You’ve officially crossed the border into the territory of a professional TWICE simp, local Tdoong Fic Fairy, and your resident chaotic gremlin. If you’re looking for high-octane emotions, "down-bad" energy, and stories written with enough hormonal power to jumpstart a car… you are home. 🐤💖
==============================
🧪 THE BIODATA (Experimental Subject: Kyu)
Name: Kyunghwa | Kyu | Kyunghwannie | The King of Delusion (yes, you can say it like it’s the beginning of a kyaa~ squeal)
Pronouns: He/Him | TWICE’s Baby | Hell/Nah (I belong to the girls).
Sexuality: Straight — but let’s be real, I’m TWICE-sexual.
Birthday: October 1st (An adult by law, a menace by choice).
MBTI: ISFP-T ⇄ INFP-T (The "T" stands for Totally Simping).
Representative Emoji: 🐤🐥 (Soft, yellow, and perpetually chirping about Sana’s "No Sana No Life" energy).
Biases: OT9 | Bias Wrecker: Changes Every Day
==============================
📃 THE SACRED TEXTS (Masterlists)
✨ [𝕋𝕎𝕀ℂ𝔼 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥] — The Holy Grail of Simpery.
📑 [𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥] — For the long-term emotional damage.
Currently Cooking 🍳:
📖 Time To Be TWICE's (Wattpad Exclusive | On-Going)
『Wattpad』 : Kyunghwannie | The OG hub for long-form brainrot.
『Patreon』 : Kyunghwannie | Support the hustle & get the spicy goods.
『Ko-Fi』 : Kyunghwannie | Currently in its flop era / Not working).
『Reddit』 : u/Kyunghwannie | Occasional sightings in the wild.
『Discord Server』 : Time To Burst | Join the server to scream with other gremlins.
🍎 APPLE USER PSA: If you’re subbing to my Patreon, DO NOT use the app! Use a browser. Apple Pay takes a massive cut and charges you way more than the original price. Don’t let Tim Cook steal your snack money.
==============================
🐣THE VIBE CHECK (What you're getting into)
I don’t just write "stories." I write manifestos of devotion (well, whatever thing my brains pulls off). Whether you're here for the tooth-rotting fluff or the "I-need-a-cold-shower" smut, expect:
– Male Reader-Inserts: (My specialty).
– Neutral Reader: (Occasionally).
– Fem Readers: (Only if I can do the POV justice—I’m a perfectionist, okay? I want to make sure I do the ladies justice before I commit!).
– Sound Effects: [Excessive thumping/squealing/chaos] because that is my internal state 24/7.
⚠️ THE "I'M NOT A STALKER" DISCLAIMER [ ❕❗ ] :
I do not own TWICE (unfortunately). These are works of fiction. The idols are face-claims for my wild imagination. Please don't mistake my fiction for reality—I’m just a fan with a keyboard and a dream. All of this are a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. All events are fictional. While stories may feature public figures/idols etc, It is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. Please remember: Nothing depicted in my stories actually happened.
==============================
🍭 FINAL WORD
Thanks for stopping by. I already adore you, but if Jihyo or Sana walked into the room, I’d forget your name in a heartbeat. (Sorry, it’s the law). 🍭✨
Stay hydrated, stay delulu, and for the love of TWICE Funny Compilations, STAN TWICE.
Guess who just decided to make their late-night hyperfixations everyone else’s problem?? 🙋♂️
After staring at my ceiling for entirely too long and realizing my brain won't stop generating plotlines, i finally bit the bullet. i made an official fanprose account!
Come validate my questionable writing choices over here before the sheer weight of my unwritten drafts physically crushes me. i will be taking no further questions at this time.
NOTE: My FINAL work for this year and…. forever lol. Hope yall enjoy my short return.
For my Fanprose account, this is the 30th smut entry of my Smutrathon Special, replacing Hanni's "The Green Underworld" while here in Tumblr, this is just a quick smut one-shot work without being included to any anthology or series of mine.
This is based btw to that deleted TWICE smut I've read from Wattpad which I actually really liked.
DESCRIPTION: Driven by a fierce desire to win a scout competition's rank upgrade and a bonus tropical vacation prize, Jihyo uses a seductive sales menu to tempt a lonely married man into buying out her entire inventory in exchange for her exclusive sexual services he would find impossible to resist.
WORD COUNT: 3527
=== START ===
The late afternoon sun was baking the asphalt of your quiet suburban neighborhood, waves of heat radiating off the pavement. Jihyo barely noticed the stifling humidity. Her posture was rigid, her knuckles white where she gripped the aluminum handle of her heavy plastic wagon.
Her intense, dark eyes were locked onto the digital leaderboard glowing on her smartphone screen, which was clipped neatly to the top of a wooden clipboard.
Her name was currently sitting in second place.
For the average college student, a volunteer drive for a community organization was just a bullet point to pad a resume. But Jihyo wasn’t average. She didn't enter competitions to place; she entered them to dominate. This afternoon, the regional council had upped the stakes entirely, sending out an emergency broadcast to all members: the scout who brought in the single highest sales volume by midnight would be granted an immediate rank promotion to regional coordinator, alongside a fully sponsored, two-week luxury vacation to a tropical resort.
Jihyo could already feel the cool ocean breeze and taste the cocktails, but a rival scout from the neighboring chapter was currently fifty boxes ahead of her, stubbornly holding the top spot.
Her fierce, unyielding competitive streak didn’t just flame; it roared into an absolute wildfire. She looked down at her inventory. The wagon was loaded to the brim with premium, organization-branded goods: artisanal cookie boxes, heavy containers of organic rolled-oat cereal, and glass bottles of fresh, chilled whole milk from the valley dairy drive.
Traditional door-to-door pitches, polite smiles, and asking for neighborly charity weren't going to bridge a fifty-box deficit in a single evening. If she wanted that tropical beach, she needed a radical, completely unorthodox strategy.
Stopping under the shade of a large oak tree on the sidewalk, Jihyo took a deep breath and smoothed down her uniform. The pleated green skirt was already tailored a little shorter than regulation, hugging the tight curve of her thighs. With a steady hand and a calculating smile, she reached up and deliberately unbuttoned the top two buttons of her crisp white collared shirt. She shrugged the fabric back slightly, exposing the smooth, sun-kissed line of her collarbone and the soft, inviting swell of her breasts.
She knew exactly what her most devastating, darkest secret asset was: she possessed an intoxicating, magnetic allure that men found impossible to resist, and she was entirely prepared to weaponize it.
Her eyes swept across the manicured lawns of the cul-de-sac, landing directly on your well-maintained two-story home. Just moments prior, she had watched from a distance as a woman—your wife—loaded a large rolling suitcase into the trunk of her car, exchanged a brief wave toward the front door, and drove away out of the neighborhood. Jihyo glanced toward your driveway. Your sedan was still parked under the carport.
You were home. Completely alone.
Jihyo’s lips curled into a sharp, victorious smile as her resolve hardened. She gripped the wagon handle and began wheeling her heavy cargo up your concrete driveway, ready to present an offer that no red-blooded man could ever turn down.
Inside the house, you let out a heavy, exhausted sigh, rubbing the stiff muscles at the back of your neck. Your wife had just left for a three-day weekend professional conference out of town, and she had left you with a dauntingly long list of household chores, grocery runs, and repair tasks to tackle in her absence. The quiet of the house was almost absolute, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioning.
Suddenly, the sharp chime of the front doorbell echoed through the entryway.
Groaning slightly, you stood up from the couch and made your way to the foyer. You weren't expecting any deliveries, and you certainly weren't in the mood for neighborhood small talk. You unlocked the deadbolt and swung the heavy wooden door open, expecting a mail carrier.
Instead, your eyes locked onto a stunning, ethereal college student standing on your welcome mat. She was breathtaking. She had a bright, dazzling smile, large, expressive eyes that seemed to read you instantly, and a green scout sash draped diagonally across a uniform that was doing absolutely nothing to hide her incredible busty figure.
"Hi there! Good afternoon," Jihyo said, her voice dropping into a sweet, perfectly practiced, melodic rhythm. "I'm Jihyo, and I'm representing the local college scout chapter. We're running our final annual drive to fund our youth community projects. Would you be interested in supporting our cause today?"
You leaned your forearm against the edge of the doorframe, offering her a polite but tired smile, trying your best to keep your eyes firmly on her face rather than the deep, distracting plunge of her unbuttoned shirt. "Oh, wow. Uniform and everything. Look, Jihyo, I appreciate the hustle and it's a great cause, but my wife usually handles all of our grocery shopping and pantry stocking. We're actually pretty set on snacks right now."
"I see," Jihyo murmured, her smile shifting from wholesome fundraiser to something far more predatory and intoxicating. She took a deliberate step forward, crossing your threshold and closing the distance between you until you could smell the faint scent of vanilla and sweat on her skin. The innocent scout demeanor completely evaporated, replaced by a heavy, unblinking gaze that locked tightly onto yours. "But you see, I offer a very special, highly exclusive tier of customer service for my premium buyers."
You blinked, your throat tightening as the atmosphere in the hallway suddenly shifted from a mundane neighborhood interaction to something thick with tension. "Customer service?"
Jihyo let her heavy clipboard rest against the curve of her hip, tilting her head to the side as she tracked your reaction. "I am an incredibly competitive girl. I absolutely must win this sales drive by tonight. And because I'm determined, I'm willing to make a very private bargain. A special menu, if you will… customized just for you, especially while your house is so nice and quiet."
Your breath hitched sharply in your chest. Your mind raced, suddenly acutely aware of the empty house behind you and the quiet street behind her. You looked past her shoulder toward the empty driveway, then back to the intense, burning desire radiating from the girl standing right in your doorway. "What kind of menu are we talking about?"
Jihyo leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a sultry, confidential whisper that sent a violent shiver of anticipation straight down your spine.
"It's very simple," she purred, her eyes scanning your face. "Buy one box of our premium cookies, and I'll give you a blowjob right here on your knees in the hallway. Buy a box of our organic cereal, and you get to return the favor—oral sex for me, until I am completely satisfied. Buy a bottle of our fresh milk, and you get a chance to take your time, opening my shirt wide open to suck and play with my breasts. And if you decide to hoard the entire wagon? You get to keep me here, having sex with me as much as you can handle for the rest of the afternoon."
Your throat went completely dry, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. It was utterly insane. It was a complete betrayal of your marital vows. But looking at Jihyo—the perfect, full curve of her pink lips, the way her short skirt hugged the flare of her hips, and the absolute, unadulterated confidence radiating from her—the temptation was a physical weight crushing your resolve. Your wife wouldn't be back until later in evening. The neighbors were indoors. No one would ever know.
"One box of cookies," you croaked, your voice thick and completely rough with sudden, undeniable arousal. "To start."
Jihyo’s smile widened into a beautiful, victorious grin. She had you hooked. "A wonderful choice, sir. That will be fifteen dollars."
You reached into your back pocket with trembling fingers, pulling out your wallet and throwing a twenty-dollar bill at her, not even caring about the change. Jihyo stepped fully into your house, reaching back to close the heavy wooden door with a solid, definitive click, effectively shutting out the rest of the world and locking the two of you in a private haven.
She set her clipboard down on your entryway table and unbuckled her scout sash, letting it slide carelessly to the hardwood floor. Without a single hint of hesitation or shyness, she dropped down onto her knees directly in front of you.
You stood transfixed, your breath shallow as Jihyo reached up with both hands, her warm, deft fingers undoing your belt buckle. She slipped the leather strap free, unbuttoned your pants, and lowered your zipper with agonizing slowness. The moment her fingers slipped inside your underwear and freed your fully hardened, aching cock into the cool air of the hallway, you let out a low, ragged groan, your hands instinctively hovering over her shoulders.
Jihyo looked up at you through her thick lashes, a playful, wicked spark of dominance in her eyes, before she leaned forward. Her warm lips parted, tasting the very tip of you first. She swirled her wet tongue slowly around the sensitive crown, listening to the way your thighs trembled under her touch. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, she slid her mouth all the way down your shaft.
The sensation was absolutely electric. She used one hand to firmly grip and caress the base of your length, pushing it deeper into her throat while her mouth worked with a rhythmic, suffocating heat. You gripped her shoulders tightly, your knuckles turning white as you stared down at this stunning college scout giving you the most incredible, intense oral pleasure you had ever experienced. She sucked tightly, bobbing her head in a steady rhythm, intentionally making wet, messy, uninhibited sounds that echoed loudly off the walls of your quiet hallway.
Just as you felt the intense pressure building in your lower stomach, reaching the absolute point of no return, Jihyo expertly and suddenly pulled back. She swiped a thumb across her glistening lower lip, looking up at your dazed, panting expression with a smug, beautiful smirk.
"That was just the appetizer," she purred smoothly, standing up and gracefully smoothing down the pleats of her green skirt. "What’s next on the menu?"
You were completely breathless, your chest heaving as your body screamed for the completion she had just cruelly denied you. You couldn't let her leave like this. "The cereal. And the milk. Both of them."
"A very healthy breakfast choice," Jihyo teased, her voice dripping with playful mockery. "That will be twenty dollars."
You blindly reached for your wallet again, your hands shaking as you pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and tossed them onto the entryway table next to her clipboard.
Jihyo smiled, taking you firmly by the hand and leading you away from the front door, deeper into the privacy of your living room. Instead of heading for the couch, she walked straight over to your sturdy wooden dining table. With an agile, effortless movement, she hopped up onto the polished edge, pulling her green skirt all the way up to her waist.
Your eyes widened. She wasn't wearing traditional undergarments; instead, a tiny pair of sheer lace panties met your gaze, barely covering her soft, manicured center. She slid them slowly down the length of her long, toned legs, tossing them carelessly onto a nearby chair, before parting her thighs wide open for you.
"Your turn to please me," she whispered, her eyes dark with rising heat.
You didn't need to be told twice. Driven by pure instinct, you dropped to your knees between her parted legs, burying your face directly into her dripping cunt.
Jihyo gasped sharply, her fingers immediately locking tightly into your hair as your tongue found her highly sensitive, swollen core. She tasted incredibly sweet, and she was already deeply slick with her own arousal. You stroked her with long, wet, purposeful laps of your tongue, listening to the breathless, high-pitched whimpers that began to escape her throat.
Her hips began to buck helplessly against your face as you accelerated the pace, your tongue mimicking the hard, localized friction she so desperately craved. Jihyo’s toes curled tightly, her inner thighs clamping around the sides of your head as a sudden, violently intense orgasm rocked through her entire body. She arched her back off the table, letting out a loud, completely uninhibited cry of pure pleasure that echoed off your high ceilings.
As her frantic breathing gradually began to slow, she looked down at you, her chest heaving heavily. With a sultry, inviting grin, she reached up to the remaining buttons of her white shirt, popping them open one by one until the fabric fell away, revealing a lace black bra. She reached between her breasts, unclipping the front clasp and letting her full, heavy, perky breasts swing free into the open air. Her nipples were completely taut, caramel, and flushed from the aftershocks of her climax.
"The milk," she reminded you, her voice a breathless, demanding whisper. “It’ll taste better with the cereal, you should try.”
You leaned up from your knees, wrapping your arms around her waist as you threw a handful of cereal oats to your mouth before you took one turgid, aching nipple entirely into your mouth. You sucked greedily, swirling your tongue hard around the sensitive, bumpy areola as you felt her milk filling your cereal-filled mouth while your free hands cupped, lifted, and heavily kneaded the soft, responsive flesh of her other breast spilling some of her sweet dairy in between your fingers.
"You're right, it's way more delicious." Jihyo whimpered loudly, leaning back on her hands on the table, completely surrendering to the sensation. She guided the back of your head, groaning deeply as you bit gently at the very tips of her nipples, sending frantic sparks of electricity straight back down to her core.
But you were reaching your absolute breaking point. You were fully erect, throbbing, and this agonizingly slow teasing was driving your mind into a frenzy. You pulled your mouth away from her breast, swallowed the breastmilked-flavored cereal before looking up at her with dark, primal, unchecked desire.
"The whole wagon," you said, your voice a raspy, commanding growl that left no room for negotiation. "Fuck it. I want every single thing you have brought. How much for everything?"
Jihyo’s eyes flashed with an absolute, dazzling spark of triumph. She had broken you completely; she had you exactly where she wanted you. "For the rest of the stock? A hundred dollars. And I’m entirely yours for the rest of the afternoon."
You didn't even hesitate for a microsecond. You stood up, walking over to the large decorative ceramic bowl on your kitchen counter where you always kept an emergency stash of household cash. You reached in and pulled out a thick, crisp stack of hundred-dollar bills. Marching back over to the dining table, you pressed the cold cash directly into her open palm.
Jihyo counted the five bills with lightning-fast precision, a genuine thrill of victory running down her spine. The competition was definitively hers. The rank was hers. The tropical vacation was hers.
She carelessly tossed the money onto the clipboard on the entryway table and turned back to you, wrapping her long legs tightly around your waist, pulling her slick, dripping core flush against your aching pants. "Then let's not waste another second."
You lifted her sexy, voluptuous frame up off the table with ease, carrying her over to your large, plush leather living room sofa. You laid her down against the cushions, hovering directly over her as you aligned your aching length with her heat. The moment you guided yourself in and pushed deep inside her, Jihyo let out a sharp, ragged gasp, her eyes widening at the sheer fullness of yourcock stretching her open.
The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a complete, chaotic blur of raw, sweaty heat and intense physical friction. You moved with a desperate, hungry, unbridled pace, fueled by the highly forbidden nature of the act and Jihyo's intoxicating, uninhibited energy.
Jihyo met you stroke for stroke, her manicured nails clawing desperate red lines down your back, her voice filling your empty, hollow house with loud, unvarnished moans of pure pleasure.
You changed positions frantically, pounding her in the center of the living room as both continuously search for deeper satisfaction. You flipped her over, sitting back as she climbed on top of you, controlling the depth, looking down at you like a dominant goddess claiming her rightful prize.
Then, you rolled her onto her hands and knees, driving into her heavily from behind, reaching forward to pull her hair gently to tilt her head back so you could help her watch her expressions and her tits being mashed by your other hand in the living room mirror.
The sofa was then fully occupied with your bodies stacked together, hers aligned in reverse to yours as you ate each other out for a classic 69, then Jihyo sat at your lap, plunging deep into her again as you bounced her rotated naked body onto your cock in reverse cowgirl.
You both rode the waves of intense, breathless pleasure over and over again, completely losing all track of time as the bright afternoon sun slowly dipped below the horizon, casting long, dramatic golden shadows across the room. Finally, with one last, desperate, deeply penetrating surge, you cried out at your last orgasm, your entire body seizing up as you collapsed against her damp back, completely filling here with your cum as you spent every last drop of your energy, thoroughly exhausted and deeply satisfied.
An hour later, the sharp click of your front door opening and shutting broke the silence of the house.
Jihyo stepped out onto your concrete front porch, looking completely immaculate and put together once more like as if nothing chaotic just happened. Her green uniform skirt was neatly straightened, her white shirt was perfectly buttoned up to the collar, her sash was aligned, and her long hair was tied back up into a neat, professional ponytail, although with some strand sticking out due to the aggressiveness of your tugging earlier.
The only difference now was the incredibly heavy envelope of cash tucked securely inside her scout canvas bag, and the completely empty plastic wagon sitting idly on your sidewalk.
Inside the house, you lay stretched out flat on your back across the sofa, thoroughly satisfied, physically drained, and staring blankly up at the ceiling with a lazy, content smile plastered across your face. You had a living room full of unwanted cookie boxes and organic cereal to frantically hide before your wife’s return in a few days, but in that exact moment, you didn't care in the slightest. It had been worth every single dollar in that bowl.
"Call me if you'd like to buy again. I'll be your personal retailer from now on. Thanks again for these, daddy." You pushed the contact card she gave you just before she left your household into your pocket.
Jihyo pulled her empty wagon down your concrete driveway, the plastic wheels clicking rhythmically and loudly against the seams. She pulled out her phone, checking the digital leaderboard one last time as she typed in her massive, newly acquired sales totals.
The graph updated instantaneously, shooting her name straight past her rival by an insurmountable margin, solidifying a dominant lead that no one could possibly hope to catch up to before the midnight deadline.
She smiled broadly to herself, basking in the fading warmth of the evening sun. She had won her rank promotion, she had won her dream vacation, and she had proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that a true scout always knows exactly how to utilize her resources to get exactly what she wants.
NOTE: Uhh... s u r p r i s e?
"But you just said you have quit writing since last December?" Yes, I know and I'm aware of it. Don't celebrate too much, this is just temporary. One and done. This doesn't mean i'm fully back.
