THE DICTIONARY OF BRUISED PETALS ✶ Chwe Vernon
SYNOPSIS. You’re devastated to discover that your flower shop’s latest high-profile wedding booking belongs to Hansol’s family, your first love and deepest heartbreak. Believing he’s the groom, you silently endure designing the perfect romantic day, only interacting with the bride and the planner to protect your own heart.
PARING. Vernon x F!Reader
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non idol!au, exes to lovers, second chance, comedy, angst, smut.
WC. 25k
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. HEAVY miscommunication, the names Hannah, Angela, Leonor and Poppy are being used, small (tiny even) car accident, swearing, panic attack symptoms, mentions of parkinson's disease, light alcohol use, jealousy/mild possessive behavior, lots of making out, brief dry humping, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering, eating out, soft dom!hansol, body worship, hair pulling, multiple positions (only two but).
AN. 1. I chose to ignore the fact that Hansol has a pollen allergy. 2. I loved writing this. There's a lot of my personal life in this story, and I'm honestly really proud of how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 3. The meanings of the flowers mentioned in this comes from a very, very old magazine that belongs to my great aunt (we're talking 2003), so credits to Editora Abril (i guess). 4. I'd also like to say that this is very late lol, but I'm happy it's finally here.
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. moving along - 5 seconds of summer, minto pra quem perguntar - anavitoria, love me again - v, a couple minutes - olivia dean, if you leave me - seventeen, i'm scared i’ll never sleep again - 5 seconds of summer, still - niall horan, come back to me - rm, lover of mine - 5 seconds of summer.
— This is written for @svthub' First Blooms Collab ! Thank you so much for hosting the collab and for letting me be a part of it!
Blue violets — melancholy of lost love and the pain of being forgotten.
The sheer, unadulterated irony of life is that it doesn't just kick you when you're down. It waits until you're wearing your favorite blouse, gives you a dazzling smile, and then shoves your face into a puddle of mud. Or, in your case, a puddle of very expensive imported white hydrangeas.
You're sitting on the edge of your office desk, starting down at a piece of paper that feels less like a financial lifeline and more like a beautifully calligraphed nightmare: a retainer check.
How can a retainer check be a nightmare, you ask?
Well, the number written on it is large enough to cover your shop's rent for the next nine months, pay your employees for the rest of the year, replace the temperamental walk-in cooler that has been threatening to freeze your hydrangeas to death since October, and still leave enough to tackle the thousand other expensive problems lurking in both your business and personal life.
But it's the last name signed in the bottom right corner that's making the room spin.
Chwe.
You see, New York City has over eight million people. It spans five massive boroughs, boasts thousands of blocks, and houses hundreds of high-end floral designers who would gladly sacrifice their firstborn child for a wedding budget this astronomical. If you want a floral arch in Manhattan, you're spoiled for choice.
Yet, out of every flower shop on the island, the universe decided to guide this specific bride right through the glass doors of Poppy's Garden.
It's hilarious, really. If you don't laugh, you're probably going to throw up.
"Y/N, sweetie, are you still with us?" Angela's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.
As one of Manhattan's most sought-after wedding planners, she's known for two things: flawless events and a bun the size of a pear, pulled so tight it could double as a facelift. It isn't the first wedding you've worked with her, and judging by her ever-growing client list, it certainly won't be the last.
"Yes! Sorry," you say, blinking yourself back to the present as you quickly force your lips into a bright, professional smile. A few quick blinks bring the two women seated across from your desk back into focus. "Just… marveling at the scope of this. It's an incredible vision, Hannah."
Hannah — the bride to be — beams at you. She is quite literally a walking angel. With glossy, shoulder length hair, a soft laugh, and eyes that crinkle at the corners whenever she talks about her upcoming wedding. She's impossible to hate. Over the last forty-five minutes of your consultation, she hasn't made a single bridezilla demand. She even brought you a latte from the café down the street because she remembered you mentioning it in your initial email thread.
She is lovely. She is kind. And you're currently fighting the deeply irrational urge to bolt out the back door because you're almost certain she's marrying the love of your life.
"I know it's a lot," Hannah ventures, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees. A massive diamond ring nearly blinds you for a split second. "But the moment I saw your portfolio online, I told Angela this is it. Your style is so romantic, so organic. I don't want traditional arrangements. I want something that feels alive."
The corners of your mouth lift. "You came to the right place."
"And when I told my in-laws about you, they insisted we book you immediately. They said my fiancé and I deserved nothing but the absolute best."
Your stomach lurches violently. Yep, you might actually throw up.
