was inside, terrified of the reminder of your presence, terrified of the emptiness your absence created.
Still, he pushed the door open.
Inside were your clothes, your shoes, boxes stacked high on the shelves. It smelled like you, so painfully, achingly like you that his knees nearly buckled right there. He pressed his palm against the doorframe, steadying himself, whispering your name like a prayer.
You’d always been the one who knew where things were, who remembered which box held holiday decorations and which box held old photo albums. Hyunjin barely touched them, he was too afraid of messing up your neat organization.
It was too much. His chest ached, his throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to smash every box to the floor, to demand that you come back and help him find what he needed.
He crouched down, searching through old boxes for photo albums. His hands shook as he pulled one out, dust catching in his throat. He opened it and was met with pictures from years ago family trips, vacations, snapshots you had insisted on printing. He stared at one of you grinning into the camera, your hair messy from wind, and his chest split open again.
The grief rose hot and sharp. His hands trembled more violently. He slammed the album shut, tossed it back into the closet with more force than he intended. His breathing came harsh and uneven.
“Damn it,” he hissed, swiping his hand across his face. “Damn it!”
He pressed his fists into his eyes until spots of color burst behind his eyelids.
A thud echoed against the floorboards, making him jump.
Hyunjin turned. A small cardboard box had slipped from the top shelf, landing neatly on the floor as though it had been waiting.
He frowned. He’d never seen it before.
Kneeling, he reached down. The cardboard was old, edges soft from years of handling. On top of it lay something that made his breath catch, a folded piece of paper.
Your handwriting.
He knew it instantly. The loops of your letters, the way you pressed harder on certain strokes, the slight tilt. He’d seen it on sticky notes you’d leave for him in the kitchen, on birthday cards, on grocery lists.
The note was short. A love note.
His eyes blurred as he traced the words with trembling fingers, reading the lines you’d written just for him. I love you. Always. Don’t forget that.
He didn’t even notice the tears spilling until one hit the paper, smudging the ink.
With shaking hands, he lifted the lid of the box.
Inside were pieces of your life together. Pieces he hadn’t known you’d saved.
Dried rose petals, fragile and crumbling at the edges. He remembered them now, he’d given them to you when you first started dating, awkward and nervous, his hands clammy as he offered the bouquet. He thought you’d throw them out after they withered, but you had pressed them, kept them, cherished them.
There were photographs. But not of you. Of him.
Candid pictures, him cooking, him practicing, him laughing at something you’d said, him sleeping with his mouth slightly open on the couch. Dozens of them, taken when he wasn’t looking, captured from your perspective. Each one a testament to how much you’d loved seeing him simply exist.
He choked on a sob, his fingers trembling as he flipped through them. He had no idea you had done this. No idea you had saved him like this.
There was a ticket stub too. A museum ticket.
Hyunjin’s breath hitched. Your first date. He had taken you there, nervous and trying too hard, rambling about art pieces he barely understood just to keep you smiling. You had laughed at him, teased him, but later you told him it had been perfect.
He pressed the stub to his chest, as if holding it close might summon you back.
Underneath it all were scraps of paper, your words. Things you had written to him from when you were only friends, from when you started dating, from when you married. Confessions of love. Silly jokes. Promises of forever.
He didn’t realize he was sobbing again until his shoulders shook violently.
And then he saw it.
At the bottom of the box, tucked beneath everything else, was an envelope.
His name was written across the front.
His heart stopped.
Hyunjin’s fingers hovered over it for a long time. He knew. He knew this was different. The handwriting was careful, deliberate. Your name wasn’t signed across the front, but your touch lingered in every stroke of ink.
With shaking fingers, he tore the envelope open.
Inside was a letter.
Your words. For him. Written deliberately for after you passed.
Hyun, it began.
If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I don’t know when or how, but I knew it would happen someday. I wasn’t sure if you’d ever find this, but I hope you do. I hope it brings you comfort, even if only a little.