I just did this because I noticed my TWICE oneshot book didn't ended well as I wanted it to be. Since it has the book with LOTS of progress, I figured what if I fix the order to finally end it like I want to. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu didn't have an entry for Set 6, so I'm giving them one.
Anyways, here's my last gas I have left in me. I don't want to lie as well, this one including Tzuyu's, I had some help with AI. Still, most of this are entirely by me. Have fun reading still.
WORD COUNT: 12683 (one of the longest in the book.)
=== START ===
The kitchen is a battlefield of aromatic precision. Chaeyoung moves with the rhythmic, practiced efficiency of a woman trying to orchestrate perfection out of chaos. The air is thick with the scent of rosemary-crusted lamb and the reduction of a red wine demi-glace that has been simmered to a glossy, dark intensity.
She checks the oven timer again. Two minutes.
She pulls a silk tablecloth from the drawer, smoothing it over the mahogany surface with a focus that borders on the religious. Every wrinkle is a personal failure; every fold must be aligned. She places the candles—tapered, unscented, elegant—in their silver holders. She isn’t just setting a table; she is building a sanctuary, a desperate, physical manifestation of the home she prays they still have.
Her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts the placement of the silverware. It’s been five years, and yet, the simple act of setting two places feels like a gamble. She catches her reflection in the darkened window above the sink. She looks... festive. She’d spent an hour on her hair, pinning it back with the delicate gold clip you had bought her their second year, back when they still had weekend mornings that didn't start with a frantic scramble for a pager.
She forces a breath, deep and steadying, pressing her palms against the cool granite of the counter. He will be here, she tells herself, the mantra repeating like a heartbeat. He promised. He looked me in the eye this morning and said he would leave the clinic by six. No emergencies, no consults, no interruptions.
She all told this to herself, for the sake of her peace.
She uncorks a bottle of Cabernet, the vintage they’d saved for a special occasion. The sound of the cork sliding free is a small, sharp pop that echoes in the quiet apartment. She pours a glass, then pauses, looking at the empty chair across from her. She quickly pours a second one, placing it precisely to the right of the other setting.
The kitchen clock ticks—a rhythmic, relentless sound that counts down not just seconds, but the fraying threads of her patience. She turns to the oven as the timer pings, a cheerful, metallic sound that feels jarringly out of place in the weighted silence.
She pulls the roast out, the heat radiating against her cheeks. She plates it with the care of a surgeon, drizzling the sauce in a perfect arc, arranging the roasted root vegetables with a precision that makes her chest ache. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect.
She wipes a stray smudge of sauce from the edge of the plate, her movements slowing. She walks over to the living room, smoothing the cushions of the sofa, straightening a stack of medical journals that you had left splayed on the coffee table. She gathers them up, tucking them neatly into a basket. Out of sight, out of mind. Tonight, the medical world—the charts, the sterile white coats, the life-and-death stakes—has to stay behind the front door.
She goes back to the window. The street below is slick with the evening’s drizzle, the headlights of passing cars blurring into streaks of orange and white.
6:15.
She reminds herself that traffic is unpredictable. The city is a beast, especially on a Friday. He’s probably just stuck behind a bus, or maybe there was a light he missed. She paces the length of the kitchen to the dining room, her heels clicking against the hardwood, a sound that feels entirely too loud.
6:30.
She picks up her phone. No notifications. The screen is dark, a black mirror staring back at her. She taps it—the lock screen glows, a photo of them on a beach, both of them laughing, their hair windswept, faces unlined by the exhaustion that now marks every conversation. She studies the image, searching for the people they used to be. They look like strangers who share a past.
She puts the phone down, face up. A deliberate choice. She needs to see it if it lights up. She needs to know the exact second he reaches for her, even if it’s just with a text.
She goes to the stove to check the heat. Everything is staying warm, but the smell of the food, once appetizing, is beginning to feel cloying. It’s too rich, too heavy for a dinner for one. The steam rising from the plates curls into the air, ghost-like.
She walks back to the table and sits. She doesn’t eat. She just watches the candles. The flames flicker, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. The apartment feels vast, a hollowed-out cavern of expectations. She finds herself rearranging her fork, sliding it an inch to the left, then back again.
"You're late," she whispers to the empty chair. The words catch in her throat, a dry, jagged sensation. “... Again.” She swallows hard, trying to push the rising tide of bile back down.
She picks up the glass of wine and takes a slow, measured sip. It’s good, but it tastes like vinegar. Everything tastes like disappointment tonight. She looks at the front door. It remains shut, indifferent, a heavy piece of oak that guards a life she isn't sure she wants anymore.
Her mind starts to wander, against her will, to all the other nights like this. The birthdays marked by a frantic "Happy Birthday" text sent from a hospital parking lot. The anniversary last year where he’d fallen asleep mid-sentence, his pager chirping like an insect in the dark. She realizes, with a cold, creeping horror, that she has spent half their relationship mourning you while you was still alive.
She pushes the plate away, the ceramic scraping harshly against the table. The sound vibrates through the room, a jagged note of discord. She stares at the empty space where he should be, feeling the weight of the silence press against her ears. It’s not just the absence of his body; it’s the absence of his intention. He isn't here because he didn't try hard enough to be here.
She stands up, her chair legs skidding across the floor. She walks to the window again, pulling back the curtain. The street is empty, save for a stray cat darting between parked cars.
7:00.
The fragile hope she’d spent the day cultivating begins to evaporate, leaving behind a cold, sharp bitterness that settles in her marrow. She isn't angry yet. Anger is too hot, too active. Right now, she is simply hollowed out. She looks at the cooling meal, the beautiful, wasted effort, and feels a wave of nausea.
She picks up her phone again. She taps the screen. Still nothing.
The apartment is perfectly set, perfectly lit, perfectly quiet. And for the first time in five years, she looks at the room not as a home, but as a stage for a play that only she is performing, night after agonizing night, to an audience of none.
The silence in the room had a texture now—thick, like velvet, pressing against her eardrums. Chaeyoung remained seated, her spine unnaturally straight, staring at the steam rising from the risotto in the center of the table. It was a faint, wavering ribbon of gray, a ghost of the effort she’d poured into the evening.
Every tick of the wall clock felt like a physical blow.
7:15…
7:30…
Each minute that passed did more than just age the wine; it stripped away the last remnants of the "Chaeyoung" who believed in miracles.
She reached out, her fingers hovering over the stem of the crystal wine glass across from her. She didn’t touch it. She didn’t want to disturb the perfect, symmetrical misery of the table setting. your napkin was folded with the same precision as hers, a white paper soldier waiting for a general who had abandoned the post.
He’s definitely on surgery as usual, she told herself. It was the mantra. The sacred, impenetrable shield that had protected their relationship from her scrutiny for years. But tonight, the shield didn’t hold. Tonight, the logic felt thin, transparent. Surgery was a variable, but communication was a choice. A quick text at six o’clock would have taken five seconds. A thumb-swipe while walking down a sterile hallway.
She picked up her phone. The screen was a black mirror, reflecting her own eyes that are wide, searching, and exhausted. She scrolled through their messages. The last one was from yesterday: “Can’t wait for tomorrow. 6pm. Love you.”
She pressed her thumb against the text, hard, as if the physical force could somehow jump-start the ghost of the man who wrote it. When nothing happened, she set the phone face-down on the mahogany surface. The small clack of the device against the wood sounded like a gunshot in the stagnant air.
She stood up, the chair scraping sharply against the hardwood—a violent sound in the tomb-like quiet. Her legs felt heavy, unmoored from the floor. She walked to the window, peering out at the city lights. Down below, life moved in a steady, rhythmic pulse. People were laughing on the sidewalk, walking dogs, catching cabs. They were living in a world where time belonged to them.
She walked back over to the table and finally touched the food. It was cold. Not just lukewarm, but lifeless. Her gaze on your untouched place setting, the wine in your glass had oxidized, turning a deep, bruised purple. She reached out, intending to clear the plates, but her hand stalled inches from the porcelain.
The butter had solidified into a pale, congealed ring around the edges of the plate. It was a perfect metaphor for the evening, for the year, for the trajectory of the last five years.
She picked up the fork and poked at the arborio rice. It was hard, stubborn. Then, she stared at the roast, now congealed under a translucent film of fat, its once-inviting aroma turned sour and heavy. It was a monument to a delusion.
She had spent hours preparing this—trimming, basting, curating a playlist of songs that reminded them of their first year—all while convincing herself that tonight, for just a few hours, the hospital would release its grip on you. She had dressed in the silk slip dress he used to trace with his fingertips, feeling a ghost of your touch against her skin before you’d even walk through the door. Now, the dress felt like a costume in a play where the lead actor had forgotten his cues.
If she cleared the table, the night would be over. The fiction that you were "just running late" would evaporate, replaced by the crushing truth of his absence. She didn't want the truth yet. She wanted the quiet, false comfort of waiting, because waiting was still a form of connection. To stop waiting was to admit that she was alone in this house.
The silence wasn't empty; it was oppressive. It hummed with the ghosts of the dinners that had come before this one. The Tuesday-night Thai takeout they ate over their laptops. The birthday dinner cut short by a frantic page. The anniversaries that blurred into a singular, gray smear of apologies and stale pizza.
She pulled her phone from her pocket for the hundredth time. The screen was black—a dark mirror reflecting her own pale, strained face. She pressed the side button. Nothing. No notifications. No "On my way." No "Sorry, long day." Just the time, glowing with mocking precision: 11:42 PM.
Her heart, which had been racing with a jagged, frantic anxiety for hours, suddenly slowed. The panic ebbed, leaving behind a cold, crystalline clarity. It wasn't just that you were late. It was that you hadn't even thought to wonder if she was still sitting here. You lived in a world of emergencies, and she was simply the scenery—the fixed point you expected to find when you finally finished your work, a piece of furniture that would always be waiting in the corner of your life.
She picked up your wine glass. The stem was cold. She walked to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning under her weight, and poured the wine down the drain. It swirled away in a dark, red spiral. She didn't turn on the kitchen light; the streetlamp outside provided just enough of a ghostly glow to see the sink. She covered the cold roast with a foil, the sound of meat hitting it feeling strangely final, like a closing door.
As she stood there, watching the discarded dinner settle away, the weight of the last five years seemed to descend on her shoulders. It wasn't the single missed dinner that broke the foundation; it was the accumulation of a thousand tiny concessions she’d made to keep him. The way she’d learned to dim her own light so she wouldn't outshine his exhaustion. The way she’d folded herself into the gaps of his schedule, a secondary character in their own romance.
As she washed the plates, she felt a shift inside her. The burning anxiety that had clawed at her stomach all afternoon wasn’t dissipating; it was hardening. It was calcifying into something cold and heavy, a weight that settled behind her ribs.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel, her motions precise and devoid of hesitation. She walked back into the living room, but she didn't look at the table again. She didn't look at the candles. She walked past the remnants of the evening toward the bedroom, her footsteps deliberate.
She didn’t eat. Instead, she just cleared the table. Her patience of tolerating all of this about you disappeared with her appetite. With every movement, a sigh escapes. With every clang of plates and utensils, her heart cracks.
She realized then that she wasn't waiting for you anymore. The anticipation, that desperate, fluttering hope, had vanished. In its place was a terrifying, crystalline clarity. She realized that she had been living in a state of perpetual emergency, waiting for the sirens to stop so she could finally speak to the person she loved. But the sirens never stopped.
They were part of you. They were the melody of your life, and she was merely the background noise that you tuned out when the work grew loud.
She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the dim glow of the hallway lamp. She stripped off the silk dress, the fabric sloughing off her skin like a second layer of pretense, and pulled on an oversized cotton shirt. She didn't bother with a nightlight. She crawled into the bed on her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin.
The apartment felt enormous now, but
the darkness here was absolute and suffocating. It felt like a museum of a life that wasn't being lived.
She didn't sleep. She stared at the ceiling, watching the faint, rhythmic pulse of light from a passing emergency vehicle flicker across the plaster. She counted the seconds between the flashes.
She thought about the anniversary she had imagined: the wine, the laughter, the way you looked when you finally relaxed your shoulders. She realized that she hadn't been planning a date; she had been planning an intervention. And the guest of honor hadn't even bothered to show up for his own wake.
A quiet, jagged laugh escaped her throat. It was a brittle sound, lonely and sharp. She closed her eyes, letting her head lean back against the cushions. She wasn't angry anymore. Anger required fire, and she felt like she had been rinsed clean of all her heat. She was just... finished.
She thought about the suitcases in the hall closet. She thought about the lease, the joint bank account, the tangled mess of five years of you and her. How did you unspool a human being from your life when you were so tightly braided together before.
The front door lock clicked—a dull, metallic sound that vibrated through the floorboards.
Chaeyoung didn't move. She didn't stand up. She didn't rush to the hallway to greet you with a smile or a question. She just kept her eyes closed, listening to the familiar, weary rhythm of his footsteps. The drop of keys in the bowl. The sigh of a man shedding a day’s worth of other people’s pain.
The air in the room seemed to change as he moved through it, bringing with you the scent of antiseptic, cold air, and the exhausted hum of a life lived for others.
"Chaeyoung?"
His voice was a gravelly whisper, cautious. You stopped in the doorway, sensing the shifted atmosphere before he even saw her in the dim light.
Chaeyoung finally opened her eyes. She turned her head slowly, looking at you. You looked like a stranger—your tie loosened, your hair disheveled, your eyes bloodshot and rimmed with the exhaustion of a hundred hours of trauma. You looked like you were about to fall apart.
For a heartbeat, that familiar, traitorous empathy flared in her chest. She saw thode lines of stress around your mouth, the way you hovered on the threshold like you were afraid to enter your own home.
But then she remembered the cold risotto. She remembered the empty chair. She remembered the last five years of waiting in the dark.
"You're late," she said. Her voice was steady, void of the tremor she had been carrying all day.
You took a tentative step into the room, your eyes scanning the space, landing on the dark, clean dining table. You saw the absence of the meal, the absence of the celebration. You saw the vacancy in her expression.
"I know," you said, you voice cracking slightly. "I know. The patient in ICU—we lost him, Chae. It was… it was a disaster. I tried to call, but my phone—it died in the scrub room, and I couldn't get away, and—"
You reached for her, a gesture of instinctual comfort, but Chaeyoung pulled the blanket tighter around herself, physically retreating into the corner of the sofa. The movement was small, but to you, it was a barricade.
"Don't," she whispered.
"Chaeyoung, please. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."
You stopped, your hand hanging in the air, trembling slightly. The silence between them stretched, pulling taut until it hummed. It was the sound of a cliff edge, and for the first time in their relationship, Chaeyoung didn't reach out to pull you back. She simply watched you stand there, a doctor who could save a life in a sterile, bright room, but who had no idea how to heal the one thing that was dying right in front of you.
She wasn't waiting anymore. She was just existing in the space you left behind. And in that stillness, for the first time in years, the crushing weight of her own needs, her own loneliness, rose up to meet her. She realized, with a terrifying, calm certainty, that she didn't want to be the woman who waited anymore.
She was tired of the silence. She was tired of the cold side of the bed. She was tired of being the only one who remembered the things that mattered.
The apartment groaned as the building settled, a sound like a ship straining against its moorings. Chaeyoung closed her eyes, but her mind remained sharp, a needle hovering over a record. The love was still there—a dull, aching throb in her chest—but it was no longer enough to anchor her. She had reached the edge of the world she’d built for them, and for the first time, she was looking down into the dark, and she wasn't afraid of the fall.
The silence of the apartment was no longer just the absence of sound; it was a physical weight, settling into the corners of the room like cooling ash. Chaeyoung sat on the edge of the mattress, the darkness of the bedroom pressing against her skin.
She held her phone in her lap, her thumb hovering over the screen, watching it go dark. She had checked it every three minutes for the last four hours. No texts. No missed calls. No cryptic "be there soon" updates. Just the cold, digital graveyard of their conversation history. A thread of reminders for groceries, requests for his shift schedule, and the lingering echoes of her own unanswered "Thinking of you" messages.
Her patience, a resource she had once thought inexhaustible, had finally hit the bottom of the well. It wasn't a sudden explosion; it was a slow, quiet drainage. The realization felt less like anger and more like clarity.
She stood up, her movements heavy, and walked to the window. She pulled the sheer curtain back just a fraction. Below, the city was alive—cars sliding through the wet streets, people hurrying toward their own destinations, toward lives that existed in tandem with someone else’s. She felt a profound sense of detachment, as if she were a ghost haunting the apartment they had built together.
She walked back to the bed and lay down, staring at the empty pillow beside her. She didn't fluff it. She didn't check the alarm clock. She simply sat, her back straight, her hands folded over her knees. The numbness began to set in, a defensive armor designed to keep the jagged edges of the last few years from cutting any deeper.
She realized then that she really wasn't waiting for him anymore. That was the pivot point. When she heard the low rumble of your car pulling into the driveway, it didn't stir a flutter of excitement in her chest. It didn't make her want to fix her hair or soften her expression. It was just an intrusion.
She turned away from the door, lying down on her side, facing the closet. She pulled the duvet up to her chin, the fabric feeling like a barrier between her and the world. When the front door finally clicked open—a sound that echoed through the hollow apartment like a gunshot—she didn't move. She didn't call out his name.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of your boots on the hardwood floors drew closer, dragging the scent of hospital-grade soap and stale coffee with them. The air in the room seemed to shift as you walked in. She could feel you standing in the doorway, his presence an interruption to the silence she had finally learned to own.
You didn't turn on the light. You hesitated, your breathing ragged and shallow, the way it always was when you came home from a double shift. You hovered there, a shadow in the doorway, perhaps sensing the shift in the air, perhaps realizing that the energy of the room had changed.
"Chaeyoung?"
Your voice was a rasp, stripped of its usual professional resonance. It was the voice of a man who had spent the last fourteen hours speaking to nurses and patients, a man who had left his empathy in the emergency bay.
She remained perfectly still. Her heartbeat didn't accelerate; it remained a steady, rhythmic thrum of resolve.
"I know you're awake," you said, stepping into the room. The floorboards creaked under your weight. "I'm sorry. The shift went over, then there was the intake, and then—"
"Don't," she whispered.
The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the air with a finality that seemed to freeze you in place. She kept her eyes fixed on the closet door, staring at the grain of the wood as if it held the answers to why she had stayed for so long.
"Don't start with the excuses, YN. I’ve heard them all. I’ve cataloged them. I’ve lived them."
You stopped at the foot of the bed. She could feel your gaze, heavy and confused, searching for the woman who usually rushed to meet you, the woman who usually dissolved the tension of your day with a warm meal and a softer touch. You were looking for the safety you took for granted, the harbor that was always supposed to be there.
"It's our anniversary," you said, your voice dropping into that tone of bruised confusion you used when you couldn't grasp why your world was failing.
"Was," she corrected. "It was our anniversary."
She shifted slightly, the movement sharp and deliberate. She wasn't angry anymore—the anger had burned itself out, leaving behind a cold, crystalline certainty. She was exhausted, not by the work of the day, but by the work of the relationship. It had become a full-time job she hadn't applied for: the job of being the one who stood still, the one who held the space, the one who remained in the bed, waiting for a ghost to manifest.
"Chaeyoung, please," you breathed, stepping closer, reaching out as if to touch her shoulder.
She pulled away, inching toward the very edge of the mattress. The physical distance between them felt like an ocean.
"I spent three years waiting for you to walk through that door, YN. I spent three years learning to exist in the margins of your life, between the pages of your medical journals and the rings of your pager. I thought if I was patient enough, if I was understanding enough, eventually, the scale would tip back to center."
She turned her head, finally looking at you. In the faint light, you looked like a stranger—pale, sunken-eyed, your scrubs rumpled and stained. You looked like exactly what you were: a man who gave everything you had to the world, and left absolutely nothing for the woman who loved you.
"I’m done," she said. The words were flat, devoid of theatrics. They were simply the truth. "I’m done being the person who waits. I’m done being the ghost in this apartment. You have your life, YN. You have your patients and your responsibilities and your exhaustion. Keep them. Because I’m not going to be the price of your success anymore."
The silence returned, but this time, it was brittle. You stood there, your hand still suspended in the air, your fingers trembling ever so slightly. The reality of her words began to settle over you, not as a misunderstanding you could correct, but as a permanent tectonic shift.
"You can't mean that," you whispered, your voice cracking. "We're us. You're my… you're the only thing that keeps me grounded."
"Then you’ve been drifting for a long time," she said. She turned back toward the closet, her face once again a mask of stone. "And I’m tired of trying to hold you down."
"I know the life you chose. I know the sacrifices you make for them. I’ve known it for five years. But tonight, I realized something. You never stop to think if you’re sacrificing me in the process."