When the initial inquiry form landed in your inbox two weeks ago, signed simply by Hannah's Events, you'd noticed the groom's last name buried in the details: Chwe & Yang. A knot of suspicion had settled in your gut right then. Hansol's last name wasn't exactly rare, but it wasn't particularly common in New York high society either.
Of course, you had brushed it off. Don't be ridiculous, you told yourself. You're just projecting. You hadn't seen or spoken to him in four years, and now you were convinced every Chwe in the tri-state area was him.
But seeing his father's full name printed right there on the memo line of the check was no coincidence. It was simply all the confirmation you needed.
You stare down at the signature again. The man who used to grill burgers for you on the rare weekends you and Hansol managed to escape your university schedules and visit his family home. The same man who had looked at you with concern during your final semester, knowing—just as you and Hansol had known—that the two of you were about to be pulled in opposite directions.
Did they know the shop belonged to you now? Would they have sent Hannah there on purpose?
You want to believe—and hope—not. There's no way they could have known. You changed the shop's name when you took over, renovated the whole space. Besides, Hansol's parents had never been unpleasant or cruel to you. If anything, they loved you like a daughter throughout your entire relationship.
"So…" Angela pulls you back as she taps her pen against her iPad screen, eyes narrowing slightly, clocking your sudden drop of energy. "The budget covers the rehearsal dinner, the full ceremony installation, the reception, bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids, boutonnieres, twenty-five grand in table centerpieces, and so much more. We need a firm commitment today, Y/N.”
Angela had never been one to beat around the bush. Time was money, and you knew that better than anyone, because it was for you too.
“So, if your shop can't handle a production this size, I have three other florists on standby."
Say no, your brain screams. Tell her you're fully booked. Tell her you have a sudden rose allergy. Tell her you're closing the shop and moving.
You look past Angela's shoulder, out in front window of your shop. A couple walks by, laughing, as they duck from a sudden drizzle. Inside, the shelves are beautifully curated, filled with imported vases, delicate terrariums, and the fragrant scent of eucalyptus and fresh-cut roses. This shop is everything you have sacrificed over the last four years.
When university ended, you knew Hansol was going to Los Angeles to chase his dreams in music. You had every intention of following him, hoping to land a position at a prestigious botanical conservatory, a future your degree in botany had made possible, and one you'd been working toward for years.
Then the bomb dropped, and just like that, the choice to take over the shop was made for you.
You loved each other fiercely. You had tried the long-distance thing, the late-night calls, the clashing time zones, counting down the hours just to hear his voice. But love, in the end, hadn't been enough to bridge the gap between you.
And the thing is… if you reject this contract, you might not be able to pay rent next month. The landlord has already sent his second warning. If you walk away to protect your bruised, fragile little heart from watching your first love marry someone as lovely and adorable as Hannah, you lose the very business you broke up with him to keep.
Talk about a cosmic joke.
"Y/N?" Hannah's voice pulls you back to the present yet again, her brows furrowing with genuine concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale. We can totally scale back the thousand peonies if it's too much for your team—"
"No!" you blurt out, voice a little too high, a little too desperate. You quickly smooth down your apron, fingers pressing the fabric flat, and paste a reassuring smile back onto your face. "No, Hannah, I'm so sorry. I was just mentally calculating the flower orders."
Guilt needles at you for lying to someone so nice as her. But what else can you do? Tell her the truth? Yeah, absolutely not.
You swallow hard, then press on. "Summer is a busy season the Dutch auctions, and I want to make sure we secure the best batches for you. The thousand peonies are entirely doable." You manage another smile, somehow steadier this time. "It's going to be breathtaking."
Hannah lets out an audible and visible sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping. "Oh, thank goodness. You really scared me for a second. I've been dreaming about this since I was a little girl."
Another wave of guilt settles into your chest. Looking at Hannah, you feel like a monster. She's sitting there, entirely innocent, sharing her dream wedding with a florist who used to blow her fiancé under the table when he was working from home. She doesn't know. To her, you're just a vendor helping build her fairytale. To you, she's the woman living the life with Hansol that you had to let go of.
And you can't ask about him. You seriously cannot bring yourself to say his name out loud in this context. Where he is the groom and you're not the bride.
Angela claps her hands together once, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening inside your head. "Excellent!" She slides a thick, leather-bound contract across the table toward you. "If you'll just sign on the dotted line, we can lock in the timeline. We'll be handling all communication through my office, of course. Hannah is very busy with dress fitting, and the groom is currently out of state, so you won't have to worry about coordinating with him at all. It'll just be us."
He's out of state right now. Of course he is. You'd bet you even know the address.
"Perfect!" Your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up the pen. In your ears, your voice seems to belong to someone else. "That sounds perfectly fine."