His eyes blurred with tears. He clutched the paper tighter, his lips trembling as he forced himself to keep reading.
I don’t want you to dwell too much on me. Please, don’t spend the rest of your life hurting. I lived all I could, and I was happy. I was so, so happy because I had you. You gave me more love than I ever thought I deserved. Thank you for that.
His breath hitched, his chest tightening painfully.
One day, I hope you can smile again. I hope you can remarry, have the life you dreamed of, and carry me in your heart without letting me weigh you down. Promise me you won’t let my absence end your life too. Promise me you’ll keep living. I love you, Hyunjin. I always will. Forever.
By the time he reached the end, he was sobbing. His whole body shook, the paper crumpling slightly in his trembling hands.
And then the words fell from his lips, hoarse and cracked, spoken into the empty room where only your memory lingered:
“How could you promise forever and then shatter it in one night?”
He collapsed onto the floor, clutching the letter to his chest. He sobbed until his throat was raw, until he thought he might break apart entirely.
Because forever had been all he wanted. Forever had been what you promised. Forever had been what he believed in.
And forever had ended too soon.
//
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ᯓ★ vanilla lattes & spring beginnings (ch. 1 of cherry blossom kisses)
박셍훈 x f! reader
strangers to lovers, (kind of)photographer! sunghoon x f!reader, | wordcount: 1465 | angst, fluff, slow burn, non idol au, mentions of being kicked out by family, mentions of debt, sunghoon is in university, themes of loneliness, the reader finds comfort in her boss, sunghoon and the reader are like into each other (more like curious about each other),
kiki's note - minors / ageless / blank blogs will be blocked. please have an age listed if you want to interact with this fic!! thank you all so much for the love the preview has been getting. i know i was gone for a very very long while, but i am happy to be back. i wanted to rewrite this fic, because i just didn't like it. this chapter is kind of the same as the original one i posted, but with some tweaks and such. thank you guys for clicking on this fic, i hope you guys all enjoy it. i want to say thanks to my friends who proof read this version and the last version and gave me their feedback. i also made a google form so you guys could add yourselves to my tag list to be notified whenever i upload a new fic. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated.
the rain had been falling since you woke up, steady and unrelenting, like the sky itself had something it needed to let go of. through the thin curtains of your apartment, the world outside blurred into muted shades of gray, the rhythm of droplets against the windowpane weaving itself into the silence of the room. you sat at the edge of your bed, hair still tangled from sleep, clutching a mug that had long since gone cold.
spring had finally begun, it was the only time of the year you felt some peace, the time of the year that felt the most normal. as you pushed yourself off your bed to finish getting ready for work, the low lighting from the lamp on your desk illuminated the small studio apartment in the darkness of the clouds. by the time you slipped your shoes on and made it to the elevator, the rain had stopped, the sun peaking through the disappearing dark clouds. like a light at the end of the tunnel.
you greeted the doorman as you walked out of the building, the sun shining down on your skin when you stepped out. the cherry blossoms on the tree in front of your complex started to bloom earlier in april. a reminder that even when some things whither away, they can come back just as beautiful or ugly as they left.
it was like that sometimes. ugly.
but, as you walked down the wet streets to the cafe you worked at deeper in the city, things almost felt normal.
normal in the sense that you had the same routine: wake up, go to work, maybe go out with friends, go home, repeat.
the smell of freshly baked goods and espresso filled your senses as you entered the dimly lit cafe. it was still early in the morning, but your boss yeji already had her usual smile plastered on her cheeks. “hi! did you get here ok? i know it was raining by your building this morning.” she said, cleaning the espresso machine probably for the second time since she’s been here.
you put your bag in the staff room and came back out to help her set up the cafe. “yeah, by the time i left the rain had stopped,” you said as you took a chair off one of the tables. she smiled again, softer this time, “evrything’s been okay right? with your family and all?”
yeji had been someone who picked you up when you were down. when your parents kicked you out of their house, when your boyfriend had conned you, placing you in debt. she was there. she was your light at the end of the tunnel. but in reality, she had been helping lead the way.
you weren’t out of it yet.