You blinked, your expression shifting from defensive exhaustion to a jarring, genuine confusion. "Sacrificing you? Chaeyoung, I do this for us. So we have a future. So we can afford—"
"I don't want the life we can afford, YN! I want the life we’re supposed to be living!" She sits up, the movement abrupt. The darkness of the room feels smaller now, the space between them charged with the electricity of a dying connection. "I am always waiting. Always. I wait for you to come home, I wait for you to wake up, I wait for you to stop being a doctor for ten consecutive minutes. I’m not a person to you anymore. I’m a fixture. A piece of furniture you come home to when the shift is over, expecting me to be exactly where you left me, exactly as you left me."
"That's not fair," you started, but your voice broke. You are staring at her, really staring, and for the first time, you aren’t looking through her or past her to the next day’s schedule. You’re seeing the hollowness in her eyes, the way her hands are trembling in her lap.
"Is it?" she asks, her voice rising, losing its icy control. "Tell me one thing about my week, YN. Just one. Tell me what I did yesterday. Tell me if I was happy or if I was sad. You can’t, can you? Because you haven't looked at me. Not truly. You’ve been in that hospital, and I’ve been in this bed, and we haven't been in the same room for a very long time."
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words seem to fail you. You looked down at your hands—the hands that saved lives today, the hands that were too busy to send a text, too busy to care that he was breaking a promise. You began to see it: the birthdays marked by empty chairs, the missed calls, the quiet, hollow space in the apartment that you had conveniently ignored because he was too tired to acknowledge the truth.
"I didn't mean..." you stopped. The weight of your failures hits you, not as a professional critique, but as a personal bereavement. You realized, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that you haven't just been busy. You had been completely absent. You had been failing the one person who anchored you to the world outside the hospital walls.
You reached out again, but this time, you stopped inches away, your fingers curling into the sheets. The bravado, the arrogance of your professional life, crumbles. Your shoulders slump, and you let out a jagged, broken breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob.
"I’m losing you, am I?" he whispers, the realization tearing through him. "Oh God, I’m actually losing you."
You remember the first time you bought this place. You’d carried her over the threshold, laughing about the mortgage and the life you were going to build. You promised her then that this wouldn't be a house where she’d wait alone. You promised her that no matter how many lives you had to save, hers would always be the one that mattered most.
But as the door swung open tonight, the darkness that greeted you was heavy with the weight of all the times you’d been late, all the times you’d called from the nurse's station with a voice crackling with exhaustion to tell her to eat without you.
The air in the foyer was stagnant. It didn't smell like the lavender candles she used to light or the cinnamon she’d bake with on Sundays. It smelled like dust and disappointment. You stood there for a long time, the weight of your medical bag pulling at your shoulder, looking at the coat rack where her jacket hung—a solitary, discarded thing.
You had thought, for a fleeting moment on the drive home, that maybe she would be asleep. Maybe you could slide into bed, press your cold feet against hers, and deal with the fallout in the morning over coffee. But the silence in the house told you otherwise. It wasn't the silence of sleep; it was the silence of a house holding its breath. It was the silence of a woman who had finally stopped listening for the sound of your car in the driveway.
Every step you took toward the kitchen, then the bedroom, it has come to your clarity that it felt like an intrusion. You were a trespasser in your own life, a man who knew the layout of the rooms but had forgotten the soul of the person living within them. The turning of that key hadn't just opened the door; it had unlocked the box where she had been keeping all her resentment, and now, the room was flooding with it.
Chaeyoung looks at you, her heart aching with the familiar, terrible pull of your vulnerability. She wants to reach out, to hold you, to tell you it’s all right, but the armor she’s worn all night won't let her. She is standing on the edge of a cliff, and she is terrifyingly aware that one wrong step will send her tumbling into a life without you.
"You already lost me, YN," she says, her voice barely audible. "Tonight was just the moment I decided to admit it."
She turns away, lying back down, pulling the covers up to her chin. The finality of her movement hits you like a physical blow. You remained frozen on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room now heavy with the weight of everything they haven't said and everything you have destroyed. You looked at her back, a line of silent, stubborn refusal, and you felt the floor disappearing beneath you.
You didn’t move. You can't. The mask of the doctor has fallen, and for the first time in years, you are just a man, terrified and alone, watching the person who defines your world begin to fade into the dark.
"Go, YN. It isn’t working."
Her voice is low, but it cuts through the hum of the air conditioner like a scalpel. She finally looks at you, and her eyes aren't filled with the anger you expected. They are filled with something far more dangerous: resignation.
"Chaeyoung, please," you say, stepping closer to the bed. Your legs feel like lead. "I know I messed up tonight. I know it’s the anniversary. I had every intention of being here by six. I had the flowers in the car—"
"The flowers are probably dead by now," she says, a ghostly smile flickering on her lips. "Just like the ones from my birthday. And the ones from the night I got my promotion. You buy flowers like they’re a ransom to get yourself out of the guilt you feel for not being here."
"That’s not fair!," you snap, the fatigue making your temper fray at the edges. "I don't choose to have patients crash. I don't choose to spend sixteen hours on my feet until my back and hands feels like it's going to numb and snap. I do this for us. For our future."
Chaeyoung stands up then, the silk of her dress clinging to her as she moves toward you. She stops just inches away, and for the first time in months, you are forced to see her—really see her. There’s a smudge of mascara beneath her lower lash line. Her lips are pale. She looks like a woman who has been mourning a living person.
"For us?" she whispers, her voice shaking now. "Which 'us' are you talking about? The 'us' that hasn't had a real conversation in six months? The 'us' where I sleep on one side of a king-sized bed that feels like a desert? You keep saying you do this for our future, but you're killing our present to pay for a tomorrow I’m not sure I want to be a part of anymore."
She reaches out, not to touch you, but to gesture toward the door. "I’ve spent five years being the wife of a great surgeon. I’m done being the wife of an absent man. I can’t do it anymore. I’m hurting so much that I can’t even feel my own heart. I want you to leave. Not just the room. I want you to leave this relationship."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. You’ve seen patients receive terminal diagnoses—the way their faces go slack, the way the light leaves their eyes. You recognize that expression because you can feel it settling onto your own features.
"You don't mean that," you say, your voice cracking. "You're just hurt. We're both exhausted."
"No," she says, her voice gaining a terrifying clarity. "I've never been more awake. I've spent the last six hours sitting at that table, watching the candles burn down, and I realized that if I left right now, you wouldn't even notice for three days. That’s not a life, YN. That’s a haunting."
"I told you, it was an emergency. Do you think I wanted to be there? Do you think I enjoy missing our anniversary?" You shifted, your body turning toward her, your movements frantic now, a desperate attempt to bridge the distance. "I’m the one who’s been on my feet for fourteen hours. I’m the one who hasn't had a drop of water since noon. I’m exhausted, Chaeyoung. I’m just... I’m done. Can we please just sleep?"
You tried to shift closer, his knee digging into the mattress, his hand finally finding the fabric of her pajamas.
Chaeyoung reacted with a violence that startled even her. She shoved the duvet off, a sudden, fluid motion that pushed you away, and distanced herself. The movement was sharp, dismissive. She didn't look at you; she looked past you, at the dark space he had occupied for the better part of their five years.
"Sleep?" she echoed, a hollow laugh escaping her throat. "You think this is about one night, YN? You’re making it seem that I’m just here, fuming because of a dinner that went cold?"
"It was never about the dinner," she said, her voice dropping into a register so quiet it forced you to lean in, to hang on every syllable. "It was about the last three years. It was about the birthday you forgot while you were in surgery. It was about my mother’s hospital stay where you never visited once because you were ‘on call.’ It was about the way you walk through that door every single night and expect me to be your recovery room."
You opened your mouth, your jaw working as if you were trying to find the clinical explanation for this, the rational, medical reason for the breakdown of their life. But the words died in your throat. You looked at her, truly looked at her, and for the first time, he seemed to register the absence of the warmth you had always taken for granted.
"I’ve been waiting for you to come home, YN," she continued, her voice trembling now, the dam finally beginning to crack. "But you’re never really here. You’re always in the O.R. You’re always on a consult. You’re always with someone else, fixing someone else’s life while yours—ours—is bleeding out on the floor right behind you."
She stood up then, the sudden absence of her body weight making the bed seem to tilt. She stood tall, though her legs felt like lead.
"I’m done, YN. I’m not waiting for another call. I’m not waiting for another ‘sorry.’ I’m finished."
She walked toward the bedroom door, leaving you sitting there in the dark, the man who knew how to save hearts failing to see the one that had just stopped beating for you. You scrambled off the bed, your movements uncoordinated and frantic, but you stopped when you saw her hand on the doorframe, her knuckles white, her body trembling with a resolve that felt more permanent than death.
"Chaeyoung, stop," you choked out, his professional mask finally splintering, leaving nothing behind but the raw, terrifying face of a man who suddenly realized you were going to be alone in the room. "Don’t walk out. Please. Don’t walk out."
You reached out, your hand hovering in the stagnant air between them, your fingers twitching with an instinct you no longer had the right to act upon. Chaeyoung didn’t flinch, but the way she pulled her shoulder blades back—a defensive armor she’d been forging for years—was enough to make you retract your hand as if burned.
“Get your hands off me!," she yelled. The word wasn't a shout; it was a blade, thin and surgical.
"Chae, please," you stammered. The clinical precision you used to diagnose patients had abandoned you, leaving only a stuttering, desperate mess of a man in scrubs that smelled of stale coffee and harsh, chemical cleaners. "It was an emergency. A trauma case. The kind of thing I—"
"The kind of thing you can't walk away from. I get it, YN. It always has been like that." she finished for him, her voice eerily steady. She turned fully toward him now, the shadows of the room carving deep, hollow lines into her face.
"I know the script, YN. I’ve heard the monologue for years. The trauma ward, the surgery that ran late, the mentor who wouldn't let you leave. It’s a beautiful story about a hero saving lives. It really is, but it’s getting too repetitive now."
She stepped away from the doorframe, moving toward the dresser, her movements deliberate and terrifyingly graceful. She didn't look at you, but her presence filled the room, heavy with the weight of everything she had swallowed to keep you comfortable.
She walked to the window, staring out at the blurred city lights, the neon glow casting a sickly blue tint over her features. "I spent the afternoon picking out the wine you like. I spent two hours trying to get the roast just right. And for what? So I could sit in the dark, watching the clock tick, feeling my heart harden into something I don’t even recognize anymore?"
"I'm here now," you said, your voice cracking. You felt a sudden, violent vertigo, as if the foundation of his world—the structure he’d leaned on while he climbed his professional ladder—was tilting. "I’m here now, and I’m ready to be present. But c-could you just... just give me a moment to breathe. I haven't sat down in hours."
"That is exactly the problem," Chaeyoung snapped, turning to face him, her hands trembling at her sides. "You’re always just coming from somewhere else. You’re always exhausted, always carrying the weight of the hospital on your shoulders, and you’ve left no room for me to exist in this space with you. I am not a patient, YN. I am not an intern waiting for your feedback or a nurse waiting for your orders. I am the woman who loved you when you were nothing but a student eating ramen alone and depressed on the famous Japanese resto of this neighborhood. And I am the woman you have slowly, systematically erased."
You felt the phantom sting of memories rushing back, unbidden and cruel. The way she’d then stood at the door, smiling, trying to be the supportive partner while you barely remembered to ask how her day had been. You’d seen her sadness as a temporary inconvenience, something that would resolve itself once his career stabilized.
But looking at her now—at the cold, detached set of her jaw—you realized you’d been treating their love like a reservoir you could draw from endlessly without ever refilling.
"I didn't realize," you whispered, the admission tasting like ash. "I thought... I thought you understood. I thought we were a team in this."
"A team?" Chaeyoung moved closer, invading his space, her eyes searching yours for a spark of the man you used to be. "A team supports each other. A team shows up. You haven't shown up frequently, on time… in years! You’ve been a visitor in your own life, and I’ve been the curator of your neglect."
She gestured toward the door, her resolve hardening again. "I’m tired of being an anchor that just drags you down because you’re too busy swimming away. I’m done, YN. Not because I don't love you—God, I wish it were that simple—but because I can't keep disappearing while you’re out there saving everyone else."
You reached out, grabbing her wrist—not with force, but with a desperate, frantic need for contact. When she didn't pull away, you took a half-step closer, his forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder, your breath hitching in a sob you hadn't known was coming.
"Don't go," you rasped, his voice muffled against her skin. "Please. If you walk out that door and leave this bedroom, everything I’ve been working for... it just becomes empty. It’s all noise. It’s all just... cold rooms and paperwork. You’re the only thing that makes any of this worth it. I know I’ve been a shell. I know I’ve been a disaster. But if you leave, I have nothing."
Chaeyoung went rigid. The vulnerability in your voice was a physical blow, worse than your excuses, worse than your silence. It was the naked truth of your brokenness, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the silence pressing in, demanding she decide whether to let you crumble or to reach down and help him up one last time.
She stood there, trapped between the agony of her own resentment through her soft spot on you and the crushing realization that you were quite literally, pleading for your life. She looked down at you—at the man who had been her everything, now bowing beneath the weight of his own hubris—and felt the first, hot prick of tears finally escape.
"You don't get to have me," she whispered, her voice thick with pain, "and have the version of the life you want, YN. It’s not that easy to just be grabbed. You have to choose first."
"I choose you, and always you." You choked out, your grip on her wrist tightening, your hands shaking violently against her skin. "I choose you. I’ll quit the committee. I’ll take a leave. I’ll do anything. Take it, take it all I have. I’ll give it all away just to have you back. Just... look at me. Don't look past me anymore, Chae. Please, look at me."
Chaeyoung let out a shaky breath, her gaze fixing on the wall behind you as she fought the overwhelming urge to pull you close and bury the last five years in an embrace. The room felt suspended in time, the air heavy with the debris of their shared history. She wasn't convinced.
She wasn't even sure if you could finally change. But as you stood there, stripped of every ounce of your professional dignity, she saw the terrifying truth: you were as lost as she was, and neither of them knew how to survive the night.
She tries to flinch as if your touch were fire. The rejection is visceral. For years, your touch was her anchor—the thing that could pull her back from a bad day or a moment of doubt. Now, you are the source of the storm.
“Stop…," she says, stepping back until she’s pressed against the dresser. The jewelry boxes on top rattle with the movement. "Don't try to cling on me and make it okay. That’s your move, isn't it? You come home late, you see I’m upset, and you think a hug or a kiss is going to reset the clock. You think intimacy is a cure for neglect."
"I don't think that," you say, though a part of you knows she’s right. It’s been your shorthand for an apology—the physical closeness to bridge the emotional distance you’ve allowed to grow.
She wraps her hands around as she endures, a defensive posture that makes her look small and fragile. "You use your body to hide the fact that your soul isn't here. When we’re in this bed, you’re present for an hour, and then you’re gone. You’re back at the hospital, thinking about the next surgery, the next patient, the next accolade. I’m just the place where you crash when you can’t run anymore."
The coldness in her eyes is like a frost creeping over a windowpane. You try to step toward her again, to explain the pressure, the sheer volume of lives resting on your shoulders, but she just shakes her head.
"I used to wait for you with the porch light on," she whispers. "I used to get excited when I heard your car. Now, the sound of that car just makes my stomach knot because I know the person who’s walking through the door isn't the man I fell in love with. He’s just a ghost wearing his face."
She turns away from you, staring into the mirror, but she isn't looking at herself. She’s looking at the ghost behind her, clutching at her like she’s his life support.
You laid your head on her shoulder, ignoring the ache in your muscles, the lingering smell of the ICU that usually made him feel important, everything. The exhaustion.
You are there not just to touch her, but to try to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. You can indeed feel the weight of every missed birthday, every skipped dinner, every time she’d reach for your hand in the dark and found it empty. The flashes came thick and fast now—the look on her face when you’d missed their anniversary two years ago, the way she’d sat on the edge of the bed when you’d had to cancel their weekend away, the quiet, resigned way she’d learned to stop asking.
You had convinced himself you were doing this for the two of you. You suddenly realized you had only been doing it for his own ego, your own pursuit of status, convinced that she would always be the anchor, always be the one waiting, always be the one who stayed.
"I’m leaving in the morning," she said, focused at the moon illuminating the glass of the window.. "I just... I needed you to know why. Not because I stopped loving you. That’s the tragedy, isn't it? I still do. But I’ve realized that loving you is costing me my own life."
You started to sob hard, the terrifying finality of her posture hitting you harder than any medical crisis he’d ever faced. The professional 'Dr. LN' was gone. There was only a man who had suddenly, violently, realized your house was on fire, and you were the one who had dropped the match.
The silence that follows is filled with the ghosts of every promise you’ve broken. It’s not just tonight. Tonight was simply the final stone that caused the mountain to slide.
You remember last Christmas. She had planned a trip to a cabin in the mountains, a week of no cell service and only the sound of the wind in the pines. You were halfway there, the car packed with blankets and cocoa, when the call came. A mass casualty event. A bus crash. You’d looked at her, and before you could even say the words, she’d seen it in your eyes. She’d turned the car around without a word, dropping you at the ER entrance and driving home alone to spend the holidays with a pre-cooked turkey and the glow of the television.
Then there was the gallery opening. Her first solo show. She had worked for a year on those paintings, pouring every ounce of her frustration and love into the canvas. You’d promised to be there for the ribbon cutting. You’d even bought a new suit. But a "quick" consultation turned into an emergency bypass, and by the time you arrived, the gallery lights were dimmed and she was sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap champagne, surrounded by the art you hadn't even bothered to look at yet.
"I remember the look on your face when you finally showed up," Chaeyoung says, her voice breaking the silence, as if she’s reading your mind. "You looked so tired that I couldn't even be mad. That’s the trap you set for me. You work so hard that you make it impossible for me to demand anything from you without feeling selfish."
She counts them off on her fingers, her voice trembling. "The weddings we missed. The funerals I went to alone. The dinners that went cold. The nights I spent crying in the shower so you wouldn't hear me when you finally crawled into bed at 3:00 AM. I’ve spent five years apologizing to everyone else for your absence, but who’s going to apologize to me?"
Each memory is a sharp, jagged piece of glass. You realize now that you haven't been building a career; you’ve been building a wall, brick by brick, missed moment by missed moment. And now, the wall is so high that you can barely see her over the top of it.
"I didn't mean for it to be like this," you say, but the words sound hollow even to you.
"No one ever does," she replies. "But this is what it is."
"I didn't want the world, YN. I wanted you. Just you. Not the doctor. Not the hero of the trauma unit. Just the man who used to make coffee on Sunday mornings before the pager ruined our lives."
You looked at your hands. They were steady hands—hands that had stitched arteries and stabilized hearts. But right now, they felt like clumsy, blood-stained instruments of destruction. You had viewed your life as a ledger where you were always in the black, accumulating success to pay for a future with her. You hadn't realized that the currency you were spending was their present.
The room began to spin. You felt a sudden, suffocating panic, the kind he usually reserved for patients flatlining on the table. But there was no protocol here. There was no crash cart to bring their intimacy back to life.
You thought of your mentor, Jiwon, and her cold, pragmatic advice: ‘Commitment to the craft requires sacrifice, YN. You cannot be a great physician and a soft man simultaneously.’ For years, you had accepted that as gospel. You had worn your exhaustion like a badge of honor, ignoring the woman who was slowly dissolving beside you.
You looked at Chaeyoung, really looked at her, and saw the depth of the crater you had carved into her life. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. You weren't the victim of a demanding career; you were the primary architect of your own ruin. You had been so obsessed with being a savior in the halls of the hospital that you had become a spectator to the slow death of your own heart.
"You're right," you whispered, the admission tearing through him. "You're right about all of it. I’ve been living in a dream where my absence was a noble sacrifice. But it wasn't. It was just... it was just me being a coward. I was afraid that if I stopped, if I slowed down, I’d have to look at myself and realize I was terrified of being ordinary again. So I chose the hospital. I chose the noise. And I left you to starve in the silence."
You finally let your hand land on the mattress, not grabbing for her, but resting there, open and vulnerable. You felt small. For the first time in your life, you didn't want to be the man in charge. You wanted to be the man she needed.
"I don't expect you to believe me," you continued, your voice thick with tears you hadn't realized were falling. "I don't expect you to trust the words of a man who has spent years lying to you, even if I was lying to myself first. But I am empty, Chae. I have nothing left to give that hospital with how much responsibilities there are giving me a burden. They’ve taken everything. And if I lose you, I have nothing left at all."
You leaned forward, your forehead coming to rest against her nape. You didn't demand her affection. You didn't ask for a promise. You just waited, trembling, in the dark, bracing yourself for the possibility that the silence would continue—or worse, that she would finally stand up and walk out of the room, leaving you to the ghost of the life you had so carelessly discarded.