You don't look at Hannah as you press the pen to the paper. You don't think about Hansol's laughter, or the way his brown hair looked when you ran your fingers through it, or the promises you made in a cramped dorm room, ones that neither of you could keep. You just focus on the blue ink flowing onto the page, binding you to the biggest contract of your shop, and the absolute worst nightmare of your life.
Pink eglantines — a wound that will not heal.
Nothing says out-of-body experience quite like standing in your ex-boyfriend's parent's backyard, clipboard in hand, discussing the placement of fifty thousand dollars' worth of imported white hydrangeas for his wedding to another woman. Forget roller coasters. If someone asked you for a guaranteed adrenaline rush, you'd recommend this instead.
You didn't even have so much as the luxury of a warning. One minute you were plugging the address into your GPS, convincing yourself it was just another private estate in Scarsdale, and then next, your beat-up delivery van was rolling past a set of wrought-iron gates you had driven through a thousand times before.
Your feet automatically steer around the loose stone on the third step of the grand patio as you walk in, guided by nothing more than muscle memory. You know better than stepping on it. Hansol used to trip over it every single time you were here, despite knowing it was there. You know they've probably fixed it by now, but your body avoids it instinctively.
Beyond the patio, the massive, rolling insanely green backyard stretches out before you, looking exactly as it did in your memories. Only now, it's being measured for Hansol's wedding.
Considering everything, you're not surprised your heart is currently performing a full Olympic gymnastics floor routine inside your ribcage instead of simply skipping a few beats.
On the bright side, Angela and Hannah had both mentioned that Hansol was out of state, which meant he didn't have time to be here. And really, that was the only thing keeping you from climbing back into your van and driving to literally any other state instead of heading back into the city.
"Y/N, look at this space." Hannah's voice bubbles with pure excitement as she sweeps her arm toward the perfectly manicured lawn. "We're thinking the main floral arch should go right between those two ancient oak trees. What do you think?"
You swallow the dry lump in your throat the size of a golf ball. You were there for a topographical venue preview, florist speak for scoping out exactly how much rigging you'd need to suspend thousands of dollars' worth of foliage around the space and turn it into something out of a fairytale
"It's… it's beautiful, Hannah," you manage to squeak out, your throat drier than the dehydrated fern on your left.
You grip your clipboard a little tighter, holding it like a shield against the ghosts of your own past trying to hunt you down.
You know exactly how the light hits those oak trees at sunset. You know that because Hansol kissed you breathless against the trunk of the left one the first time he brought you here, exactly at sunset. So yes, professionally speaking, it's a perfect location. Every photograph taken beneath it will be breathtaking.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the memory away as you pretend it's just the sunlight bothering them.
Professional. You are a professional. Look at the perimeter. Measure the archway. Leave.
Before you can spiral any further, you take a deep breath, raise your laser measuring tape, and aim it at the lower branches of the oak tree.
You're focused on measuring and writing everything down when, a few minutes later, the distinct scent of a jasmine perfume drifts through the small boxwood hedges. Every survival instinct you own kicks into overdrive. You know that perfume very well because it belongs to Hansol's mother. It's the same one that used to linger on the hugs she'd pull you into whenever you arrived for Sunday dinners. You know it by heart.
"Hannah, dear, you have to see the caterer's mock-up for the champagne tower!"
Her voice slices through the air, sweet and melodic as ever. Your entire body locks up, pencil freezes against the paper, blood draining from your face so fast you actually feel dizzy.
Hannah waves happily toward the veranda. "Oh, there's my mother-in-law! Eomeonim, this is—"
You don't think. You just act.
"You know what?" you cut her off. "I need to go measure the clearance on the side gate really quickly. I just want to make sure our delivery carts can fit."
The lie slips out effortlessly, punctuated by nervous laughter, your feet already carrying you backward.
"I'll just be a minute!"
Without waiting for Angela or Hannah to reply, you duck behind a massive, towering trellis covered in ivy, pressing your back against the wooden slats. You hold your breath, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. Through the gaps in the leaves, you watch Mrs. Chwe glide down the stone steps, looking immaculate in a polka-dot dress.
She's gesturing toward the very spot you were standing thirty seconds ago as she speaks, "It's going to be placed right over there, near the rose garden," Mrs. Chwe explains to someone you can't see.
"It's perfect, eomeonim," Hannah says, her voice carrying genuine excitement. "You've been so incredibly helpful. I know how much this must be."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Chwe replies, stopping just a few feet away from your hiding spot. You hold your breath for what feels like the hundredth time since you got here, terrified that the erratic thumping of your heart might give you away. "It is my absolute pleasure."
You watch her gently stroke Hannah's arm, and something pinches in your chest. You can't stop thinking that you've stood in that exact spot in her life before.