“yeah, everything’s been… normal,” you shrugged, wiping down a table. yeji hummed in response, “that’s good. well, you know if you ever need anything, i’m here.” she placed a hand on your shoulder and smiled. you nodded and smiled back.
it was hard asking for help, it was even harder when you first met yeji. she and her husband helped you a lot, but you always felt that you needed to repay them. you felt as though, sooner or later, they were going to get sick of helping the girl whose parents kicked to the curb, the girl who is drowning in debt, the girl who lost her way in life.
but they haven’t, they never have. if you needed them, they were there. no matter the circumstances.
you wiped down the counter for the third time. the same circular motion, more out of habit than need. the bell above the door chimed, but you didn’t look up. it was still early—too early for regulars, too early for anything else but the hum of the espresso machine wiring up and the soft k-pop yeji played in the back.
suddenly, the footsteps stopped in front of the counter, “one vanilla latte, please.”
the voice was soft, almost hesitant. like he wasn’t used to being heard, or even hearing his own voice.
when you finally looked up, you saw him. park sunghoon. not that you knew his name yet. to you, he was just a customer, a tall and handsome one, but a customer nonetheless. you looked at him for a second, maybe a second too long. analysing him, his clothes, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the glasses that sat on his nose, and the camera in his hand.
his voice stole you from the trance he had you in, “one vanilla latte, please.”
you scrambled for a cup, writing down the order on it, then looking up at him again, smiling.
“can i get a name for the order?”
he hesitated.
“sunghoon.”
you nodded politely and wrote his name on the cup, paired with a small heart next to it like you did for every order. “will that be all?” he nodded, passing you his card, you took it and swiped it on the reader. “alright, it’ll be ready soon, feel free to sit anywhere,” you smiled softly. he simply nodded and walked to a table near the back corner.
as you started making the latte, people who were rushing to work started coming in, the sound of music slowly fading into background noise as the cafe filled with voices. but, you couldn’t help but look at him, sunghoon.
he was quiet, stoic even. he looked like someone who lurked in the shadows, careful not to draw too much attention, but that’s all he was doing right now.
drawing attention.
not by the people coming in and out of the cafe, by yeji, or your other coworkers, but by you. with the way he would push his glasses up the bridge of his nose when they started to slip down, how he adjusted his headphones, the way he would run a hand through his black hair, and look toward the door when it opened.
“sunghoon?”
when you called his name, he looked up like he hadn’t been expecting to hear it again. “your latte is ready,” you smiled softly at him as he got up from the table. when he walked over to retrieve the coffee, you got a good look at him, a really good look. he was tall, long longs, long arms with veins that popped out when he hoisted himself off the table, broad shoulders, too.
but, he seemed almost nervous, as if he was waiting for someone, or even avoiding someone.
“thank you.”
that was it. that’s all he mumbled when you gave him the cup. he turned on his heel, walking back to the second-to-last table in the cafe. his phone and headphones discarded, camera placed carefully on the table top. like a photo you would see on pinterest or something.
suddenly, another coworker yuna creeped up behind you, “he’s hot isn’t he?” “what?” your cheeks grew red, “that guy. he’s been coming here for like the last two days. i think he’s new to the area.” you nodded, pretending like you cared as you started to clear the counter of loose straw wrappers.