The stiffness of her body against yours felt like the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly gone cold. You breathed in the scent of her hair, trying to memorize it, terrified that it might be the last time he’d ever have the chance. The transition from the man he had been—the iron-willed, indispensable doctor—to the broken, pleading man on the bed was complete. The armor was off. And in the freezing air of their bedroom, he felt the true, agonizing chill of reality.
Chaeyoung finally let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sob, just the sound of a lung finally being allowed to expand after being held under water. She shifted, turning slightly toward him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glassy in the moonlight, reflecting a mixture of exhaustion and a deep, terrifying residual love.
"You don't get to burn it all down, YN," she said softly. "You worked too hard to become this person. But you do have to decide if that person has any room for me. Because I am tired of living in the margins of your schedule. I am tired of existing in the 'if I have time' gaps between your rounds."
"There are no gaps," you promised, your voice thick with a desperate, sudden intensity. "There is only this. Whatever time I have left, whatever piece of me is still salvageable… it’s yours. It has to be yours. Because if I lose this—if I lose you—then everything I’ve done, every sacrifice, every moment I chose the hospital over our bed… our home, it was all for nothing. I’ll just be a man in a white coat with a hollow chest."
You reached out, cupping her face, your thumb tracing the damp trail of a tear on her cheek. She didn't pull away, though her expression remained guarded, a fortress still under siege.
"I'm not a patient person anymore, YN," she whispered a warning. "The patient person died somewhere between the cold dinner date and the sound of your key in the door tonight."
"Then be the angry person," you pleaded, your forehead pressing against hers. "Be the person who holds me accountable. Be the person who drags me back from the hospital when I try to disappear into it. Just… don’t be the person who is silent. Don't be the person who is already gone."
Her gaze searched yours, looking for the lie, looking for the doctor who was already thinking about your morning charts. She found only a terrifying, raw vacancy, a man stripped of his armor, staring at the ruin he had made of their home.
"I don't know if I can do this," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I don't know if I can wake up tomorrow and pretend that the last five years were just a mistake."
"Don't pretend," you whispered, closing the distance between their lips, not with the hunger of a lover, but with the desperation of a man drowning. "Just stay. Just stay in this bed, for one more hour. Let me show you how to be someone else. Let me show how to be the man you deserve, instead of the doctor you've been stuck with."
She didn't kiss you back immediately, but she didn't push you away. She let out another breath, a broken, shaky thing, and slowly, agonizingly, she closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of your chest. It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't a promise of a happy ending. It was a surrender to the uncertainty, a thin, fraying thread of connection that both of them were terrified to snap.
You held her, heart hammering against your ribs. Chaeyoung felt the wall she had built—the one made of stone and quiet resentment— is cracking with every beat from you.
It wasn't the promises that reached her; she had heard those before, wrapped in excuses. It was the nakedness of your fear. For the first time in years, you weren't looking through her, analyzing her needs or prioritizing her feelings as a task to be checked off. You were simply existing with her in the wreckage.
Her hand moved of its own accord, coming up to rest over yours. Your pulse was thrumming against her palm, erratic and fast. The room felt suddenly like a pressure cooker, the silence ringing with everything that remained unsaid.
You leaned in, your forehead resting against hers, their breathing synchronization shifting, hitching in unison. It was a surrender. The surgical mask you’d worn for years had been torn away, leaving only the soft, bruised skin of a man who realized you had been starving himself while holding a feast.
Chaeyoung closed her eyes, the bitterness in her throat struggling against the sudden, overwhelming swell of tenderness. It was a violent internal collision—the memory of every missed anniversary, every cold dinner, every lonely night, warring against the warmth of his skin and the genuine, unvarnished terror in his eyes.
She felt your tears now, dampening her temple. You were shaking, a deep, shuddering tremor that moved through you into her. It was the most honest you had been since the day they met, and it was that honesty that terrified her more than your absence ever had. Because if you could be this real, this vulnerable, then she couldn't dismiss you as a monster or a machine.
She had to acknowledge that you were just a human, just as flawed and frightened as she was.
"I’m so tired," she breathed, her voice breaking on the final word.
"I know, me too." he whispered back, his grip tightening as if to keep her from drifting away into the shadows of the room. "Let’s just sleep for now. Just... stay here. Don't look at the clock. Don't look at your phone. Just be here, with me, in this bed. That’s all I’m asking. One more night. One more chance."
You were desperate, a man clinging to the edge of a cliff, and she was the only hand left to hold. Chaeyoung let out a long, shuddering sigh, her body finally sagging into yours. She didn't say yes—she couldn't force the word out, not when the hurt was still so fresh—but she didn't pull away.
She turned into you, her face finding the crook of your neck, the familiar scent of you flooding her senses. It was a compromise, a bridge built over a chasm she wasn't sure could be crossed. As she continues to feel your arms wrap firmly around her, pulling her close as if she were the oxygen you needed to survive, she allowed herself one moment of reprieve.
The battle was far from over. The morning would come, and with it, the cold light of reality, the demands of the hospital, and the jagged pieces of their broken trust. But for this second, in the suffocating, silent dark, she simply breathed. She gave herself permission to stop fighting, to stop guarding the door, and to simply exist in the wreckage, wondering if they were actually capable of building something new from the ash.
She lay there, held by the man who had nearly lost her, she realized that walking away would have been an ending. This—this messy, painful, uncertain reconciliation—was at least a chance to breathe.
She gripped your shirt, her knuckles white, her body finally softening into his. It was a surrender to the depth of her own heart, a choice to stay on the precipice and see if they could truly survive the fall.
"Don't make me lonely again, especially… lie." she breathed, her voice a fragile anchor in the dark. "Don't promise me everything. Just promise me you'll show up. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard."
You tightened your hold, a desperate, silent vow etched into the way you held her, as if you were trying to weld their bodies together to stop the world from pulling them apart. "I’m here," you whispered, a promise that sounded more like a prayer. "I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere."
She was still here, caught in the wreckage of a five-year love, holding on to the one thing she hadn't been able to leave behind. She was terrified of the morning, terrified of the sirens, terrified of the next time the pager might call him away. But for this one moment, as your chest rose and fell against hers, she stayed. She stayed, and she waited for a future that was no longer guaranteed.
The decision isn't a grand gesture or a dramatic declaration. It’s found in the way she finally lets go of her head resting on your shoulder to give you a short passionate kiss on the lips. It’s found in the way she stops pulling away and starts leaning in.
"One more chance," she says, her voice low and steady. "But that’s it, YN. I don't have another 'one more chance' in me. If you walk out that door tomorrow and you don't come back when you say you will, I won't be here when you get home. I can't keep doing this to myself."
The weight of her words is a promise you know you have to keep. This isn't just about tonight; it’s about every tomorrow from here on out. It’s about the hard work of rebuilding trust, brick by brick, moment by moment. It’s about learning to say no to the hospital so you can say yes to the woman in your arms.
"I hear you," you say, kissing her back then at the top of her head. "I promise, Chaeyoung. I’m going to make this right. I’m going to be the husband you deserve."
She nods against you, a small, weary movement. "I want to believe you. I really do."
"I'll give you a reason to," you vow.
The anger that had filled the room earlier has been replaced by a quiet, bittersweet exhaustion. The hurt is still there—you can feel it in the way she still tenses occasionally, in the way she won't quite meet your eyes for more than a second—but the decision to stay has been made. For tonight, the breakup has been averted. For tonight, you are still 'us.'
You lie there in the dark, holding her until her breathing slows and her body goes limp with sleep. You don't close your eyes. You spend the rest of the night watching the shadows move across the ceiling, thinking about the work ahead. You realize that saving a life is easy compared to saving a relationship, but as you feel her warmth against you, you know it’s the only surgery that matters now.
The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was dense, suffocating, and textured with the debris of the last hour. Your chest rose and fell in a jagged rhythm against her back. Your arm, heavy and leaden, was draped over her waist, your fingers curled loosely against her ribs as if you were afraid that if you tightened your grip, she would shatter, and if you let go, she would vanish.
When the first light of dawn begins to filter through the curtains, it doesn't bring the usual sense of dread that comes with another long day at the hospital. Instead, it brings a quiet clarity. The room is no longer bathed in the blue of the lamp, but in the soft, pale gold of a new morning.
Chaeyoung is still asleep, her face peaceful in a way you haven't seen in years. The lines of tension around her mouth have softened, and she looks younger, more like the girl you fell in love with all those years ago. You watch her for a long time, the silence of the morning a gift you haven't allowed yourself to enjoy in a long time.
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. It’s a text from the hospital—a surgical consult for an elective procedure. In the past, you would have been out of bed and dressed before you even finished reading the message.
This time, you don't even pick up the phone. You reach over and turn it off, the screen going black and silent. It starts today. The world can wait. The hospital can survive without you for a day.
You slide back under the covers, pulling Chaeyoung closer to you. She stirs, her eyes fluttering open as the light hits them. She looks at you, confused for a moment, and then her memory of the night before returns. She sees the phone on the nightstand, dark and silent.
"You're still here," she whispers in amazement, her voice thick with sleep.
"I’m not going anywhere today," you say, and you mean it more than you’ve ever meant anything in your life. "I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be now.
She reaches out, her hand finding your face, her thumb brushing against your cheek before crunched her nose and let out that soft giggle, the sight that you always loved seeing from her whenever she feels… light.
"God, I don't know how to stop loving you," she said, the honesty of it carving a hollow space in her chest. "That’s the most frustrating part. I’m furious at you. I’m hurt. I feel like I’ve been starving for five years, YN. And yet, when you look at me like that, I still want to reach out."
You nodded slowly with a grin, your gaze remains to the beauty in your arms. "You have the time in your hands now, Chae. You can do that everyday and I won’t do anything no more that would make you stop.
Hence, that’s why I’m considering stepping down from my position.."
Chaeyoung blinked, the breath catching in her throat. "You do?
"Yeah, I’ll tell them I’m done with the extra administrative load. It’s a step back, maybe. It’ll make people look at me differently. I can’t be the man they want me to be and be the man you need me to be at the same time.
“I meant it when I say I will always choose you. Even if I’m always late, I come home not because I want to simply rest, I needed my wife. I know that sounds like a line, but I mean it, although I was wrong of the way how I do it.
But now, I’ll take the hit. I’ll take the smaller workload. Whatever it takes to be home by seven, or to actually answer when you call, not six hours later."
You finally reached out, your hand hovering over hers. You didn’t force the contact; you waited. Chaeyoung looked at your hand—the same hand that had held scalpels and saved lives, the same hand that had missed her birthdays and ignored her texts. She felt the tremor in your fingers. You were terrified.
Slowly, she slid her hand into you. Your skin was cool, clammy from the residual stress of his shift, but your grip was iron-clad, desperate.
"Don't do it because you're scared of losing me," she whispered, her eyes searching yours. "Do it because you want to be a person again. If you burn out for me, I’ll end up resenting you for the sacrifice, and we’ll be right back here in six months."
You squeezed her hand, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "I’m not burning out for you this time, Chae. I’m waking up for you. There’s a difference."
The room was getting brighter. The shadows were retreating, revealing the reality of their surroundings—the stack of books on the nightstand, the discarded clothes, the intimate mess of a life shared but neglected. It looked different in the dawn light. It looked salvageable, but only if they were willing to work through the rubble.
Chaeyoung moved closer. The physical distance she had maintained for the last few hours was finally bridged. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, smelling the faint, sharp scent of his soap—a scent she had once associated with comfort, then with abandonment, and now, with a strange, new beginning.
You didn't pull her into a tight, desperate embrace. Instead, you wrapped your arms around her loosely, a gentle, protective perimeter, a simple note that you’re still here. You rested your chin on the top of her head, your heart beating a steady, rhythmic pulse against her ear.
"I’m going to be a better partner," you murmured into her hair. "Not tomorrow. Not 'once things settle down.' Right now. I’m right here."
Chaeyoung closed her eyes, the first true sigh of the night escaping her. She felt the crushing weight of the previous months begin to settle into something she could carry. She wasn't convinced that the damage was fully undone—she knew, with a painful clarity, that there would be days where an anger would flare again. But for this moment, in the quiet, fragile suspension of the morning, she chose to believe him.
"We have to rebuild," she said, her voice muffled against your shirt. "From the ground up. This isn't just about you doing more. It’s about us actually being a team again."
"Whatever the labor is," You replied, your voice firm, "I’m ready for it. I’m not going anywhere, Chae. Not from this bed, not from this house, not from you."
Chaeyoung lifted her head, looking at you. You looked wrecked, aged by the night's confrontation, but there was a clarity in your gaze she hadn't seen in years. You were present. You were finally, fully, there.
She reached up, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that had tracked through the stubble on your cheek. She didn't know if they would make it through the year. She didn't know if the trust would ever be as solid as it once was. But as she leaned back into him, she felt the anchor of his arm pulling her down, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt safe enough to let go of the vigil.
They lay there in the quiet, the darkness giving way to a gray, uncertain dawn. They didn't speak again for a long time, the weight of the conversation settling between them, a foundation built on confession and the terrifying, beautiful vulnerability of starting over.
There was no grand resolution, no cinematic fade-to-black where the past was magically erased. There was only the bed, the early morning light, and the slow, rhythmic sound of two people breathing in sync, learning how to exist in the same space once again.
The kitchen is still a graveyard of last night’s dinner, but it doesn't feel as desolate as it did when you first walked in. As you and Chaeyoung move through the space together, cleaning up the cold food and the melted wax, there’s a sense of shared purpose that has been missing for a long time.
It’s not perfect. There’s still a distance between you, a caution in your movements as you navigate the space. The hurt hasn't disappeared overnight; it’s still there, a dull ache beneath the surface of your interactions. But the silence is different now. It’s not the silence of neglect; it’s the silence of two people who are learning how to talk to each other again.
"What do you want to do today?" you ask, as you dry the last of the wine glasses.
Chaeyoung looks at you, her expression thoughtful. "I want to go for a walk," she says. "Just a walk. No phones, no talk about work. Just... us."
"I’d like that," you say, and you realize you actually would.
As you leave the house together, the morning air is crisp and clear. You take her hand, and this time, she doesn't flinch. She doesn't pull away. She interlaces her fingers with yours, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re actually moving forward instead of just running in place.
The relationship is fragile, a delicate thing that could still break if you aren't careful. You know there will still be some long nights at the hospital, more emergencies, more times when you’ll be tempted to put your work before her. But as you look at Chaeyoung, her profile silhouetted against the morning sun, you know you’re finally ready to manage it all for her.
You’ve spent your life saving strangers. Now, you’re finally going to save the one person who matters most: her.
She’s a priority that you've turned a blind eye from overworking yourself too much. Your lifeline was her. You need her as much as she does.
You aren't just going to stay in the bed often; you’re staying in the relationship you’ve built together.
And with all certainty, you’ll never gonna leave this life with her.
What do you think your favorite idols say about your personality as either a writer or to other?
"What do I honestly think TWICE would say about my personality, both as a writer and how I am to others?"
If we strip away the internet personas and just look at the reality of who I am—a university sophomore just trying to keep their head above water, get through classes, and find a little comfort in K-pop at the end of a long day—I think TWICE’s reaction to me would be really gentle. Honestly, I think they would just be incredibly empathetic.
If they somehow got a window into my life to see how I write and how I treat the people around me, here is what I genuinely believe they would see.
As a Writer...
If TWICE were to sit down and read my stories, I think the first thing they’d notice isn't what i wrote but maybe my chaos behind it.
They know what it’s like to be young, stressed, and trying to figure life out. I think they would look at me—a tired student pouring hours into writing after finishing assignments—and they’d understand that my writing is just me being an absolute wreck trying to be better day by day as a writer & person.
Jihyo would probably notice my writing into the characters. She may feel my early writings as absurd even the one write now.
But i think I'd want her to see I try to explore trust, vulnerability, and deep connection with provocacy
I think they would say that as a writer, I am fiercely protective of the people I write about. They’d see someone who tries to treats their image with profound respect, ensuring that even in the most breathless, mature scenarios, their autonomy or as a persona is never ever compromised.
I know many debates fanfiction a lot and autonomy. But i don't think much about it.
As a Person (To Others)....
If they zoomed out and looked at how I interact with the world, my friends, and my readers, I think I'd want them to see a pretty quiet, sincere heart.
To the outside world, I’m just a university sophomore navigating exams, deadlines, and the general overwhelming nature of growing up. But TWICE has built their entire career on comforting people, and I think they would immediately recognize that I try to do the exact same thing for others.
Since the question asked how i think they may think of me, i think...(hypothetically)
Sana and Nayeon would see how I interact with you guys—my readers and my friends. They’d see that I try my best to be a warm, welcoming presence. I personally think They would love or at least appreciate that I use my little corner of the internet to just have fun, even when I’m personally stressed about midterms.
Jeongyeon would probably find it appreciative. She’d see me surviving the daily college grind, putting on their content to decompress, and she’d probably just want to pat me on the back and tell me I’m doing a good job.
Dahyun would appreciate my sincerity. She’d see that whether I’m doing anything, I am always just... myself. No malice, no hidden agendas. Just someone who wants everyone to get along and be happy. To not be toxic as possible
Ultimately, I think TWICE would say my personality is built on trying to be better person day by day and building it on empathy
They would see a tired but dedicated student who uses storytelling to navigate the world. They’d possibly see someone who looks at them not just as idols (i mean ofc i do see them as idol but with a lot of other thing), but as sources of strength to get through the hard weeks. And most importantly, they would see someone who deeply values kindness—someone who always tries to make sure the people around them feel safe, respected, and deeply cared for.
Please, note that I'm not saying they'd of course think of me like this. The question is just a hypothetical question. And i just wish and think to myself I'd make a.. Mixed but not bad impression at least.
The diner hummed with a comfortable, clattering energy, a symphony of sizzling grills, clinking cutlery, and murmured conversations. Sana sat opposite me, her smile warm and easy under the soft, flattering lights of the booth. Our friend, Mark, was mid-story, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounted some office debacle, but my attention had narrowed to the way Sana kept shifting in her seat, a subtle frown marring her beautiful face.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that cut through Mark's monologue. "This thing is killing me," she murmured, her eyes locked on mine.
I knew exactly what she meant. I raised an eyebrow, my expression shifting from amused to intrigued. "What are you going to do about it?"
A wicked, thrilling glint sparked in her eyes. "I'm going to take it off," she said, her fingers subtly hooking under the strap of her dress. "And you're going to hold it for me."
Mark, oblivious, took a sip of his soda. "So then, Linda tells him that the quarterly reports were already submitted..."
My breath hitched. I could only manage a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, my gaze flicking down to her chest and back up to her eyes. Under the table, I saw her arm move, the fabric of her dress shifting as she reached up her back. With a practiced twist, it was done. She slid the straps down her arms, the movement a secret dance just for me. The feeling of being entrusted with this intimate, rebellious act sent a jolt straight through me.
Bunching the lace and cotton into a small, discreet ball in her fist, she leaned across the table again, pretending to adjust the salt shaker. As she did, she pressed her hand against mine. Her fingers were warm as they closed over mine, and I felt the slight tremor in her hand as she passed the bra to me. It was still warm from her body, the delicate lace a stark contrast to the rough denim of my jeans. I swiftly tucked it into my jacket pocket, the movement feeling both illicit and incredibly possessive. When I looked back at her, her eyes were dark with a shared, delicious secret. I could see the faint outline of her nipples, now free and pressing against the soft material of her dress.
"Are you two even listening?" Mark asked, finally noticing our silence.
"Of course," Sana said smoothly, turning to him with an innocent smile that was anything but. "You were saying Linda is a hero."
Mark beamed, launching back into his story. But Sana's attention was all on me.
Her eyes held a knowing glint that was entirely for me. A slow, deliberate smile played on her lips as she listened to the drone of our dinner companions, but her focus was absolute. Then, I felt it. A subtle pressure against my thigh under the table. Her leg, clad in the sheer silk of her stocking, had risen with a dancer's grace and now rested directly over my groin. The pointed toe of her high-heeled shoe found its target, pressing against the growing hardness in my trousers. She began a slow, maddening rhythm, rubbing the leather tip up and down the length of my confined shaft, each movement a silent, wicked promise. The friction was exquisite torture, a secret heat building in the cool, public space.
Her movements became more deliberate, a firm, circular grind that made my breath hitch. I forced myself to take a sip of water, my knuckles white around the glass. After what felt like an eternity of this exquisite torment, her leg retreated. I heard the faint click of a buckle, and then the soft thud of a heel landing on the thick carpet. A moment later, the pressure returned, but it was different. Softer, warmer. Her bare foot, now free from its leather prison, was stroking me through the fabric. The delicate arch of her foot, the smooth skin of her sole, the gentle pressure of her toes..every sensation was magnified. My control was fraying. With a trembling hand, I subtly shifted, my fingers working at my zipper. I eased my pants down just enough, the cool air a shock against my overheated skin as my cock sprang free, hard, erect, and jutting upwards, a silent testament to her effect on me.