Mrs. Chwe continues, turning her attention to Angela. "Our family has hosted many events here, but this one is different. It has to be flawless."
"It will be," Angela answers smoothly. If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it. "That's why we assembled the best team possible."
She nods once, satisfied. "It is my son’s big day, after all." Her gaze sweeps across the lawn, taking in the measurements, the sketches, the carefully marked plans. A smile softens her features. "He deserves nothing but absolute perfection."
My son's big day.
You brain desperately claws for an alternative—any alternative—but your own memories immediately slam the door shut.
It couldn't be his brother. It simply couldn't.
You vividly remember sitting at their family dinner table, listening as Seungcheol raised his glass and toasted to his freedom after his latest brutal breakup. He'd declared, loud enough for the entire family to hear, that he was going to remain a bachelor for life and leave Hansol and — ironically — you to carry on with the family name.
In your memories, Seungcheol was a cynical and independent corporate workaholic who viewed marriage as nothing more than a bad business merger. Hansol was the romantic one, even if he had his own, very particular, way of showing it. So, if a Chwe son was finally standing beneath a floral arch in the backyard, the math pointed to only one devastating conclusion.
You cannot stay here. You cannot spend another second scouting this property without throwing up your breakfast all over their perfect lawn.
You wait through agonizingly five long minutes until Mrs. Chwe links her arm through Hannah's and guides her back toward the sweeping doors of the sunroom. The moment the doors click shut behind them, you practically sprint toward the front of the house, this time tripping on the third step of the grand patio but barely registering it.
You throw yourself into the driver's seat of your cargo van at record speed, slamming the door shut behind you, hands shaking so violently you drop the keys twice before finally jamming them into the ignition. You put the van into reverse, back out of the side lot, and start down the long driveway, making a mental note to text Angela and apologize for the sudden escape.
You just want to get back to the safety of your flower shop. To bury yourself in your flowers and customer invoices and pretend none of this is happening.
You don't even realize you're crying until you feel the wet streak on your cheek, your vision starting to blur with frustrated tears, mind a swirling tornado of grief and panic. You press your foot harder on the gas, reversing the van far too fast down the gravel path, so consumed by the panic that you barely register what happens next until it's already a disaster.
See, the house has a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, thick-trunked oak trees—just like the ones in the garden—forming a blind curve near the iron gates at the entrance. On the drive out, the only thought in your mind is that you just need to reach the street, back to the safety of city asphalt.
You even check your rear-view mirror for a fraction of a second, clearing the blind curve. But apparently, whoever is watching over you isn't on your side today.
BAM.
It isn't a tap, much less a gentle bump. It's a bone rattling, deafening crunch of metal on metal that throws you forward against your seatbelt, the strap locking painfully across your collarbone. The van lurches to a violent halt shattered plastic, screeching tires, then the sickening hiss of a damaged radiator.
"Oh my god," you gasp in horror, the wind completely knocked out of you. "No, no, no, no."
Great. Perfect. Just what your terrible, horrible day needed: some rich delivery driver—or a catering scout, whatever—rear-ending your bumper. Rage, hot and bubbling and fueled entirely by heartbreak, surges in to replace your panic.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you yell at the empty cabin.
One of your hands flies to your face, rubbing your temples as a shockwave of adrenaline floods your system. You throw the van into park, your legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti as you shove your door open and step out onto the gravel driveway, ready to absolutely lose your shit on whoever hit you.
Directly behind your delivery van, its front bumper aggressively crumpled against your rear doors, is a sleek, dark, expensive-looking SUV. Smoke, or maybe steam, curls lazily from the cracked grille of the black car.
It doesn't take a genius to realize the accident might have been your fault after all. Of course it has.
You let out a small whine, an incredulous sigh escaping you.
"I am so sorry!" Your voice crackles as you rush toward the driver's side of the SUV. "I was backing up too fast, I didn't see you coming around the—"
The driver's door swings open, and within seconds it takes the person to step out of the car, your breath hitches so sharply you choke on the crisp air.
Hansol.
He's much taller now. How is he possibly taller? Aren't people supposed to stop growing at a certain age?
Even though years have gone by, he still looks as boyish as ever, complemented by the sharp angles of his jaw and his naturally relaxed shoulders. His eyes are exactly the same kind of brown, only even more beautiful under the sunlight, currently widening in absolute, unadulterated shock as they lock onto your face.
His hair is shorter than you remember, still graced by the most perfect shade of brown you’ve ever seen, and goddammit, how did the hell get more handsome?
The silence that settles between you bothers you more than you care to admit. The universe seems to pause somehow, and for a second, you think even the birds stop singing. Even the hissing radiator seems to hold its breath.