“he’s like mysterious or something,” yuna shugged, before calling out someones name and handing them an iced americano and a breakfast sandwich.
you looked over to his table, as he sipped on the latte. there was something about him, a vibe you got.
not like love at first sight or anything like that, it felt like noticing a song playing quietly in the background of a large crowd. like watching the pink petals on a cherry blossom tree fall softly on the ground.
it felt like something you could feel and not really see.
sunghoon stared at the cup. it probably didn’t mean much, but that small heart made a small smile creep up on his face. it gave him a sense of normalcy.
you were pretty, he wouldn’t deny that at all. he turned his attention back to you as you took the order of a group of girls.
how old were you? what was your name?
he should have looked at your name tag, dammit.
he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, grabbing the camera and flipping through the photos he had taken a few days before.
simple things, rain drops on flower petals, the sunset from his apartment building, the cherry blossom tree that was outside of his campus. he had gotten lucky, he was able to snap a photo of a man getting down on one knee. it was a pretty photo, one that showcased the blind love partners have for each other. the dedication, trust.
ᯓ★ vanilla lattes & spring beginnings (ch. 1 of cherry blossom kisses)
박셍훈 x f! reader
strangers to lovers, (kind of)photographer! sunghoon x f!reader, | wordcount: 1465 | angst, fluff, slow burn, non idol au, mentions of being kicked out by family, mentions of debt, sunghoon is in university, themes of loneliness, the reader finds comfort in her boss, sunghoon and the reader are like into each other (more like curious about each other),
kiki's note - minors / ageless / blank blogs will be blocked. please have an age listed if you want to interact with this fic!! thank you all so much for the love the preview has been getting. i know i was gone for a very very long while, but i am happy to be back. i wanted to rewrite this fic, because i just didn't like it. this chapter is kind of the same as the original one i posted, but with some tweaks and such. thank you guys for clicking on this fic, i hope you guys all enjoy it. i want to say thanks to my friends who proof read this version and the last version and gave me their feedback. i also made a google form so you guys could add yourselves to my tag list to be notified whenever i upload a new fic. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated.
the rain had been falling since you woke up, steady and unrelenting, like the sky itself had something it needed to let go of. through the thin curtains of your apartment, the world outside blurred into muted shades of gray, the rhythm of droplets against the windowpane weaving itself into the silence of the room. you sat at the edge of your bed, hair still tangled from sleep, clutching a mug that had long since gone cold.
spring had finally begun, it was the only time of the year you felt some peace, the time of the year that felt the most normal. as you pushed yourself off your bed to finish getting ready for work, the low lighting from the lamp on your desk illuminated the small studio apartment in the darkness of the clouds. by the time you slipped your shoes on and made it to the elevator, the rain had stopped, the sun peaking through the disappearing dark clouds. like a light at the end of the tunnel.
you greeted the doorman as you walked out of the building, the sun shining down on your skin when you stepped out. the cherry blossoms on the tree in front of your complex started to bloom earlier in april. a reminder that even when some things whither away, they can come back just as beautiful or ugly as they left.
it was like that sometimes. ugly.
but, as you walked down the wet streets to the cafe you worked at deeper in the city, things almost felt normal.
normal in the sense that you had the same routine: wake up, go to work, maybe go out with friends, go home, repeat.
the smell of freshly baked goods and espresso filled your senses as you entered the dimly lit cafe. it was still early in the morning, but your boss yeji already had her usual smile plastered on her cheeks. “hi! did you get here ok? i know it was raining by your building this morning.” she said, cleaning the espresso machine probably for the second time since she’s been here.
you put your bag in the staff room and came back out to help her set up the cafe. “yeah, by the time i left the rain had stopped,” you said as you took a chair off one of the tables. she smiled again, softer this time, “evrything’s been okay right? with your family and all?”
yeji had been someone who picked you up when you were down. when your parents kicked you out of their house, when your boyfriend had conned you, placing you in debt. she was there. she was your light at the end of the tunnel. but in reality, she had been helping lead the way.
you weren’t out of it yet.