Sana felt the change instantly. A subtle shift in her posture, a slight parting of her legs, and then the unbelievable warmth of her bare skin enveloping me. She had trapped my shaft between her soft legs, the smooth flesh gripping me. She began to stroke me that way, a slow, upward glide of her thighs, the muscles tensing and releasing. Her back straightened, her chin held high, as she engaged in conversation about wine pairings, all while her body performed an act of pure, unadulterated debauchery beneath the table. The dual reality was dizzying..the polite discourse above, the raw, primal pleasure below. Then, with a theatrical sigh, she "accidentally" knocked her spoon off the edge of the table. "Oh, clumsy me," she murmured, her voice husky.
She ducked under the table, disappearing into the shadows. I felt her presence before I saw her, the heat of her body radiating against my legs. Then, the full, soft weight of her breasts settled directly onto my denim-clad thighs. Even through the fabric of her dress and my jeans, I could feel the yielding press of her large, supple tits, the hard nubs of her nipples poking against me. Her hands, warm and soft, found my exposed cock. One hand wrapped around the base, holding it steady, while the other gently cradled my balls. I felt her hot breath a second before her tongue made contact. It was a slow, deliberate lick, starting at the base and tracing a thick, wet line all the way to the sensitive tip. She kissed the head, her soft lips puckering around the slit, before she flattened her tongue and began to bathe the entire shaft in long, luxurious strokes. She pressed my rigid cock against her smooth cheek, rubbing it against her skin as her hand stroked the slickened length. Then, she took the head into her mouth.
The wet heat was overwhelming. Her lips formed a tight seal as she slowly descended, her tongue swirling around the crown, flicking at the frenulum. She took me deeper, the head of my cock pushing into the tight, wet confines of her throat. I could feel the tip pressing against the back of her tongue, the slight resistance as she took me to the hilt, her nose buried in my pubic hair. She held me there for a moment, her throat constricting slightly around me, before pulling back with a wet, sucking sound. She began a rhythm, a perfect, bobbing motion, her hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach. Her tongue was a marvel, lapping and swirling, tracing the thick veins, pressing flat against the underside as she plunged down again and again. She would pause, pulling back to kiss the shaft, to rub the slick, wet head against her chin and lips, her eyes looking up at me from the darkness with a look of pure, uninhibited lust. It was all I could do to keep my face a mask of calm, my jaw clenched, my hands gripping the edge of the table. The pressure built to an unbearable peak, a fire in my groin. With a silent, shuddering gasp that I choked into a cough, I came. My cock pulsed, spurting thick ropes of cum into her hot, willing mouth. She didn't miss a beat, her mouth working me, swallowing every drop as my body trembled with the force of my release. She stayed there for a moment longer, gently licking me clean before emerging from under the table, her lips glistening, a triumphant, secret smile on her face as she picked up her spoon and sat up as if nothing had happened.
"Ready for the movie?" she asked, her voice low and laced with invitation.
"More than ready," I replied, my own voice husky with anticipation.
The cinema was dark and cavernous, the screen a giant, glowing rectangle casting flickering blue and white light across the rows of empty seats. We had chosen a late showing, and the theater was nearly deserted, just a few scattered figures silhouetted far in the front. We settled into our plush seats in the very back row, a world of our own.
The trailers blared, a cacophony of explosions and dramatic music, but they were just background noise. I could feel the heat radiating from Sana's body, smell the faint, sweet scent of her perfume. As soon as the lights went down completely, her hand found mine in the darkness, her fingers lacing through mine. I squeezed gently, and she squeezed back. Then, slowly, she leaned her head on my shoulder, her hair brushing against my neck.
I couldn't wait any longer. I untangled my hand from hers and let it drift down to her knee. Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. Emboldened, I began to slide my hand upward, tracing the soft, warm skin of her inner thigh. Her legs parted slightly, a silent, welcome invitation. The fabric of her skirt bunched up around my wrist as I journeyed higher, until my fingers brushed against the damp, warm silk of her panties.
A soft gasp escaped her lips. I could feel her heart hammering against my arm. I pressed my fingers more firmly against her, tracing the outline of her lips through the soaked fabric. She squirmed in her seat, her hips lifting slightly to meet my touch. I hooked my finger under the edge of the silk, pulling it aside. My fingers slid through her wetness, exploring the soft, slick folds of her. She was so incredibly ready, so turned on. I found her clit, hard and swollen, and began to circle it slowly, deliberately.
Her hand flew to my thigh, her nails digging into the denim as she fought to stay quiet. Her breathing became ragged, soft whimpers escaping her that were swallowed by the movie's booming soundtrack. I slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them upwards to find that spot that made her whole body tremble. I moved my thumb back to her clit, matching the rhythm of my fingers. Her hips began to move in time with my hand, a desperate, primal dance.
I could feel her getting closer, her muscles tightening around my fingers. Her grip on my thigh became almost painful. Just as I felt her begin to crest, her body tensing for the wave of pleasure, I slowly, torturously, slid my hand out from under her skirt. She let out a frustrated whimper, her head turning to look at me, her eyes wide and questioning in the dim light.
Before she could speak, I brought my hand up to her face. My fingers, still slick and glistening with her arousal, traced her lower lip. "Open," I whispered, my voice thick with desire.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she parted her lips obediently. I slid my two fingers into her warm, wet mouth. The feeling was immediate and electric. Her tongue, soft and velvety, swirled around my fingers, tasting herself. She sucked gently, her cheeks hollowing slightly, and the sight of it, the raw, uninhibited intimacy of the act, was the biggest turn-on I had ever experienced. It was filthy, it was perfect, it was ours. The movie played on, forgotten, as I held my fingers in her mouth, a silent, erotic promise of everything that was still to come.
The sudden blast of light and the jarring swell of orchestral music as the movie hit its interval was a rude awakening from our dark, intimate bubble. The screen froze on a dramatic cliffhanger, and the scattered patrons around us began to stir, stretching and murmuring about snacks and bathroom breaks. The spell was broken, but the tension between Sana and me was thicker than ever.
"We should probably go," I whispered, my voice still rough with desire.
She nodded, her eyes dark and unfocused. "I need the restroom," she said, a little too loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.
"Me too," I added, standing up and pulling her with me. We moved quickly down the aisle, our steps echoing in the suddenly cavernous space. No one gave us a second glance; a couple heading to the restrooms during interval was the most normal thing in the world.
But instead of following the illuminated signs towards the main lobby, I guided her down a dimly lit side corridor. The air grew cooler, smelling of dust and old popcorn. The sounds of the crowd faded behind us, replaced by the low hum of the building's machinery.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and excitement.
"You'll see," I said, my hand finding hers. My fingers were still sticky from her, a constant, intoxicating reminder of what we had just done. I pushed open a heavy, unmarked door. "In here."
We slipped inside a small, cluttered storage room. The door clicked shut behind us, plunging us into near-total darkness. The only light came from a thin sliver under the door, barely enough to outline the shelves stacked with cleaning supplies, extra popcorn bags, and cardboard cutouts of long-forgotten movie stars. The air was close and smelled of cleaning fluid and paper. It was perfect.
Before she could say a word, I was on her. I pushed her up against the cold concrete wall, my body pressing against hers, and my mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was hungry, demanding, a kiss that had been building for hours. She responded with equal fervor, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Her lips were soft and yielding, and I could still taste the faint, sweet ghost of her arousal on her tongue.
My hands roamed her body, reacquainting myself with her curves. I slid my hands down her back, over the soft fabric of her dress, and cupped her ass, pulling her hips flush against mine. She could feel how hard I was, how much I wanted her, and she moaned into my mouth, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through my entire body.
"I need you," I breathed against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. "Right now."
"Then take me," she gasped, her head falling back against the wall, giving me better access to her throat. "I'm yours."
I didn't need any more encouragement. I reached down and fumbled with the hem of her skirt, pushing it up around her waist. My fingers found the band of her panties, and I pulled them down in one swift motion. She stepped out of them, and I pocketed them, another trophy for the night. My hand went between her legs again, and she was even wetter than before. She bucked against my hand, silently begging for more.
I quickly undid my jeans, pushing them down just enough to free myself. I lifted her up, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively. Her back was against the wall, her arms around my neck, and we were face to face in the darkness. I could see the faint glint of her eyes, wide with anticipation.
"Look at me," I commanded softly.
She did, her gaze locked with mine as I positioned myself at her entrance. I teased her for a moment, rubbing the head of my cock against her slick folds, making her whimper with impatience. Then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, I was inside her. We both gasped at the sensation, the feeling of finally, perfectly connecting. She was so tight, so warm, so incredibly wet.
I started to move, slowly at first, building a rhythm that was both punishing and tender. Each thrust pushed her harder against the wall, the friction of her dress against the rough concrete a stark contrast to the smooth, slick heat of our joining. The only sounds in the small room were our ragged breaths, the soft slap of skin against skin, and her whispered encouragements.
"Don't stop," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Please, don't stop."
I had no intention of stopping. I drove into her harder, faster, my own need spiraling out of control. I could feel her getting close again, her muscles clenching around me, her body arching towards mine. I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, and rubbed it in tight, fast circles.
That was all it took. Her entire body went rigid, and she cried out, a sharp, strangled sound that I immediately muffled with my own mouth. Her orgasm ripped through her, and I felt the waves of it pulsing around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I buried my face in her neck as I came, spilling into her with a force that left me shaking.
We stayed like that for a long moment, our bodies pressed together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. The world outside the storage room had ceased to exist. It was just the two of us, in the dark, tangled up in each other.
Finally, I set her down gently, her legs a little unsteady. We helped each other straighten our clothes, our hands lingering, our touches soft and tender now. I pulled her panties from my pocket and handed them to her. She took them with a small, shy smile.
"We should probably get back," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed, though neither of us moved. I leaned in and kissed her again, a soft, lingering kiss this time. "Round two when we get home?"
She laughed, a low, sexy sound. "You'd better believe it."
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door a crack. The coast was clear. We slipped out of the storage room and back into the corridor, two innocuous moviegoers returning from the restroom. But as we walked back to the theater, our hands brushing against each other, we both knew we were carrying a secret that was far more thrilling than anything on the silver screen.
The walk back to our seats felt like traversing a different planet. The air in the main corridor was bright and loud, a stark contrast to the close, intimate darkness of the storage room. I could still smell her on my fingers, feel the phantom clench of her body around mine, and the secret we shared felt like a physical weight, a warm, humming shield between us and the rest of the world. As we approached our row, I saw Mark and his girlfriend, Sarah, leaning towards each other, deep in whispered conversation.
They looked up as we slid back into our seats. "Everything okay?" Mark asked, his eyes scanning us with casual curiosity. "You were gone a while. The lines were crazy, right?"
Sana, to her immense credit, didn't miss a beat. She gave a small, slightly flustered laugh that was utterly convincing. "Crazy is an understatement. I think every person in this cinema decided they needed the restroom at the exact same time." She glanced at me, a playful sparkle in her eye. "He had to rescue me from a chatty woman in line who was determined to give me her entire life story."
I chuckled, playing along. "It was a harrowing experience. I'm just glad we made it back for the climax." The double meaning wasn't lost on Sana, who suppressed a smile by pretending to be engrossed in the screen.
"Ugh, tell me about it," Sarah chimed in, completely buying the story. "The popcorn line was a nightmare."
We settled back into our seats, but the dynamic had shifted irrevocably. The dark theater was no longer our private sanctuary. It was now a stage where we had to perform normalcy. The movie, which had been our thrilling backdrop, now felt like an intrusion. Every loud explosion and dramatic swell of music felt like it was trying to shout over the roaring in my ears. Sana sat beside me, her presence a constant, tantalizing distraction. I could feel the heat of her thigh next to mine, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching for her hand.
The awkwardness was a delicious, low hum under the surface. We exchanged a few quick, stolen glances. In the flickering light of the screen, I could see the flush still on her cheeks, the slight swelling of her lips. She caught me looking and gave me a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk before turning her attention back to the film, a clear message that she was just as lost in the memory as I was.
When the credits finally rolled and the lights came up, it was like being doused with cold water. The spell was broken completely. We were just four friends, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light, the remnants of popcorn and soda littering the floor around us.
"Well, that was something," Mark said, stretching his arms over his head. "What did you guys think?"
"It was great," Sana said, her voice a little too bright. "Really kept you on the edge of your seat."
"Yeah, definitely," I added, hoping I sounded convincing.
As we made our way out of the theater and into the cool night air, the usual post-movie chatter began. Mark and Sarah were debating a plot point, but my mind was elsewhere. I was already thinking about the car, about the short drive home, about what would happen the second we were alone again. The anticipation was a physical ache.
We said our goodbyes in the parking lot, the usual promises to "do this again soon" feeling hollow and meaningless. The moment Sana and I were in the car, with the doors shut and the outside world muffled, the air crackled again.
I didn't even wait to pull out of the parking spot. I turned to her, my hand going to the back of her neck, pulling her across the console and crashing my lips against hers. The kiss was frantic, desperate, a release of all the pent-up tension from the past hour. Her hands were in my hair, her tongue dueling with mine, tasting of popcorn and unspoken desire.
"Drive," she breathed against my mouth, her voice husky. "Now."
I put the car in drive and peeled out of the parking lot, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The city streets blurred past us, the traffic lights a smear of color. My right hand, however, was not on the wheel. It had found its way back to her thigh, pushing her dress up. Her legs fell open immediately, an open invitation.
I didn't waste any time. My fingers slid into her, and she was already soaked, ready for me again. I drove with one hand, my eyes flicking between the road and the beautiful sight of her head thrown back against the seat, her lips parted in a silent moan as my fingers worked their magic.
"Pull over," she gasped, her hand covering mine, pressing it deeper. "Right now."
I didn't need to be told twice. I swerved into a dark, empty side street, cutting the engine and plunging us into shadows. The moment the car was still, she was on me. She climbed over the console, straddling my lap in the driver's seat, her knees pressing into the worn leather on either side of my thighs.
There was no time for finesse, no need for words. She fumbled with my jeans, her hands shaking with urgency, and I lifted my hips to help her push them down. She positioned herself over me, her eyes locked on mine in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, and then she sank down, taking all of me in one slow, fluid motion.
We both cried out, the sound raw and unrestrained in the confined space of the car. She began to ride me, her movements hard and fast, her hands braced against the roof of the car. The windows began to steam up, obscuring the outside world completely. It was just the two of us, the sound of our ragged breaths, the creak of the leather, and the slap of our bodies coming together in a desperate, frantic rhythm.
I gripped her hips, guiding her, pulling her down harder with each thrust. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her breasts bouncing freely with the movement. I leaned forward, taking one of her nipples into my mouth, sucking and biting gently. She cried out my name, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me to her.
The build-up was fast and intense. I could feel her tightening around me, her movements becoming more erratic. "Come with me," she panted, her voice a ragged whisper. "Please, come with me."
I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit, and that was her undoing. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body convulsing, her inner walls clamping down on me so tightly it sent me spiraling over the edge right behind her. I came with a hoarse shout, burying my face in her chest as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me.
We collapsed against each other, a sweaty, breathless, tangled heap in the front seat of my car. The world slowly came back into focus—the tick of the cooling engine, the distant wail of a siren, the fogged-up windows that had become our private, steamy cocoon.
Sana lifted her head, her face flushed and her hair a mess. She looked beautiful. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips. "So," she whispered, her voice still thick with sex. "I think that was a better ending than the movie."
I laughed, pulling her in for a soft, lingering kiss. "Definitely a better ending."
The frantic, desperate energy that had consumed us in the car began to soften, ebbing away into a warm, languid afterglow. Sana slowly pushed herself off my lap, her movements slow and sated. Instead of returning to the passenger seat, she settled sideways, leaning her back against the door. In the dim glow of a passing streetlight, I watched her. With a soft sigh, she pulled her dress over her head and tossed it into the back seat, leaving her completely naked. She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her cheek on them, looking utterly at peace and breathtakingly beautiful in the quiet intimacy of the car's interior.
I took a deep breath, the scent of her, of us, filling the small space. I quickly pulled my jeans back up, leaving my shirt off and settling for just my underwear. I needed to focus, to get us home safely. I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled back to life. The drive was silent, a comfortable, peaceful silence. The city lights streaked past, painting fleeting colors across her sleeping form. Her breathing had become deep and even, her body completely relaxed in sleep. I glanced over at her every few seconds, a fierce, protective tenderness swelling in my chest. Seeing her so vulnerable, so trusting, was more intimate than anything we had done all night.
When I finally pulled into our driveway, I cut the engine, and the sudden silence was profound. She was still asleep, her lips slightly parted, a faint smile on her face. I didn't want to wake her. I quietly got out of the car, opened the back door to grab the soft fleece blanket we kept there, and then gently opened her door. I carefully draped the blanket over her, covering her naked body from the cool night air.
Leaning in, I slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her into my arms. She was lighter than I expected, a warm, trusting weight in my arms. Her head lolled against my shoulder, and she murmured something incoherent in her sleep, snuggling closer. I kicked the car door shut with my foot and carried her towards the front door, fumbling slightly with the keys before managing to unlock it.
Inside, the house was dark and still. I carried her through the living room and down the hall to our bedroom, my steps careful and quiet. I gently laid her down on the bed, her body sinking into the soft mattress. I pulled the fluffy white comforter up over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She looked like an angel, her hair fanned out across the pillow, her face serene in the moonlight streaming through the window.
I stood there for a long moment, just watching her sleep. My heart felt so full it ached. I leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead. Her skin was warm and smelled faintly of her perfume and our shared passion.
"Good night, darling," I whispered into the quiet room.
When is the next part of “When Hearts Remember” coming out? Been waiting patient but it’s taking forever, the wait is killing me 😔 Hope you’re doing well
Hehe, Iam sorry, twin. I know my procrastination maked y'all want to blow me but bare with me.
Your gonna sniff what iam cooking with Part - 2. (If i consider the cringey lines iam rewriting cooking)
Iam planning to drop 1K or 2K small head cannon ficlets to keep y'all entertained while iam working on the big guns
A oneshot or possibly, a series wherein Y/N and Sana (twice) were college best friends and soon became high school teachers who work for the same school. Each time they are seen together or talking to each other, the students and even their co-teachers ship and tease them for their closeness, but they have to keep things professional inside the school. Although they are both aware of the tension/feelings of one another, they just rub it off every single time.
10 YEARS, 1 ANSWER
TWICE Sana X Male Reader
10K WORDS COUNTED
—
The copy room door swings shut behind him, and the noise in the hallway drops.
Y/N grips the stack of quizzes under his arm and shoulders through the narrow space between the old copier and the wall. The machine rattles while it spits out worksheets someone else lined up. A faint burnt ink smell hangs in the room. The overhead lights hum.
He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes before first period.
The copier beeps. Paper jam.
“Of course,” he mutters.
He sets his quizzes on the counter, pulls open the front panel, and reaches in. Hot plastic brushes his knuckles. He yanks out a crumpled sheet, feeds the tray again, hits the green button, waits.
Footsteps outside the door. Quick, uneven.
The knob turns. The door bumps his back.
“Shit, sorry,” a familiar voice says. “It’s you.”
He glances over his shoulder.
Sana squeezes through the gap with her laptop tucked under one arm and a cup tray in the other hand. Her hair hangs loose. There is a small ink mark on her wrist. Her ID card swings from a lanyard across her chest.
“You blocking the whole room again,” she says. “Move your huge body.”
He shifts sideways without comment. She slides in next to him, close in the small space. Their sleeves brush. She sets the cup tray down. Three iced coffees, lids wet with condensation.
“I got yours,” she says.
He looks at the cups, then at her. “You put sugar in it?”
She snorts. “What do you take me for.”
He picks up the one with his name scratched on the lid. Black. No straw. He cracks the plastic and drinks.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says.
“You say that now. Wait until you see the stack on my desk I plan to dump on you.” She sets her laptop on the counter, flips it open, and taps the keys with quick, small hits.
The copier starts again. Fresh sheets slide out in steady rhythm.
From the hallway, voices rise.
“Mr Y/N is in there with Miss Sana.”
“They’re always together.”
“They came in through the gate at the same time.”
Y/N keeps his eyes on the paper feed. Sana twitches a small smile and glances at the door.
“You didn’t deny it this morning,” she says. “At the gate.”
“They didn’t give me a chance.”
“You just stood there.”
“I was half asleep.”
“They said, ‘good morning, teacher couple’,” she says. “You bowed.”
“I bow at everyone. It’s automatic.”
She huffs. Her fingers keep moving over the keys. A faint tremor sits at the corner of her mouth.