You stare at each other across the three feet of gravel separating you, neither blinking, nor entirely convinced the other is real and not just a stress-induced hallucination.
God, you're going to throw up.
"Y/N?"
His voice is deeper than you remember. A rough, gravelly sound that sends a shockwave straight down your spine.
"Hansol…" you breathe out, unsure whether you didn't pass out minutes ago and are now hallucinating.
You wrap your arms around your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of your dirt-stained slacks and the messy ponytail piled on top of your head.
He stares at you like he's seeing a ghost, eyes scanning your face as if trying to confirm you’re actually standing on his parent's driveway. "What… what are you doing here?"
You swallow against the dry sand in your throat, forcing your spine completely straight as you point a trembling finger toward your vehicle.
Do not cry, you scold yourself.
Hansol's eyes quickly dart from your face to the massive vinyl logo plastered across the side of your battered van, and then up toward the sprawling estate behind you. A look of deep confusion still washes over his features, his eyebrows pulling together.
"I, um. My shop. We're… I'm doing the wedding. The flowers."
He blinks once, then twice, the confusion slowly melting away and being replaced by something else. You might be hallucinating, but you swear you see the faintest trace of a proud smile tug at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain clouded with something you can't quite read.
"Oh. So… things are going great for you, then."
"Yeah," you lie, voice tight and brittle. "It's going great. Really great."
"That's… that's amazing, Y/N. Truly. I always knew you'd make it happen."
He keeps nodding slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. He rocks back on his heels, gaze sweeping over you enough to make your skin burn. He doesn't mention Hannah. He doesn't mention the wedding. He doesn't bring up the fact that his family home is being transformed into a bridal wonderland, and you certainly aren't going to congratulate him on finding your replacement.
You just want to run.
"Your hair," he murmurs, eyes lifting to your long messy ponytail and the stray pieces framing your face. For a second, you almost think he's going to touch it by the way he pulls his hands from his pockets. But he doesn't. "It's long now."
Your hand twitches, a desperate urge to reach up and touch your hair, to hide behind it.
When you were dating, your hair never fell past your shoulders. You liked keeping it short enough that it never got in the way, especially considering your hands were constantly buried in soil and plants. But after the breakup, you barely had time for a haircut, so you simply let it grow, cutting the ends whenever they started getting too long, and—
Why is he looking at you like that?
"It grew," you say stupidly, your brain unable to form a reasonable thought with him staring at you. You take a step back, gesturing frantically toward the smashed bumpers of your cars. "Look, Hansol, I am so sorry about the car. It was completely my fault, I was distracted. But I really, really have to go."
More like you really, really need to run and hide.
Hansol frowns, finally glancing down at the wreckage as if he'd completely forgotten the reason you were standing here in the first place.
"You can't just drive off. The bumper is completely caved in. We need to exchange insurance information. I need to get this fixed for you—"
"It's fine, Hansol, really. It's a work van. It already had a few dings," you rush to assure him, backing up toward the driver's side door. The urge to escape becomes almost overwhelming.
You had rehearsed this moment in your head countless times. Different versions where you would meet again, realize the breakup had been stupid, and decide you should spend the rest of your lives together, growing old and gray-haired side by side.
None of them involved a wedding to someone else, and definitely not a wrecked bumper.
"Y/N, please. Don't be stubborn," he insists, stepping closer. The proximity is dizzying. "I—"
"No, no, it's fine!" you interrupt, panic rising in your chest again. You can't be here. You can no longer stand three feet away from him, smelling his cologne underneath the strong scent of crushed radiator fluid.
"At least give me your number. Or your contact info. I'll have my insurance handle it, or I'll just write you a check directly. Please."
Realizing he isn't going to let you leave until he has a way to resolve it, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you pull out a pink business card. You hold it out, careful not to let your fingers brush when he takes it. You're sure you'd melt right there if they did, and you've already had enough emotions for a day.
"Here. This is the shop’s card," you stammer, hesitant, because you don't really want to give him access to you, especially not now that he's tying the knot with your most expensive client. "My cell phone number is on the back. Just… send me the bill for your car. Whatever the mechanic says, I'll pay it. I have insurance."
He looks down at the card, his thumb tracing over the name printed in gold. "Poppy's Garden," he reads quietly.
You just nod.
"I really have to go," you blurt out, frantically checking your bare wrist as if you're wearing a watch. "I'm on a super tight schedule. I'm supposed to pick up Poppy from school, and if I'm late, she'll never let me hear the end of it."
"How's Poppy?" Hansol looks up, a genuine spark of curiosity breaking through his expression. "Wow. She must be, what, fourteen now. Tell her I said hi."