“yeah, everything’s been… normal,” you shrugged, wiping down a table. yeji hummed in response, “that’s good. well, you know if you ever need anything, i’m here.” she placed a hand on your shoulder and smiled. you nodded and smiled back.
it was hard asking for help, it was even harder when you first met yeji. she and her husband helped you a lot, but you always felt that you needed to repay them. you felt as though, sooner or later, they were going to get sick of helping the girl whose parents kicked to the curb, the girl who is drowning in debt, the girl who lost her way in life.
but they haven’t, they never have. if you needed them, they were there. no matter the circumstances.
you wiped down the counter for the third time. the same circular motion, more out of habit than need. the bell above the door chimed, but you didn’t look up. it was still early—too early for regulars, too early for anything else but the hum of the espresso machine wiring up and the soft k-pop yeji played in the back.
suddenly, the footsteps stopped in front of the counter, “one vanilla latte, please.”
the voice was soft, almost hesitant. like he wasn’t used to being heard, or even hearing his own voice.
when you finally looked up, you saw him. park sunghoon. not that you knew his name yet. to you, he was just a customer, a tall and handsome one, but a customer nonetheless. you looked at him for a second, maybe a second too long. analysing him, his clothes, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the glasses that sat on his nose, and the camera in his hand.
his voice stole you from the trance he had you in, “one vanilla latte, please.”
you scrambled for a cup, writing down the order on it, then looking up at him again, smiling.
“can i get a name for the order?”
he hesitated.
“sunghoon.”
you nodded politely and wrote his name on the cup, paired with a small heart next to it like you did for every order. “will that be all?” he nodded, passing you his card, you took it and swiped it on the reader. “alright, it’ll be ready soon, feel free to sit anywhere,” you smiled softly. he simply nodded and walked to a table near the back corner.
as you started making the latte, people who were rushing to work started coming in, the sound of music slowly fading into background noise as the cafe filled with voices. but, you couldn’t help but look at him, sunghoon.
he was quiet, stoic even. he looked like someone who lurked in the shadows, careful not to draw too much attention, but that’s all he was doing right now.
drawing attention.
not by the people coming in and out of the cafe, by yeji, or your other coworkers, but by you. with the way he would push his glasses up the bridge of his nose when they started to slip down, how he adjusted his headphones, the way he would run a hand through his black hair, and look toward the door when it opened.
“sunghoon?”
when you called his name, he looked up like he hadn’t been expecting to hear it again. “your latte is ready,” you smiled softly at him as he got up from the table. when he walked over to retrieve the coffee, you got a good look at him, a really good look. he was tall, long longs, long arms with veins that popped out when he hoisted himself off the table, broad shoulders, too.
but, he seemed almost nervous, as if he was waiting for someone, or even avoiding someone.
“thank you.”
that was it. that’s all he mumbled when you gave him the cup. he turned on his heel, walking back to the second-to-last table in the cafe. his phone and headphones discarded, camera placed carefully on the table top. like a photo you would see on pinterest or something.
suddenly, another coworker yuna creeped up behind you, “he’s hot isn’t he?” “what?” your cheeks grew red, “that guy. he’s been coming here for like the last two days. i think he’s new to the area.” you nodded, pretending like you cared as you started to clear the counter of loose straw wrappers.
“he’s like mysterious or something,” yuna shugged, before calling out someones name and handing them an iced americano and a breakfast sandwich.
you looked over to his table, as he sipped on the latte. there was something about him, a vibe you got.
not like love at first sight or anything like that, it felt like noticing a song playing quietly in the background of a large crowd. like watching the pink petals on a cherry blossom tree fall softly on the ground.
it felt like something you could feel and not really see.
sunghoon stared at the cup. it probably didn’t mean much, but that small heart made a small smile creep up on his face. it gave him a sense of normalcy.
you were pretty, he wouldn’t deny that at all. he turned his attention back to you as you took the order of a group of girls.
how old were you? what was your name?
he should have looked at your name tag, dammit.
he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, grabbing the camera and flipping through the photos he had taken a few days before.
simple things, rain drops on flower petals, the sunset from his apartment building, the cherry blossom tree that was outside of his campus. he had gotten lucky, he was able to snap a photo of a man getting down on one knee. it was a pretty photo, one that showcased the blind love partners have for each other. the dedication, trust.
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