He hears the students move past. Snatches of phrases float in.
“Ship them so hard.”
“He carried her bag last week.”
“You should have seen them at the festival meeting.”
Sana clears her throat. “I think our homeroom group chat changed our name. Again.”
“What is it now.”
“Parents of 2–3.”
He grunts. “I’m not paying child support.”
“Oh, you will. Those kids eat.”
He pulls the finished quizzes off the output tray and taps the edges against the counter. The stack lines up clean.
Her laptop screen reflects on the copier glass. Slides for first period. Short story questions. She scrolls, reorders, types in a new question.
“Did you finish grading the midterms?” she asks.
“Almost. Last ten left.”
“You’re slow.”
“You’re sloppy.”
“I’m a language teacher. I’m allowed to be creative.”
“They wrote three pages about nothing. I’m not rewarding that.”
“Now you know how I feel every day.” She nudges his elbow with hers. “Your kids were talking about you yesterday, by the way. In my class.”
“What did I do now.”
“They said you looked ‘extra handsome’ in that blue shirt on Monday.”
He frowns. “The shirt with the missing button.”
“Yes. That one.”
“That’s their standard?”
“Kids are desperate,” she says. “Let them have this.”
Her phone buzzes beside the laptop. A notification lights the screen.
Class 2–3 GC: [MOODBOARD: SANA X Y/N]
He tilts his head. “They tagged me?”
“No,” she says. “But I’m not safe either.”
She locks the phone, face blank.
He snorts. “Festival ruined them.”
“They were already ruined,” she says. “We just gave them a stage.”
The door opens without warning. Nayeon sticks her head in, hair tied up, whistle on a cord.
“There you are,” she says. Her eyes sweep the narrow space. Her eyebrows lift. “Oh. Cozy.”
“Use your eyes,” Y/N says. “There’s a whole hallway outside.”
“Hallway doesn’t have romance,” Nayeon says. She steps in, shoulders them apart, and slaps a stack of P.E. forms on the top of the copier. “Principal wants these done and sent to homeroom teachers. Which means both of you.”
Sana closes her laptop. “We just got here, unnie.”
“I’ve been here since seven,” Nayeon says. “You two stroll in at eight thirty like some morning drama couple. Walking through the gate together. Same convenience store bags. Kids almost screamed.”
“We live near each other,” Y/N says. “The bus line is the same.”
“Keep saying that.” Nayeon squints at the cups. “Sana, did you buy him coffee again?”
“He buys mine sometimes,” Sana says.
“Sure he does.” Nayeon leans her hip on the machine. “You know Jihyo’s going to have a stroke if you two keep flirting in the hallway.”
“We’re not flirting,” he says.
Nayeon tilts her head. “You’re right. You’re just passing each other life support every morning and making heart eyes over printer jams. Totally professional.”
Sana laughs once under her breath, then presses her lips together.
The bell rings in the hall. A shrill, even tone. Footsteps pick up outside.
Nayeon straightens. “Homeroom in five. Stop hiding in here.”
She scoops the P.E. forms back up, gives them each a pointed look, and leaves. The door swings shut.
Sana taps her knuckles once against the counter. “We should go.”
He hooks his quizzes under his arm again and grabs his coffee with the free hand.
He pulls the door open for her. She steps out first. Students in the hall glance over. A few whisper. One girl raises her phone, then lowers it when he looks straight at her.
He and Sana split at the stairwell. Different floors. Different wings.
“Lunch?” she calls without turning.
“Staff room,” he says. “If I don’t die in third period.”
“You’ll survive. You always do.”
He watches her take the steps two at a time until she disappears at the landing, then heads up his side.
—
By lunch, the staff room smells like kimchi stew and instant noodles.
Y/N sits at the end of one table with his lunchbox open, red pen in hand. Essays spread across the desk. Neat rows of handwriting. Half the lines repeat the same textbook phrases.
He marks through one sentence, writes a short note in the margin, flips to the next page.
Jihyo sits opposite him. Her planner lies open. She eats while reading. She glances up at him in short bursts.
“You still on midterms?” she asks.
“Last few,” he says.
“You say that every day.”
“They keep rewriting history. I have to stop the spread of misinformation.”
She snorts. “You picked this.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Remember that when I hand in my overtime sheets.”
Sana walks in with her tray, slides into the empty chair beside him like she always does. No hesitation. No question. Her tray clacks against the table. Soup sloshes in the bowl.
“You left your USB in the English office,” she says. She digs into her pocket and drops it on top of his notebook.
“I thought I lost that,” he says.
“You did. I saved you. Again.”
Jihyo glances between them, then looks back at her planner.
Nayeon drops into the seat across from Sana, dropping her gym whistle on the table. “Staff room’s hot topic,” she says. “Guess what it is.”
“Not interested,” Y/N says.
“It’s you two.”
Sana stirs her soup. “You sound obsessed.”
“I am invested,” Nayeon says. “It’s different.”
She points her chopsticks at Y/N. “First, the kids catch you two in the cafeteria after school on Monday. Sharing one tray. Yesterday, the art teacher saw you in the courtyard. She said you were laughing at nothing for five minutes. Today, gate entrance. Side by side. Same timing. Same coffee bags. Do you understand the pattern here.”
“We’re colleagues,” he says. “We talk.”
Jihyo sighs. “The problem isn’t that you talk. The problem is that every student in this school thinks you’re married.”
“We’re not,” he says.
Sana takes a spoonful of soup, blows on it, eats. She keeps her eyes on the bowl.
“The kids made a poll,” Nayeon says. “I saw it. ‘Will they date before graduation’. The ‘yes’ option is winning.”
“Delete it,” Jihyo says.
“I tried,” Nayeon says. “They made three backups.”
“Of course they did,” Jihyo mutters.
He crosses out another sentence on the essay in front of him. His pen moves in small, sharp strokes.
“So.” Nayeon leans back in her chair. “Anything you two want to declare. Before rumors mutate.”
Sana speaks without looking up. “Unnie, it’s lunch. Let me eat in peace.”
“That’s not a denial,” Nayeon says.
“It’s not a confirmation either,” Sana says.
“Very politician of you.”
He sets the red pen down and looks at Jihyo instead. “Is there an actual problem.”
Jihyo closes her planner. She meets his eyes.
“Officially,” she says, “no. You both do your jobs. You meet deadlines. Your students like you and their scores hold. Unofficially, this is a high school. Kids latch onto anything that breaks their routine. You two in the hallway every morning is the biggest show in the building.”
“We’re not doing anything,” he says.
“You are doing something,” she says. “You just aren’t doing it where it counts.”
Sana’s spoon pauses above her bowl.
“What does that mean,” she asks.
“It means clear lines,” Jihyo says. “If you’re friends, act like friends. If you’re more, then be smart about it. No touching in front of kids. No sharing food in front of kids. No walking through the gate like some opening credit scene.”
Nayeon laughs. Jihyo shoots her a look. Nayeon holds up both hands.
“I’m serious,” Jihyo says. “I’m not here to play villain. I’m here to make sure no one files a complaint. Parents get jumpy. Principal gets jumpy. I do not want to sit in a meeting and explain why our English and History teachers let their students run fan accounts of them.”
Fan account.
He looks at Sana. She looks back.
“We get it,” he says.
“Good,” Jihyo says. “I trust you. Just use your heads.”
Her phone buzzes. She checks it and gets up. “I have a meeting. Don’t give me more paperwork.”
She leaves.
The room noise rises around them. Cutlery clinks. Someone laughs by the microwave.
Nayeon chews slowly, eyes still on them.
“You two heard the boss,” she says. “Be smart. No sex in the music room.”
“Shut up,” Sana says, low.
Nayeon grins, gathers her tray, and goes.
Sana keeps her head down. Steam rises from her bowl. Her shoulders sit close to his.
He picks up his pen again. His hand moves, but his focus slides.
Her phone lights on the table. Another message from the class group chat.
2–3: [new seating chart idea: make them sit together in the next meeting]
She flips the phone over.
“Don’t look at that,” she says.
“I’m not,” he says.
“Liar.”
He shrugs.
“I’ll walk in from the back gate tomorrow,” she says. “Come later.”
He taps the pen against the paper. “Why.”
“So they calm down,” she says. “Jihyo’s right. It’s getting loud.”
“You don’t have to avoid me for that.”
“It’s not avoiding,” she says. “It’s just not entering in sync like a fucking couple every day.”
He stays quiet.
She scoops rice. Her chopsticks tremble once, then steady.
“You’re okay with that,” she says.
“No,” he says. “But you’re right.”
She chews without reply. Her jaw works slow, tight.
He draws a straight line under the last essay comment. His handwriting digs into the paper.
—
In the afternoon, during a lull between classes, he leans against his desk and stares at the board. Chalk dust hangs in the air. Outside, the hum of other classrooms seeps through the thin walls.
He blinks, and the whiteboard fades into another board, another room, different time.
—
The library in their college sat on the fourth floor, quiet after nine at night.
Back then, Y/N sat hunched over a wooden table near the window, surrounded by history books stacked in uneven piles. Highlighters lay scattered across open pages. His notebook filled with dense, tight notes.
He rubbed his eyes and checked his phone. 9:47.
The seat across from him was still empty.
She had said she would come.
He turned back to the text. Read a line. Forgot it. Read again.
Footsteps approached. Light, uneven rhythm.
Sana dropped her bag onto the chair and slid in across from him. Her hair was tied up with a rough knot. Stray strands stuck out. She wore an oversized hoodie with the university logo and a pair of worn sneakers that squeaked against the tile.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Professor held me,” she said. “He wants me to redo the essay. Again. He said my argument is too ‘dramatic’.”
“It is.”
“Traitor,” she said.
She dug into her bag and pulled out a pack of convenience store kimbap and two canned coffees. She shoved one can toward him.
“Payment,” she said.
He took it, popped the tab, drank. The bitter cold slid down his throat.
“You ate,” he asked.
“This is eating.”
He eyed the kimbap. “That’s not food. That’s survival.”
“Exactly.” She unwrapped it, tore it in half, and pushed one piece to his side of the table. “Share or die.”
He took it. Rice stuck to his fingers.
“How much did he make you cut,” he asked.
“Two pages,” she said. “He said my introduction looked like the opening of a romance novel.”
“Was it.”
She poked at him with the kimbap. “Shut up. Help me fix it after you finish your war essay thing.”
“It’s not a war essay thing.”
“It’s always a war essay thing with you.”
He bent over his notes. She opened her laptop. The screen lit her face in a cold wash.
They worked in silence for a while. Pauses came and went. She scratched at her head, sighed, leaned back until the chair creaked, then leaned forward again.
He felt her foot bump his under the table. Once. Twice.
“You doing that on purpose,” he asked.
“The table is short,” she said.
“It’s not that short.”
“Your legs are long.”
“Stop kicking me.”
“You stop existing.”
He snorted. His shoulders loosened.
A student two tables away glared over the top of a textbook. The librarian raised her head in a slow warning. Sana lifted her hands in apology and mouthed sorry.
They lowered their voices.
“You handing that in tomorrow,” he asked.
“Have to,” she said. “If he doesn’t pass me this time, I repeat the course.”
“You won’t repeat.”
“You sound sure.”
“I read your draft,” he said. “Under the drama, you actually said something.”
She stared.
“You trying to compliment me,” she asked.
“I’m trying to keep you from dropping out.”
“You’d miss me.”
“You’d still stalk me,” he said. “You’d just do it from outside the window.”
“That sounds cold,” she said. She pulled her hoodie tighter. “I’d freeze.”
“Then pass the class.”
Her mouth twisted. “Fine. Help me after war boy stuff.”
The window beside them showed the dark campus. Streetlights cut the grass into yellow blocks. A few figures crossed the courtyard. Their reflections floated low on the glass.
Her phone buzzed face up. A name flashed. Some guy from her linguistics seminar. She glanced at it, then at him.
“Don’t you need to answer that,” he said.
She pressed the screen, muting it. “Study first.”
He raised a brow. “You always just study with me.”
“Because you nag,” she said. “He doesn’t nag.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It is. Boring as shit.”
He scribbled a date on his page. “So you like nagging.”
“I like not failing,” she said. “Don’t get cocky.”
The hour crept past. Twelve. Then one.
Her head slowly tilted toward the table. Her hand loosened on the pen. The lines in her notebook grew sloppy. Her eyelids dipped.
“You’re sleeping,” he said.
“No,” she mumbled. “Motherland of verbs… something… I’m listening.”
He reached across and pulled her textbook away.
Her hand grabbed air. “Hey.”
“You’re done,” he said.
“I’m not done,” she said. “I’m almost… halfway.”
“You’re mixing verb tenses with your drool.”
“I’m working.”
He stacked her books and closed her laptop. She tried to stop him, but her arms moved slow.
“If you fail this class, it’s your fault,” she said. “You’re sabotaging me.”
“You can’t even see the page.”
She squinted at him. “You’re really bossy, you know that.”
“Pack your bag,” he said. “You have morning class.”
“What about you.”
“I’ll finish later,” he said. “I can write faster than you.”
“Cocky,” she said again.
He stood, grabbed her bag from the back of the chair, and set it on the table.
“Come on,” he said.
She stuffed her laptop and notebooks inside with clumsy hands. The zipper stuck. He took the bag, slid the zipper smooth, and dropped it over her shoulder.
The strap cut across her chest. She swayed under the weight.
“Careful,” he said.
“You sound like an uncle.”
“Shut up and walk.”
They left the library together. Their steps echoed down the stairwell. The building sat quiet. A vending machine glowed weak in the lobby.
Outside, the air bit at his face. Their breath left short clouds. She shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket. Her shoulder brushed his arm once, then stayed near.
“You good,” he asked.
“Dead,” she said. “My brain is soup.”
“Which way,” he asked.
She pointed toward the dorms.
He fell into step beside her.
“You can go that way,” she said, nodding toward the opposite side. “Bus stop.”
“I’ll walk you first,” he said.
“It’s out of the way.”
He shrugged. “I need air.”
She glanced up at him quick, then looked ahead.
Streetlights cut across the path. Gravel crunched under their shoes.
“You know,” she said, “if I marry a rich guy, I’ll quit all this shit and open a small cafe.”
“You just said you don’t want boring.”
“I’ll be the barista who insults customers,” she said. “You’ll sit in the corner and grade papers.”
“Why am I in your cafe.”
“You’ll still be nagging somewhere,” she said. “Might as well be where there’s coffee.”
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. The path bent past a row of bare trees.
“What about you,” she asked. “You going to keep studying until your brain rots.”
“Probably end up teaching,” he said.
“High school.”
“Maybe.”
She made a face. “Teenagers are evil.”
“You were a teenager five years ago.”
“Exactly. I know.”
“They’re not that bad,” he said.
“You say that now,” she said. “Wait until they send you weird DMs and ship you with the math teacher.”
He snorted. “That’s specific.”
She kicked a small stone off the path. It skittered into the grass.
“You’d be a good teacher,” she said. “Strict. Kids need that.”
“Strict gets complaints.”
“They’ll write about you in their little journals,” she said. “First love, scary history teacher.”
“Don’t project your drama on them.”
“What about me,” she said. “What would I be.”
“Probably teaching too,” he said without thinking.
Her head turned. “You see me yelling at kids for a living.”
“You yell at me for free,” he said. “Might as well get paid.”
She barked a short laugh.
They reached the dorm entrance. The light over the door flickered. A group of students sat outside on the steps with instant noodles and open books.
Sana stopped and hitched her bag strap up.
“Thanks for walking,” she said.
“Sleep,” he said. “Turn off your phone.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
She hesitated, then reached up. Her fingers grazed his collar, straightened the twisted edge of his hoodie without asking. Her hand stayed there a second longer than needed, then dropped.
“You’re messy,” she said.
“You’re nosy,” he said.
She stepped back toward the door.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder.
“If you pass that essay,” he said, “you’re buying coffee for a week.”
“If I fail,” she said, “you’re rewriting it for me in the next life.”
“Deal.”
She scoffed, turned, and pushed through the door. It clicked shut behind her.
He stood for a moment, watching the blank surface. His breath hung in front of him, then scattered. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and headed back across campus toward the bus stop, feet dragging a little.
Chalk scrapes against the whiteboard in the present.
Someone laughs outside his classroom. The sound pulls him out of the old hallway and back into the current one.
He stands at the front of his room, half-finished sentence on the board. Students in their seats. Desks in rows. Notebooks open.
A boy in the back raises his hand.
“Sir,” he says. “Is it true you and Miss Sana went to the same college.”
Y/N caps the marker and turns.
Thirty faces look back at him. Some hide half their mouths behind notebooks. A few already smirk.
“Why,” he says.
The boy shrugs. “We just heard.”
“From who.”
“From everyone.”
A girl in the front leans forward on her desk. “Is it true, sir. You knew her before this school.”
He rests the marker on the tray.
“We were in the same college,” he says. “Focus on the lesson.”
A low murmur ripples through the room. Chairs squeak. Someone whistles under their breath.
Another hand shoots up. “Sir, did you date.”
“No,” he says. “Open your books.”
The class breaks into scattered laughs and noises. A few students exchange cash under the tables. He spots it and narrows his eyes.
“What are you betting on now,” he asks.
“Nothing,” one of them says too fast.
“Phones,” he says. “All of you. Face down. Now.”
They obey. The room settles. He uncaps the marker again. His hand writes the next key term on the board.
Behind him, a student whispers, not soft enough.
“But they match. They even write the date the same way.”
He grips the marker a little tighter.
The rumors grow teeth over the next week.
Whispers follow them in the hall. Screens flash and tilt away whenever he looks up. In class, students drop questions with careful casualness.
“Sir, do you like teachers who teach language.”
“Sir, what’s your ideal type.”
“Is it Miss Sana.”
He shuts them down with the same line each time.
“Ask relevant questions.”
They groan, laugh, keep trying.
At lunch, he and Sana stop entering the staff room at the same time. Some days she shows up early and leaves fast. Other days she comes late and picks a seat three chairs down. They still talk, but less. Shorter lines. Quick passes of handouts and USB drives. No coffee in front of other people.
Nayeon watches it all with raised brows. Jihyo says nothing, but her eyes track them whenever they cross paths.
One afternoon, Y/N stands alone in the stairwell between classes. The concrete walls muffle the school noise. He leans against the rail with his phone in his hand. The screen shows Sana’s chat open.
[We should talk.]
He types the words, then deletes them.
The bell rings. He pockets the phone and climbs.
The school festival comes fast.
Committees form. Charts go up on bulletin boards. Students run the halls with cardboard and markers.
Y/N and Sana get assigned to co-advise the second years’ performance. Someone in admin thinks it is efficient. Or funny.
The first planning meeting happens in the music room after classes. Instruments line the walls. Stands hold sheet music with faded ink. The sun sits low, light cutting through the high windows and landing in sharp blocks.
Students crowd around the front. Y/N leans against the piano. Sana stands beside him with a clipboard. Her hair is tied back. A small piece falls by her ear.
“Okay,” she says. “Your class picked a play. That means scripts, casting, props, promotion. This isn’t a joke. If you half-ass this, we all suffer.”
A boy in the middle snickers. “Sir, Miss, are you going to act too.”
“No,” Y/N says.
Sana lifts the clipboard. “He’ll cry.”
The class laughs.
He shoots her a look. Her eyes flick to his, then down.
“Focus,” he says to the room. “Decide on a script by tomorrow. We’ll approve or reject. You miss the deadline, you lose stage time.”
Groans rise.
Sana claps her hands once. “Meeting over. Go home. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just get the work done.”
They file out, still muttering. A few linger near the door, whispering and peeking back in. Sana stares them down until they scatter.
When the room empties, quiet settles. Dust floats in the sunlight. The air smells like wood and old varnish.
She drops into a chair in the front row and exhales.
He moves to the same row and sits one seat over.
“Second years have energy,” she says.
“They’re loud,” he says.
“You were loud too.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Liar.”
She pushes the clipboard toward him. “Check the lists. I’ll handle costume stuff. You take safety and schedule.”
He flips through the pages. Names, phone numbers, notes.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says, eyes on the paper.
She shifts in her seat. “We’re talking right now.”
“In front of no one,” he says. “That’s the point.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
“We’re being careful,” she says. “Like Jihyo asked.”
“You’re doing more than careful.”
She rests her elbows on her knees and laces her fingers together. Her gaze stays ahead, on the empty stage.
“You want me to walk with you through the gate again,” she asks. “Smile for their fantasy. Let them take more pictures.”
“No.”
“Then what.”
He closes the clipboard and sets it on the empty seat between them.
“I want you to stop acting like it’s a crime to be near me.”
She presses her lips together. Her leg bounces.
“People are talking,” she says.
“They were talking before,” he says.