You ignore what him correctly guessing your sister's age makes you feel inside. "I will," you lie, knowing there's no way on earth you're going to tell your little sister that you've run into the guy who broke your heart and hers.
You grab the handle of your van door and pull it open, ready to climb back into your safe, insulated bubble. But as you set one foot on the running board, the crushing weight of the situation catches up to you.
The unfairness of it all twists in your gut.
You stop, knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the car door, turning your head to look back at Hansol—who is still standing in the same spot where you left him, looking like he saw a ghost—over your shoulder. The sun filters through the trees, casting shadows across his face.
Your eyes burn, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.
"I didn’t know, Hansol," you say. A half-truth. A half-lie. Your voice cracks just a little, betraying the tough exterior you've tried so hard to hold up. "I didn't know this wedding was for your family. If I had known, I would have said no."
Hansol stands frozen on the gravel, your business card caught in his hand so tightly it's starting to bend. The wind rustles the leaves of the old oak trees behind him, pushing strands of his hair across his face.
He stares at you for a moment too long. Finally, his shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, sadness washing over his beautiful features, making you want to do something—anything—to take it away from him. Only to realize that it is not your job anymore.
He doesn't argue, though. He just swallows and gives you a small, gentle nod. "It's fine, Y/N," he finally says, stepping back from the van. "Drive safe."
You pull the door shut, shift the van into drive, and pull away, leaving Hansol standing in the small wreckage of your brief collision, utterly oblivious to the fact that he's breaking your heart all over again.
Lilac — the magic of first love and youthful innocence.
The university greenhouse smelled strongly of damp potting soil and fertilizer. You sat on the edge of a metal workstation; your high Converse braced against a bag of perlite. Across your lap a battered, leather-bound copy of The Dictionary of Flowers.
It wasn't assigned reading for the botany peer tutoring session you were supposed to be running, but it was a Tuesday evening, and no one had walked through the doors in the last forty minutes—which wasn't unusual. Botany wasn't exactly a popular subject, and most people weren't interested in spending their free time studying plants.
Well... except you.
You flipped to the section on purple hyacinths, tracing a finger down the yellowed page. Sorrow. Please forgive me. It was a contrast to the bright, cheerful marigolds on the previous page, which apparently symbolized grief and cruelty despite looking like little bursts of sunshine. The book was ridiculous, highly unscientific, and entirely captivating.
A metallic screech echoed through the greenhouse as the heavy glass door was shoved open.
You looked up quickly, closing the book over your thumb to keep your place.
A guy stepped into the humid room, stopping past the threshold. He was wearing an oversized grey hoodie with the university logo faded across the front and carrying a single, battered-looking notebook under his arm. His hair was a bit messy, falling into his eyes as he looked around the rows of hanging ferns and tables covered in starter pots. He didn't look like the typical biology majors who came in to whine about memorizing the Krebs cycle; he just looked completely out of place.
"Is this the botany tutoring thing?" he asked. His voice was so calm and unhurried it seems to bounce off the glass walls.
"If you're here because you're trying not to fail your midterm, you're in the right place," you said, hopping down from the workstation. Your sneakers hit the floor with a dull thud. "I'm Y/N."
"Hansol," he replied, walking over with an unhurried stride.
He didn't seem stressed about the fact that the exam was in forty-eight hours at all. He stopped on the other side of the metal table, dropping his notebook onto the zinc surface.
"My advisor said if I don't pass this elective, I'll lose my studio hours next semester. Apparently, music production majors still need to know how photosynthesis works."
"A very important subject for sonography." You smiled at him sympathetically, pulling a stary piece of dried eucalyptus out of your hair and tossing it toward the trash can. "Okay, Hansol. What are we struggling with? Plant anatomy? Taxonomy?"
He sighed, leaning his hip against the table and shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "All of it." He wasn't frantic or embarrassed; he was just stating a fact. Then, his eyes drifted down to the leather-bound book you were still clutching. "Damn, is that a book just about plants?"
From the calm, even way he spoke, you couldn't tell whether he was making fun of you or not. You hoped he wasn't.
"Ah… not really. It's a Victorian flower dictionary," you said, feeling a sudden, slight flush of embarrassment. You set it down on the table, the cover flaking a tiny bit of leather onto the metal. "It assigns emotions and messages to different plants. It's completely useless for your test."
Hansol tilted his head, looking at the ornate, gold-foiled scrip on the cover. He reached out with two fingers and flipped the book open to a random page. His eyes scanned the text for a second.
"Geraniums. Gentility?" He looked up, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. "People actually used to send these to each other instead of texting?"
You giggled. "Yep," you said, pulling the biology textbook from your backpack to get down to business. "If you sent someone a yellow carnation, it meant you disdained them. Total rejection. It was the original left on read."
Hansol lets out a quiet laugh, the sound genuine enough to make you wonder whether he was actually interested or simply being polite. He didn’t immediately turn his attention to the textbook. Instead, his eyes lingered on your face, watching the way you animatedly explained the ridiculous historical trivial. There was a calm, observant stillness about him, a total lack of the usual frantic energy most college students carried.
You didn't know it then, but Hansol found the whole thing mildly entertaining. More importantly, he found you interesting.
"What about those? " he asked, nodding toward a tray of bruised, slightly wilted purple flowers sitting in the corner of your workstation. They had clearly been discarded from a lab session earlier in the day, their petals torn and dark at the edges.
You glanced over at the sad little pile. "Those are cyclamen. In the dictionary, they usually mean resignation or goodbye. Like something that's already broken."
Hansol looked at the bruised petals, then backed up at you. His expression didn't turn overly sentimental; he just nodded slowly, absorbing the information.
"Cruel," he murmured smoothly, finally pulling his notebook toward him and clicking open a pen. "Alright, teach. Show me the stuff that's actually on the test so I can keep my studio space."
For the first forty minutes of the session, you helped Hansol with everything he needed to know for tomorrow's exam, giving him practice exercises along the way. Surprisingly, he breezed through every single one of them. His eyes stayed fixed on you as you explained each concept, following every word with attentiveness that made you think he really wanted his studio time back—which could only meant he really needed a good grade.
"Damn, you're really into plants, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. It was an observation, delivered as he leaned back against the stool with an amused smile.
You gave him a small, sheepish shrug. "Are you making fun of me?"
Most people usually did.
His eyes went impossibly wide, and for the first time, Hansol looked genuinely shaken, as though the idea that you might think he'd make fun of you genuinely bothered him.
“No, no—God, no,” he rushed out, his voice suddenly frantic as a stream of frantic no's tumbled from his mouth.
He dragged a hand through his brown hair, the tips of his ears turning an unexpected shade of pink. It was the absolute first crack in his cool, unbothered facade.
"I wasn't making fun of you," he clarified, his voice back to its usual low pitch, though there was a sudden earnestness there. "I think it's cool. You actually care about this stuff."
You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, the defensive tension completely draining from your shoulders. "Oh. Well... thanks."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat and picked up his pen. "Now, show me how these plant cells work so I don't fail."
The rest of the session went smoothly. By the time the clock hit nine, he had aced the practice midterm. You started zipping up your backpack, fully expecting him to grab his notebook and bolt back to his dorm like every other student would do.
Instead, Hansol slid his notebook into his bag and casually started helping you close. He grabbed a broom to sweep up some spilled potting soil while you wiped down the zinc tables. He even helped you heave the heavy bag of perlite back into the storage closet, completely unfazed by the white dust getting on his hoodie.
"You didn't have to stay to do that," you told him as you locked the glass doors of the greenhouse.
"I know." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Which way is your dorm?"
He walked you back across campus. The walk was quiet, but it wasn't the awkward kind of silence you usually had to fill with small talk. It was just easy. You pointed out a stray campus cat sleeping on a retaining wall; he told you a little bit about the bassline he was trying to fix in his latest mixtape. By the time the bricks of your dorm building came into view, you realized you didn't actually want him to leave yet.
You stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps, turning to face him under the overly bright yellow porch light.
"Well, thanks for the help cleaning up." You smiled at him, shifting your backpack onto your shoulder. "Good luck on the midterm tomorrow. I think you're gonna ace it."
"Thanks to you."
He didn't immediately turn around to leave. Instead, Hansol rocked back on his heels, his eyes studying your face in the dim light. There was that calm, observant stillness again.
"So," he began, his tone becoming something incredibly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "It's probably too soon for me to ask you out. Like, logically."
Your mouth snapped open. You stared at him, your hand freezing halfway to the handle.
Usually, guys spend three weeks hovering around the tutoring desk, making terrible jokes, or sliding into your DMs at 2 AM before making a move. They didn't just lay their cards face-up after exactly one study session.
"I—what?" you stammered.
Hansol didn't even blink. He didn't look embarrassed or flustered by your obvious shock; he just offered a small, thoroughly amused shrug.
"I'm just being efficient." He gives another easy shrug, a small grin following close behind. "Saving us both some time. I know I want to take you out, so there's no real point in waiting three weeks to say it." He pulled one hand out of his pocket, gesturing slightly toward the building. "So. Coffee tomorrow after my exam?"
The unfiltered honesty of it gave you mental whiplash. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to be overly smooth or intensely romantic. He just liked you, knew what he wanted, and figured there was no logical reason to wait around.