“It’s worse now,” she says. “Did you see that stupid edit they made. With the wedding filter.”
“I saw,” he says.
“I teach them,” she says. “I stand in front of them and ask them to take me seriously, then they go home and draw hearts around my face.”
He watches her hands clench and unclench.
“You think staying away fixes that,” he asks.
“What do you suggest,” she asks. “Hold hands in the courtyard. Announce a joint family account.”
“I suggest you stop acting like I’m some problem you have to manage.”
Her head turns sharp. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“You’re the one changing routes, changing lunch seats, not replying to half my messages.”
“I reply.”
“At two in the morning,” he says. “One word answers.”
“That’s when I finish work.”
He leans back. The chair creaks.
“Tell me straight,” he says. “Do you want distance.”
She stares at him. Her jaw tightens.
“I want to not get dragged into the principal’s office because kids think we’re fucking in the storage room,” she says.
He holds her gaze. “That’s not what I asked.”
Her shoulders rise with a deep breath, then drop.
“I don’t know,” she says.
He waits.
“You act like this is easy,” she says. “Like I can just ignore them. I walk into a classroom and the girls look at my clothes, my hair, my phone. They ask me about my weekend. They ask who I was on the bus with. They don’t even hide it. I’m tired.”
His fingers curl over the back of the chair.
“How long have we known each other,” he asks.
“Too long.”
“Ten years,” he says. “College until now.”
“Your point.”
“If you want to stop walking in with me, say it,” he says. “Don’t pretend it’s only about them.”
She looks away, up at the ceiling, then back at him. Her eyes look flat, but her hand grips the edge of her chair so tight the knuckles pale.
“You really don’t see it,” she says.
“See what.”
“You,” she says. “Me. Them. All of this. You stand like a rock in the middle of the hallway and think the water will go around you.”
“And you think moving every time someone looks fixes anything,” he says.
Her mouth pulls tight. “I think not feeding it helps. That’s it.”
“Then say you want less,” he says. “Less coffee. Less talking. Less everything. Just say it so I can stop guessing.”
She stares at his face like she is reading a board.
“I don’t want less,” she says, low.
The words hit like a blunt object. Simple. Direct.
He feels his neck heat.
She looks down at her hands again.
“I don’t want less,” she says again. “That’s the problem.”
He watches her breathe out slow.
“I see you at the gate and I want to walk next to you,” she says. “I want your coffee. I want to sit with you in the staff room. I want to talk shit about these kids until my throat hurts. And I want to do that without thirty people betting on our wedding date.”
The room hums with a small amp in the corner. His ears ring.
He swallows. “So you punish me instead.”
“It’s not punishment,” she says. “It’s self defense.”
“You cut me off to protect yourself from gossip.”
“I’m trying to protect both of us,” she snaps.
“From what. From the thing we’re already doing every day.”
She scoffs. “We’re not doing anything.”
He studies her face. The words land empty.
“You really believe that,” he asks.
She shifts her gaze away.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
“No,” he says. “Spell it out.”
Her shoulders lift again. Drop slower.
“We’re friends,” she says.
He nods once. The word scratches on the way in.
“Friends don’t make my life this complicated,” she says. “Friends don’t make every student think I’m in some secret drama.”
“You were the one who joined this school,” he says.
“You told me to apply,” she shoots back. “You sent me the job posting. You said ‘it’ll be fun, we can suffer together’.”
“Has it been all suffering,” he asks.
She hesitates. Her answer sticks.
Her hand rises to rub her face. “I hate you.”
He snorts. “You don’t.”
“I do,” she says. “Because you stand there and ask these questions like you don’t know how much I think about you every fucking day.”
The sentence hangs between them. Heavy. Plain.
His heartbeat does something tight in his chest, but he does not move. He keeps his eyes on hers.
“Say that again,” he says.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Say it,” he says.
“Why,” she asks. “So you can what. Stay quiet and look at me with that history teacher face.”
“You think I haven’t been thinking about you every day for years,” he says.
She goes still.
“I wake up and check if your dot is online,” he says. “I walk into this building and look for you before I look for my own class. I come to this shitty music room after school because they assigned us together and I thought, finally, I can breathe a little.”
Her throat works. No words come out.
“You think that’s not pressure,” he says. “You think I enjoy everyone seeing through me like glass.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything before,” she says. Her voice comes out thin, rough. “You had years. College. After. All these long nights and long messages. You could have said one fucking thing.”
“I thought I’d wreck what we had,” he says. “I thought you would laugh or run. Or both. I thought you’d stop showing up with kimbap and canned coffee. I thought I’d come to work and you’d just be another name on the staff list.”
She watches him like he is unsteady ground.
“So you just waited,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Until now.”
“I didn’t plan this,” he says. “You’re the one who said you think about me every day.”
“Don’t throw my words back at me,” she says.
“Then stop dodging,” he says. “Do you like me or not. It’s a yes or no question. You make kids answer those all the time.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like a broken laugh.
“You’re a dick,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
Her eyes close for a second. Open again.
“Yes,” she says.
No pause. No embellishment.
“I like you,” she says. “Happy now.”
His chest tightens. His fingers dig into the back of the chair.
“Yes,” he says.
She blinks. “You… what.”
“I’m happy,” he says.
“You’re so fucking weird,” she says.
“You just confessed in the music room,” he says. “You have no ground to stand on.”
She laughs, short and real. It shakes a little at the tail.
“What about you,” she says. “I’m not walking out of here with that half confession. Tell me straight. Teacher style. Subject, verb, object.”
He shifts forward in his seat. The metal legs scrape the floor.
“I like you,” he says. “Not as some coworker. Not like family. Not like whatever bullshit word we’ve been using. I like you. Period.”
She swallows.
“How long,” she asks.
“College,” he says. “Probably before that exam you almost failed.”
“Which one,” she says. “There were many.”
“The one with the professor you called a bastard in the hallway while he was still behind you,” he says.
She groans, covers her face. “You remember that.”
“I remember all of it,” he says.
Her hands slide down, stopping at her mouth. Her eyes stay over the top of her fingers.
“This is insane,” she says, muffled. “We’re in a school. We’re supposed to be yelling at kids right now.”
“They’re rehearsing,” he says. “We’re supervising.”
“Terrible supervision,” she says.
He lets out a breath through his nose.
“So,” he says. “What do you want to do.”
She drops her hands to her lap.
“You’re asking me,” she says.
“You always make the seating charts,” he says. “You decide where everyone sits. Decide this too.”
Her gaze drifts to the stage, then back.
“I want,” she starts, then stops.
He does not rush her.
She sits there, chewing on the inside of her cheek, thoughts running plain across her face. Fear. Want. Annoyance. A line of resolve cutting through.
“I want to stop pretending this is nothing,” she says.
“Okay,” he says.
“I want to stop dodging you in the hallway,” she says. “Stop timing my steps so we don’t enter together like idiots.”
“Okay,” he says again.
“And,” she says, voice lower, “I want to actually be with you. Not in this half state where I’m your ‘friend’ and everyone around me sees more than I’m allowed to touch.”
He nods. “We can do that.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Just like that.”
“You said what you wanted,” he says. “I agree.”
She scoffs. “You make it sound like a contract.”
“We can print one in triplicate if it helps.”
“You’re not funny,” she says.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
She lifts a hand to her mouth like she might hide it, then lets it fall.
“Okay,” she says. “Fine. We’re… what. Dating. Seeing each other. Together. Pick a word.”
“All of the above,” he says.
“You can’t pick all of them.”
“Why not. You always pick two menu sets.”
“That’s because one isn’t enough.”
“Same logic.”
She shakes her head, but the smile sticks.
The air between them shifts. Same room. Same worn chairs. Same distant hum of the building. Different weight.
“Now what,” she says.
“We don’t tell the kids,” he says.
She lifts both hands. “God, no.”
“We don’t do anything in front of them we wouldn’t want on a camera,” he says.
“We barely breathe in front of them,” she says. “That’s easy.”
“We tell Jihyo and Nayeon,” he says.
Her eyes widen. “We have to.”
“They’re not stupid,” he says. “They already suspect.”
“They’ll scream.”
“They’ll survive,” he says. “Better they hear it from us than from some parent calling.”
She groans. “They’re never letting this go.”
“They don’t let anything go now,” he says.
She leans back in the chair, head tipping against the row behind her. She stares at the ceiling.
“This is going to be so much work,” she says.
“You sound like you regret it already,” he says.
She turns her head toward him.
“I just confessed my long suffering crush,” she says. “Give me five minutes to process.”
He looks at her, stretched out like that in the empty room, clipboard between them, hair tied back with flyaways, the shape of her mouth still shook from the words she finally let out.
He stands.
She tracks the movement with her eyes.
“What are you doing,” she says.
“Testing something,” he says.
“That sounds ominous.”
He steps over the clipboard and stops in front of her chair. Her knees sit a hand span from his thighs.
She looks up. Her throat moves.
“We just agreed on secrecy,” she says. “And you’re standing right in front of me in an unlocked room.”
“The door is closed,” he says.
“Not locked.”
“Listen.”
They both pause. The hallway outside stays quiet. Far off, a faint shout from a sports field drifts in.
“No one’s here,” he says.
“Famous last words.”
He reaches out and rests his hand on the back of her chair, not touching her yet.
“You okay if I come closer,” he asks.
Her fingers grip the seat. Her eyes flick from his face to his chest, back up.
“Yes,” she says. “Slowly, or I’ll kick you out of reflex.”
He steps in. The metal edge of the chair nudges his shins. Her knees bump his thighs. The space narrows.
Up this close, he sees the faint dark under her eyes, the small freckle near her left temple, the old ink stain on her thumb.
Her gaze locks on his.
He leans down, careful and measured, giving room for her to pull back.
She does not move away. Her shoulders tense, then ease. Her breath hits his face, quick, then steady.
He tilts his head and presses his mouth to hers.
No dramatic crash. No sudden heat flare. Just contact. Warm, solid, present.
Her lips respond slow. Then firmer. Her fingers release the chair and grab his sleeve instead, knuckles pressing into his arm.
He keeps the kiss simple. No rush. No show. Just a long, steady hold of shared air and weight.
When he pulls back, it is only by a few centimeters. Her hand stays tight on his sleeve.
Her eyes look a little unfocused, but sharp again in a second.
“That was…” she starts, then stops, searching for a word. “Direct.”
“You said you like direct,” he says.
“I said I like clear,” she says. “Now it’s clear.”
He shifts his hand from the chair back to the side of her neck. His thumb rests below her ear. Her pulse jumps under the skin.
“We can still back out,” he says.
She stares at him like he has grown a second head.
“After that,” she says. “You think I’m backing out.”
“I’m giving you a door,” he says. “Last exit.”
“Close the door,” she says. “Lock it. Weld it.”
He snorts. “Our kids would fail physics with that metaphor.”
“Our kids,” she repeats.
He freezes.
She grins slow. “I mean students. Relax.”
He lets his hand drop.
Footsteps echo faint in the hall. They both look at the door.
She straightens. He steps back, putting the clipboard between them again like some barrier they both know is fake.
“Showtime,” she says under her breath.
A student’s head pokes through the door. “Sir, Miss, can we borrow the key to the props room.”
He looks at Sana. She looks back, mouth pressed to hide a smile.
Y/N turns to the student.
“In the staff room,” he says. “Ask Nayeon. Don’t break anything.”
The student nods, retreats.
The door swings shut again.
Sana exhales. “We’re fucked.”
“In what sense,” he says.
“In the sense that I might accidentally smile like an idiot during class and they’ll know,” she says.
“Don’t look at me,” he says.
“You’re in the hallway,” she says. “Existing. That’s the problem.”
He bends to pick up the clipboard, hands it to her. Their fingers brush.
She holds the board, stares at the papers without reading.
“So,” she says. “After school. Your place or mine.”
He blinks.
“Already,” he says.
“We need to talk,” she says. “Properly. Not in a music room with a drum set staring at us.”
“About what,” he asks.
“About stupid rules,” she says. “Boundaries. Schedules. Who buys coffee what day. Who tells Jihyo. Who tells my mother if she ever shows up and starts asking where my ring is.”
“You’re planning for your mother,” he says.
“She’s scarier than the principal,” she says. “We need a united front.”
He nods. “My place. It’s closer.”
“I’ll come after last period,” she says. “Don’t die of anxiety before that.”
“I’ll grade,” he says.
“Same thing.”
He steps aside so she can stand. She rises from the chair, smooths the back of her skirt, and rolls her shoulders.
Her hand lifts like she might reach for him again, then she stops herself and curls it instead.
“One more,” she says.
He leans in before she finishes the thought. She meets him halfway. The kiss is shorter. Firm. A quick press that feels like a promise and a dare.
They break apart at the same time.
She clears her throat. “Okay. Professional mask back on.”
He nods.
They walk to the door together. He reaches for the knob. She catches his wrist for half a second, squeezes once, then lets go.
He opens the door. The hall meets them with its usual noise. Students move in clusters. Posters line the walls. A kid in the far corner sees them exit together and nudges a friend. A phone lifts.
Sana drops her gaze to the floor and steps out with even strides. He falls into step beside her, a half pace behind, like they planned nothing, like the music room still holds only instruments and dust.
They move toward the stairwell, side by side, shoulders almost but not quite touching, the air between them holding the weight of what they just said and what they still have to do when the last bell rings.
—
Rain hits his classroom windows in steady sheets.
After school, the halls clear faster than usual. Umbrellas pop open at the gate. A few students run across the yard with jackets over their heads.
Y/N shuts his gradebook, slides it into the drawer, and checks his phone.
[From: Sana]
[You alive]
He types back.
[Barely. You]
Her reply comes fast.
[Kids did a group presentation on “favorite couples in media” and somehow slipped us into the slideshow. I want to die]
He huffs.
[Come to my room]
He sends it before overthinking.
She types.
[Music room?]
[No. My classroom. Now]
There is a small pause.
[Okay. On my way]
He stands and looks around the room. Desks in rows. Board half clean. Old posters on the wall about revolutions and timelines.
He thinks about the last few months. The slow shift. The nights at his apartment, both of them on the floor with takeout and piles of graded work between them. Her feet always finding his leg under the low table. The way she started leaving a toothbrush in his bathroom without comment. The mornings they still tried to stagger their arrival, then gave up when they kept meeting at the same corner anyway.
Kids kept talking. Colleagues kept watching. Jihyo scolded them once, then sighed and waved them off when she saw nothing exploded. Nayeon collected money from a bet pool and refused to disclose details.
They acted careful. No touching on campus. No blatant shows. But everyone already knew something. They moved through it.
He thinks about how simple it feels with her now, even with the noise. How old this feeling is. How little anything has changed inside him since that library table.
He reaches into his bag and feels the small box at the bottom.
He bought it last week. Simple ring. No big story. Small jewelry shop near the bus stop. He walked in on impulse, picked a band that looked like it would sit clean on her hand, paid with shaking fingers, and walked out wondering if he had lost his mind.
Too fast. Too much. Too soon.
Then he thought about how many years they already lived in each other’s pockets. How many different rooms they had shared. Campus, cheap restaurants, buses, now this staff room, this building. He thought about how she already knew his worst habits. His late replies, his pile of laundry, his habit of rewatching the same movie when he could not sleep. How he already knew her mess. Her scattered notes, her unfinished mugs, the way she forgot to eat until he pushed food into her hand.
New relationship, old foundation.
His hand curls around the box.
The classroom door knocks once, then swings open.
Sana steps in, umbrella dripping. Her hair sits damp around her face. Her coat hangs open. A line of water dots the floor behind her.
“You said now,” she says. “So I ran.”
He grabs a tissue box from his desk and tosses it to her. “You’re leaking.”
She wipes the umbrella handle and props it against the wall near the door. Rain taps outside in strong lines.
She shrugs off the coat, shakes her hair once, then crosses to his desk.
“What’s wrong,” she asks. “You look like you failed everyone.”
He leans against the edge of the desk. His fingers slip into his pocket, around the ring box.
“We need to talk,” he says.
She groans. “Don’t say that phrase. You sound like you’re breaking up with me.”
“I’m not,” he says.
She squints. “You better not. I just bought a new lipstick for you.”
He blinks. “For me.”
“For my mouth that kisses you,” she says. “Don’t be dense.”
“Right,” he says.
She eyes him. “You’re weird. What is it.”
He exhales.
“Sit,” he says.
“I stand,” she says.
He pushes away from the desk and gestures to the front row. “Trust me. Sit.”
She huffs but drops into the first desk. She turns the chair sideways to face him, hooks one foot on the chair rung, and folds her arms.
“Okay,” she says. “Teacher. Speak.”
He stands in front of her, between the first two desks. The board looms behind him. The room smells faint. Damp, chalk, old paper.
“You ever think about the future,” he asks.
She snorts. “Every day. I grade idiots for a living. I pray for the future.”
“I mean your future,” he says.
“Vague,” she says. “Clarify, sir.”
“Where you see yourself,” he says. “In five, ten years.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Probably still yelling at kids. Maybe with more neck pain. Maybe with more gray hair.”
“Nothing else,” he asks.
“What else is there,” she says. “I don’t have a secret band. I don’t have a book in a drawer. I have essays and attendance books.”
He watches her jaw tense. The joking coat slips.
“You always joked about a cafe,” he says. “Back then.”
“Yeah,” she says. “When I was young and thought life was cute.”
“You’re not old,” he says.
She smirks. “Lie to me more.”
“You serious about that cafe,” he asks.
She leans back, stares at the ceiling tiles.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Sometimes I think about it. Some small place, no students, just grumpy adults and bitter coffee. But who has money for that. Who has time. We already drown in this place.”
He nods.
“What about you,” she says. “You planning to die at that desk.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“You can’t,” she says. “You have to outlive me and attend my funeral with a huge wreath.”
“Why do I have to outlive you,” he asks.
“Someone has to tell all my embarrassing stories,” she says. “You have the best archive.”
He smiles, small. His hand tightens around the box.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says.
She squints again. “Dangerous.”
“Yeah,” he says. He breathes out. “About… time.”
“That’s vague too,” she says.
“Ten years,” he says. “Of knowing you.”
She scoffs. “Feels like twenty.”
“Dating for what,” he says. “Almost a year now.”
She nods. “Nine months and some days. I have the exact count, if you want.”
“I’m good,” he says.
“We sound married already,” she says. “Complaining about years together.”
He glances at the door. It is shut. The small square of glass shows a blurry strip of hallway. No one passes.
He looks back at her.
“You ever think about actually getting married,” he asks.
She stops. Her features reset.
“Like… us,” she asks.
“Like us,” he says.
She studies his face.
“You’re not joking,” she says.
“No,” he says.
“You’re not testing material for class,” she says. “Some lesson on social expectations.”
“No,” he says again.
She drops her arms to her sides. Her fingers curl into the edge of the desk.
“You want to get married,” she asks. “Now.”
He thinks about hedging. About saying “someday” or “later, when things calm down”. The words taste weak.
“Yes,” he says.
Her mouth parts. No sound comes out for a moment.
He pulls his hand from his pocket and holds up the small box.
Her eyes lock on it.
“I know it’s fast,” he says. “On paper. Nine months looks fast. But it’s not nine months. It’s ten years. You’ve been next to me in every shitty place I’ve been. Library, dorm hallway, bus stops, this staff room. It’s not some sudden thing.”
He flips the box open. The ring sits on the black cushion. Plain band. No shine tricks. Just a circle.
He feels his throat scrape.
“If we break up five years from now after dating,” he says, “it’ll still fuck me up. If we get married now and it breaks five years from now, same fuck. There’s no safe timing. I’m not getting less attached by waiting. You’re already in every corner of my life.”
Her eyes wet slow. Tears gather in the lower lid.
“So,” he says. “You want to just do it. Skip the cautious phase. Call it what it already feels like.”
She stares at the ring. Then at his face. Back at the ring.
“You’re asking me in a classroom,” she says. Her voice cracks on the last word.
“Yes,” he says.
“No rooftop,” she says. “No fireworks. No stupid banner.”
“No budget,” he says. “And I hate fireworks.”
A laugh escapes her. Short. Wet.
“You’re serious,” she says.
“Yes,” he says. “If you say no, we stay like this. If you say yes, we go to a district office on a weekend and sign paper. We tell the people we have to tell. We fight about curtains later.”
She wipes under one eye with the heel of her hand. The tear smears across her skin.
“You thought about curtains,” she says.
“I thought about everything,” he says. “You in my apartment every day and me not pretending it’s temporary. Not counting your toothbrushes like they’re visitors.”
She lets out a breath that shakes.
“What about work,” she says. “The school. The kids. You think they won’t lose their minds.”
“They already lost their minds,” he says. “Half of them think we’re secretly married right now. We’d just make them right.”
“You think Jihyo won’t have a heart attack,” she says.
“She will,” he says. “Then she’ll calm down and ask about the date.”
“And my mother,” she says. “My mother will kill me. She’ll fly here and throw her slipper at my head.”
“I’ll stand in front of you,” he says.
“You’d take a slipper for me,” she says.
“Depends on the slipper,” he says. “Rubber, yes. Wood, we negotiate.”
Her lips wobble into a smile.
Tears spill over. They slide down both cheeks now, tracks cutting through her skin.
“I hate you,” she says, voice thick. “You idiot.”
“You said that in the music room too,” he says.
“You’re asking me to marry you on a rainy Tuesday,” she says. “In this ugly classroom with kids’ doodles on the desks.”
“Yes,” he says.
She laughs and cries at the same time. A messy sound. She covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head.
“Answer me,” he says.
She drops her hand. Her face shows everything. Fear. Surprise. Then something steady behind both.
“Yes,” she says.
No hesitation. No long pause.
“Yes,” she repeats. “Of course yes. You idiot. You fucking idiot. You think I stayed next to you for ten years just to say no now.”
His chest loosens. He did not know how tight it sat until that second.
“Come here,” she says, half laugh, half sob.
He steps forward, slides the ring from the box, and takes her left hand. Her fingers tremble. Wet lashes cling together.
“You’re really doing it,” she says.
“We’re really doing it,” he says.
He slides the ring onto her finger. It catches at the knuckle, then settles. It looks simple there. Like it has been waiting.
She stares at it, then at him, then back at it, like her brain needs three passes.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“You okay,” he asks.
She laughs through another tear spill. “I’m going to ruin your shirt.”
“I have more shirts,” he says.
She stands up fast. The chair legs scrape loud. She steps into him and grabs his collar with both hands.
Her face tips up. He feels her tears soak into the fabric at his neck.
She kisses him hard.
No careful lead-in this time. No slow test. She crashes in, mouth open, breath shaky. He meets her, bracing his hands on her waist to keep them both steady.
Her ring presses into his skin on the back of his neck. His fingers dig into the fabric at her sides.
She breaks the kiss only to gasp for air, then goes in again. Her tears smear over his lips. He does not care. Her whole body shakes, but her grip on him holds like a clamp.
He feels his own eyes sting, but tears do not fall. His throat tightens instead.
She pulls back just enough to speak, lips still close.
“We’re really doing this,” she says.
“Yes,” he says.
“You’re stuck with me,” she says.
“I already was,” he says.
She laughs, then leans her forehead against his chest. Her shoulders heave with messy crying.
He rubs his palm slow up and down her back, feeling each small shudder.
“Hey,” he says, low. “You’re leaking all over my tie.”
“Shut up,” she says into his shirt.
He stays like that, holding her, while the rain hits the windows in hard bursts.
Footsteps pass the hallway, distant. Voices float by. No one opens the door.
After a while, her breathing slows. She pulls back, sniffs, and wipes at her eyes with both hands. Her cheeks shine.
“You look destroyed,” he says.
“You did this,” she says. “Do you realize what you just started. My mother is going to ask why there’s no big proposal video.”
“I can delete the CCTV,” he says.
She laughs and hiccups.
She looks at her ring again, flexes her fingers.
“It fits,” she says.
“I guessed,” he says.
“You guessed right,” she says. “You know my ring size. That’s creepy.”
“You leave your rings on my table,” he says. “I measured one with a coin.”
She stares. “You really thought it through.”
“I didn’t want it to fall off in the sink,” he says.
She presses her lips together, fighting another wave. It hits anyway. One more tear escapes.
“Fuck,” she mutters. “I’m happy. It hurts.”
He reaches up and cups her face with one hand, thumb catching the next tear before it falls.
“Good,” he says.
She leans into his palm for a second, then straightens.
“We have to tell them,” she says.
“Now,” he asks.
“Not my mother,” she says. “Everyone here. If the kids find out from Instagram before we speak, it’s over.”
“Staff first,” he says. “Then kids.”
She nods. “Staff room.”
“Now,” he says.
“Now,” she says.
He grabs her coat from the back of the chair and holds it open. She slides her arms in. He adjusts the collar. His fingers brush her neck. The ring flashes as she tugs the sleeves right.
“You ready,” he asks.
“No,” she says. “But let’s go.”
He picks up his keys and phone. She grabs her umbrella.
They leave the room together.
In the hallway, a few students linger by the windows, watching the rain. One boy turns, sees them, and nudges his friend.
“Look,” he says. “History and English again.”
Sana glances at Y/N. He nods once.
She inhales, then lifts their joined hands. Her ring catches the fluorescent light.
The boy’s eyes widen. “No way.”
His friend leans in. “Is that a real ring.”
Sana stops walking. Y/N stops with her.
She faces the two boys.
“You two,” she says. “Come here.”
They shuffle closer, nervous and curious.
“You know how you keep asking if we’re dating,” she says.
Both nod, quick.
She lifts their hands a little higher. “Upgrade your rumors. We’re getting married.”
The words drop heavy and clean.
Both students explode.
“What.”
“No way.”
“Sir, is this for real.”
Y/N meets their eyes. “Yes. Keep it off social media until tomorrow or I’ll fail your next quiz.”
They both zip imaginary lips and slam their hands over their mouths, then bolt down the hall shouting anyway.
“Don’t run,” she calls after them. “And don’t post it, I’m serious.”
Their voices echo in the stairwell.
“WE KNEW IT.”
“PAY UP, PAY UP.”
She turns to Y/N.
“Well,” she says. “Too late to be subtle.”
He shrugs. “We needed messengers.”
They keep walking.
By the time they reach the staff room door, the noise inside already lifts. Someone must have texted.
He pushes the door open.
Heads turn.
Nayeon stands on a chair near the table, waving her phone. “Is it true,” she yells. “Did you two finally stop torturing us.”
Jihyo sits with a pen mid air over a form. Her mouth is set tight, but her eyes search their faces.
Other teachers look up from papers and phones.
Sana glances around the room, then at Y/N.
He nods once.
She steps in front.
“We have an announcement,” she says.
Nayeon gasps and jumps down from the chair, almost twisting her ankle.
“I knew it,” she says. “I fucking knew it.”
Jihyo sets the pen down. “Use proper language in the staff room,” she says, but her voice lacks bite.
Sana lifts her left hand. The ring catches the overhead light.
“We’re getting married,” she says.
The room erupts.
Nayeon screams and grabs Jihyo’s shoulders. Jihyo winces and shoves her off.
“You two are insane,” Jihyo says. “But… congratulations.”
She stands, walks over, and hugs Sana quick, tight, then hugs Y/N with an awkward pat on the back.
“I better not get any complaints,” she says.
“You won’t,” he says.
“From parents,” she adds. “Colleagues can complain all they want.”
Nayeon circles them like a reporter.
“When,” she says. “How. Where’s the ceremony. Can I MC. Can we do a medley performance. Can we invite the kids.”
“No,” Y/N and Sana say at the same time.
“Small ceremony,” Sana says. “Family and a few friends. We’ll think about something for the kids later.”
“You owe them,” Nayeon says. “They’ve been shipping you since homeroom.”
“We owe them exams,” Y/N says.
A few other teachers come up with handshakes and claps on the shoulders. The math teacher mutters “about time.” The science teacher asks if she can adjust the seating chart theme for the next lab to “congratulations.”
Sana’s face stays wet. Tears keep slipping, but her smile digs in deeper.
Jihyo watches her for a moment, then smirks.
“You crying in joy,” she asks.
“Yes,” Sana says without shame. “Shut up.”
Jihyo shakes her head and wipes at the corner of her own eye like something tickled it. “I’m happy for you,” she says. “Now please don’t hold hands in front of the principal.”
“No promises,” Sana says.
Y/N glances at the clock.
“We should tell the kids,” he says.
“Assembly,” Nayeon says. “Oh my god. Please let me run an assembly.”
“These are our students,” Nayeon says. “They don’t do calm.”
The next morning, the rain is gone. The sky sits clear.
Y/N and Sana walk through the gate together. No attempt to stagger. Her ring shines in the early light. His hand brushes hers twice on purpose, then catches and holds.
Kids near the gate notice in waves.
“Look.”
“Ring.”
“Is that…”
They do not hide it. They step into the yard like they did every other day, only this time their hands stay linked.
A group of second years rushes them. The class president from 2–3 plants himself in front.
“Teacher,” he says, eyes huge. “Is it real.”
“Yes,” Y/N says.
“You’re getting married,” the boy says, voice up a pitch.
“Yes,” Sana says.
A scream ripples through the group. Someone actually drops a bag. A girl starts crying. Her friend fans her face.
“We won,” another student yells. “The ‘yes before graduation’ option won.”
“Pay me,” someone else shouts. “I said it would be this year.”
Phones lift. A few kids film, but many just stare with open grins.
“Okay, enough,” Y/N says. “Homeroom in five. We’ll talk there.”
“Invite us,” a girl pleads. “We’ll be quiet, I swear.”
“You can’t even be quiet now,” Sana says.
They pull free of the clump and head toward the building. Whispers trail after them. Laughter. Claps.
On the second floor, outside Y/N’s classroom, Sana stops him.
“Wait,” she says.
He turns.
“What,” he asks.
She glances up and down the hall. Students still move, but most are in their rooms now. The bell will ring in a minute.
She looks at his face, then at the door, then back.
“We haven’t done it yet,” she says.
“Done what,” he asks.
“Something really stupid,” she says.
She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in.
He expects a quick peck. She goes longer.
She kisses him in the hallway.
Not wild. Not messy like yesterday. Just a firm, solid kiss. Right under the fluorescent lights, in full view of anyone who turns a corner.
His hands rise half an inch, then settle lightly on her waist. He kisses her back.
For a moment, the building noise drops in his head. There is just the pressure of her mouth, the faint taste of her morning coffee, the heat of her fingers bunching his shirt.
A gasp explodes behind them.
“OH MY GOD.”
They break apart and turn.
Two girls from his class stand at the corridor corner, hands clapped over their mouths, eyes huge.
Behind them, three more students crowd in. A few phones skitter up, then freeze when he narrows his eyes.
“No filming,” he says.
“Too late,” one mutters, but drops her phone anyway.
Sana laughs and covers her face with one hand. Her shoulders shake.
“You’re insane,” he says.
“You proposed,” she says. “I get to be insane once.”
The bell rings.
He looks at the gathered students.
“Homeroom,” he says. “We’ll make an official announcement. If you post anything before that, I’ll assign a ten page essay on privacy and consent.”
Groans rise. They scatter into the room, still buzzing.
He faces Sana again.
“You okay,” he asks.
She pushes her hair behind her ear, ring flashing.
“I’m… stupidly happy,” she says. “So happy it’s scary.”
He nods.
“Me too,” he says.
She looks at his mouth like she might lean in again, then pulls back.
“See you in the staff room, husband,” she says quietly.
The word hits his gut.
“Husband,” he repeats.
“You better get used to it,” she says. “I’m going to abuse it.”
She squeezes his hand once more, then lets go and moves down the hall toward her own class. A few students reached out for high fives as she passes. She sends them finger hearts instead.
He turns and steps into his classroom.
Thirty faces stare at him with open expectation.
He sets his bag down, picks up a piece of chalk, and writes the date on the board.
He turns.
“Before roll call,” he says. “Yes. The rumors are true. Miss Sana and I are getting married. No, you’re not invited. Yes, you still have a quiz next week.”
Half the room cheers. The other half groans about the quiz. A few start crying. A boy near the window whispers, “History and English. It makes sense.”
In the middle of the noise, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
[From: Sana]
[We did it]
He looks at his class, at the stupid grins and wide eyes, at the desks where his life now sits split between past and future.
Genres: Idol AU / Rom-Com to Erotica / Reverse Harem / Forced Proximity / Fake Identity
Themes:
Chaos Theory: What happens when three drunk, stressed idols decide to "hire" a random underground biker as their babysitter for the night.
The "Gap" Attraction: They hired you because you looked scary and professional. They fell for you because you were the only one who didn't care much about their weirdness but rather became more weird with them, making a camaraderie.
Kansai "Noritsukkomi" : The specific brand of Kansai humor where they tease, you react stoically but comically, and the sexual tension builds through the banter.
About:
It started with a stupid idea. Mina, Sana, and Momo escaped their hotel to visit a legendary, locals-only "Secret Bar" in the deepest, sketchiest part of Osaka.
The problem? The bouncer wouldn't let them in without a "local guarantor," and a group of aggressive "Nanpa" (pickup artists) wouldn't leave them alone.
Cornered and annoyed, Sana spotted You leaning against your matte-black 250cc bike, looking albeit fluffy faced & hair despite your big figure. You were having a small vape you bought to test and looking like the king of the underground.
Without asking, Sana marched over, grabbed your arm, and shouted at the pickup artists: "Finally! Our Manager is here! He used to be Yakuza, so beat it!"
You were just trying to finish your smoke. But looking at three desperate girls (one trying to hide her face with a scarf, the other clutching a bottle of sake), you sighed and played along. You scared the guys off, got them into the club... and then they refused to let you leave. They "hired" you on the spot as their "Exclusive Night Guardian & Fake Manager" for the rest of the tour.
Payment? A blank check.
Your Condition? They do exactly what you say.
Chapters:
Chapter - 1 : The Osaka Hijacking (MISAMO)
Chapter - 2 : Stamina Training (MOMO)
Chapter - 3 : The Manager's Pet (SANA)
Chapter - 4 : The Late Night Clause (MINA)
Chapter - 5 : The Midosûji Scandal (MISAMO)
==================================
:3 Hello, Kyunghwannie, here.
Yeah, yeah, i know, i know, many of you are cursing me for making so many projects but not releasing. But i want ya to trust me, gremlins. Iam actively making those. Y'all need to trust me. Y'all gonna be fed 🐥🧎♂️
> park jihyo (n.) : the switch type of leader personified; the girl who waited ten years to hold the world in her hands.
it’s the way she looks at her members like they are the only things that matter. it’s the way her voice can fill a stadium but still feel like a personal lullaby. to our fearless leader, our god jihyo, our eternal center.
thank you for never giving up. thank you for the ten years of waiting and the years of running that followed. thank you for being the pillar that holds twice together, for being the shoulder they lean on, and the smile that brightens our darkest days.
twenty-nine looks beautiful on you. may this year be filled with as much warmth as you give to us.
now playing: closer – jihyo
1:01 ───⊙─────── 3:24
I physically cannot comprehend that Park Jihyo is 29. TWENTY. NINE. Like??? Ma'am??? Did you discover the fountain of youth during Signal era and just gatekeep it from the rest of us?? She is literally aging in reverse while I am here rotting in front of my laptop refreshing AO3. 💀💀💀
Let’s look at the material, folks:
THE VOCALS: 🗣️🎤 When she hits those high notes, my skin clears, my crops water, and my writer’s block is miraculously cured.
THE LEADER ENERGY: The way she herds 8 chaotic feral cats (affectionate) is the only leadership inspo I need.
THE THIGHS: I don’t even need to elaborate. If you know, you know. I am looking disrespectfully. 👁️👄👁️
AS A FANFIC WRITER, TODAY IS A HOLIDAY.
Every photo dropped today is fueling at least 3 new AUs in my head and I am struggling.
Jihyo in a suit? CEO AU where she buys my company just to fire me.
Jihyo smiling? Fluff oneshot where she's the barista who remembers my order.
Jihyo existing? 500k word slow burn Enemies-to-Lovers soulmate AU.
(btw update on my "When Hearts Remember" fic coming soon, i swear, stop yelling at me in the comments 😭✋)
To our God Jihyo:
Thank you for years of training hell just to emerge as the diamond you are. Thank you for being the glue of TWICE. Thank you for Killin' Me Good and absolutely destroying my sanity. 🛐🛐🛐
I hope you eat all the good food and Sana gives me (yes, me, not you) a kiss (ON CHEEK OR LIPS I DON'T CARE I WILL WRITE ABOUT IT EITHER WAY).
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧ ALL HAIL GODDESS JIHYO ✧･ﾟ: ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ)
Now if you'll excuse me, I’m going to go stream Zone until my neighbors call the police and cry over fancams from 2018.
🎂 ONE YEAR OF BEING ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED ON THE DASH!! 🎂
(Date Of Joining: January 19, 2025)
(First Fic: February 22, 2025)
ASDFGHJKL;!! Can we actually believe it?? It has been exactly 365 days since I opened this blog and decided to make my terminal TWICE brain rot everyone else’s problem. That’s right, it’s the one-year anniversary of Kyunghwannie (aka me), your resident professional delulu and full-time TWICE enthusiast! ✍🫠
If you told me a year ago that I’d spend my year analyzing the way Mina blinks or writing 10k words on why Jihyo is the only reason the sun rises and I'd give her my soul... I would’ve said "ONLY 10k? Those are rookie numbers." 🤡
📊 THE "STATE OF THE BLOG" REPORT:
– Hours Spent Writing: 6000..Or 9000 who knows
– Hours Spent "Researching" (Watching 4K fancams for 'plot'): Over 9,000. (DBZ reference?!)
– Sanity Level: Negative. Gone. It left the building during the 2025 tour and never came back.
– Current Status: Barking at my computer screen because Momo posted a single blurry mirror selfie.
Let’s be real—I am not just a writer. I am a sufferer. I write because my heart is physically too small to hold my love for nine (9) incredible women. You guys see my fics and think, "Oh, Kyunghwannie has such a vivid imagination!" No, bestie. That’s not imagination. That’s me being SO DOWN BAD that I can hear the color of Nayeon’s laugh. I am writing through the tears of being a mere mortal while the School Meal Adventurers exist in the same timeline as me.
🐥 THE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION (GET IN HERE!)
To celebrate us surviving a year of my unhinged tags and "Coming Soon" drafts that haunt my nightmares, I’m opening the floodgates:
THE "KIND-OF-EXPOSED" ASK GAME: Send me a member + a trope + a song or whatever, and I will write a "Quick & Dirty" micro-fic (or just a very unhinged headcanon).
DRAFT REVEAL: I’m slowly going to post the most chaotic, out-of-context sentences from my "Never-To-Be-Published" folder. Prepare for the second-hand embarrassment. It's like snippets from my "I was too far gone when I wrote this" folder. Viewer discretion advised.
HUG A WRITER: Just kidding, just send me your favorite TWICE gif and tell me who your bias is so we can scream about them together.
💌 TO MY FELLOW ONCES...
Serious talk for two seconds (gross, I know): Thank you for being here. This blog started as a place for me to scream into the void about TWICE, and you guys actually screamed back. Every "I’m crying in the club" tag and every keyboard smash in my inbox is fuel for my fire.
You guys letting me be this delusional feel like a community event. Here’s to another year of us losing our minds every time the twice account tweets. 🥂💖
I hope you’re all hydrated and ready for some news because the brain worms are back, they’ve had their coffee, and they are thriving. I’m currently oscillating between "I am a literary genius" and "How do words even work?" but the grind never stops.
Here is the The State of the Union (aka what I’ve been cooking in the kitchen):
🎙️ "When Heart Remembers" – Park Jihyo Update
Status: Part 2 is currently being birthed into existence.
Listen, Part 1 was just the appetizer. Part 2 is the main course, the dessert, and the emotional damage all rolled into one. I am working through the progress as we speak. God Jihyo is testing me, but the vision is clear. If you thought your heart was safe... it’s not.
🍬 Sana: The "Best of Both Worlds" Special
Status: In Progress / Writing with one hand (Wait, what? No—).
We’re getting Sana Fluff, but because I contain multitudes, we’re sprinkling in that Smut seasoning. It’s sweet, it’s spicy, it’s everything Sana is. Prepare for dental cavities and a fever. The duality is real and I am but a humble servant to the cause. 🐹
🌌 The "AURORA" Series (9-Part Project)
Status: Vibe Check Passed.
I have been listening to Penomeco’s AURORA on a loop until my ears are actually glowing. This is a 9-part one-shot series where every TWICE member gets a story infused with those specific neon-soaked, late-night, ethereal lyrics.
Think: ✨Aesthetic✨,
Think: ✨Atmosphere✨
Think: ✨I haven’t slept in three days✨.
I NEED YOUR BIG BRAIN ENERGY
My Patreon supporters are knocking on my door asking for another Patreon Special Fic and I am currently staring at a wall. I need ideas!
I’m running a Poll of 3 Members to see who gets the spotlight this time. Who are we feeling?
Drop a comment or hit the ask box with your thoughts/prompts! Help me write!
(Note : To those who are getting saddened, Don't worry. The patreon special fic will be dropped for free later after It's released in Patreon for a while)
Choose :3
🐧Mina (Ballerina angst? Gamer gf? The possibilities are endless.)