You would later learn that this was simply how Hansol moved through life. He never beat around the bush. When he wanted something, he said so. He didn't believe in games. It was one of the many, many things you liked about him.
You looked at him standing there under the bad lighting with his messy hair and his calm eyes, and you couldn't stop the genuine smile that broke across your face.
"Coffee," you repeated, your voice finally steady.
"Coffee," Hansol confirmed, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back, melting into the shadows of the sidewalk. "I'll text you. Have a good night, Y/N."
Bleeding hearts — my heart is open and unguarded.
The three weeks leading up to the wedding become a masterclass in sleep deprivation and manual labor. Your fingers are perpetually stained a faint, grassy green from stripping rose thorns, your cuticles are destroyed, and you’re certain your bloodstream is now composed of roughly seventy percent caffeine.
Sleep deprivation, of course, has less to do with the flowers and more to do with the fact that you're reliving the biggest heartbreak of your life, crying yourself to sleep whenever the weight of it all becomes too much to bear.
Seungkwan and Seokmin—your two employees, who also happen to be your best friends—at times, and practically on their knees, begged you to walk away from this wedding, while insisting you were torturing and driving yourself crazy.
They weren't wrong, but you couldn't back out. You're not a twenty-two-year-old college girl anymore. You don't have the luxury of making business decisions based on your feelings. And even if you lied to them and told them you were over Hansol, he was still just a memory from a different lifetime. This shouldn't matter.
Which is why you channel every single ounce of your heartbreak, regret, and resentment straight into the foliage. If you keep your hands busy, your brain won't have the bandwidth to spiral.
That is the theory, anyway.
"Y/N, seriously, look at this texture. It's like holding a cloud."
Hannah's voice is bright as she stands by the main display table, brushing her fingertips against a plush cluster of white peonies. She looks effortlessly chic, her diamond ring catching the shop's warm pendant lights a little too eagerly. Standing right beside her is a tall woman, introduced to you twenty minutes ago as Leonor, the maid of honor from LA.
You force your lips into your practiced smile of professional vendor.
"They really are perfect, Hannah," you say, stepping out from behind the counter with a bundle of silk ribbons over your arm. "They're imported from Holland, so they'll be at maximum bloom right when you walk down the aisle. For your bridesmaids, I was thinking we tie them with this muted sage ribbon to match their dresses."
Hannah gasps, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I love that." She turns to Leonor, her eyes practically sparkling. "Didn't I tell you she was a genius? Look at how it brings out all the undertones in the fabric."
Leonor nods in agreement, making a quick note on her iPad. "It's stunning, Hannah. Your man is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you walking toward him with these."
"Ugh, don't make me cry," Hannah laughs, leaning her shoulder against Leonor's. A tender expression washes over her face. "Honestly, he's so stressed with work right now, but every time I bring up the wedding details, he just smiles and tells me to get whatever makes me happy. He's just… he's so perfect."
Hannah continues talking about how he stayed up until midnight helping her assemble the welcome baskets for the guests, even though he had a call meeting at six this morning, how he keeps telling her he just wants the day to be exactly what she's always dreamed of.
You let it wash over you, only half listening. And then you tune it out completely.
The last thing you want is to hear how good Hansol is at being someone else's perfect fiancé. It doesn't matter how kind Hannah is, or how happy she sounds; you still don't have the emotional bandwidth for that particular kind of detail.
"Stop, you're making me nauseous," you hear Leonor teasing, smiling warmly at her friend. "The man is obsessed with you. We get it."
Yep, you certainly do.
"Anyway!" Hannah turns back to you, completely oblivious to the emotional devastation she's casually causing you. "I have my final dress fitting in fifteen minutes, so we have to run. But the bouquet mock-ups look absolutely incredible, Y/N. Thank you so much."
"Of course," you manage to say, your voice steady through sheer, desperate willpower. "Have fun. I'll see you Saturday."
You watch them gather their bags, exchanging bright goodbyes as the bell above the shop door chimes softly behind them. The moment the door clicks shut, the silence of the shop rushes back in and swallows you whole.
You let out a long, shuddering exhale, your shoulders dropping as you lean your weight against the wooden counter, and look down at the beautiful white peonies, suddenly feeling incredibly small.
You grab a pair of shears and aggressively clip the end of a rogue stem, trying to shake the heavy weight from your limbs. You need a distraction. You need to wash out the plastic buckets in the back. You need to do anything that doesn't involve thinking about Hansol's midnight basket-tying sessions.
The bell above the front door chimes again.
"We're actually closing for lunch in ten minutes," you call out without looking up, your focus fixed entirely on slicing through a stubborn branch of eucalyptus. "But feel free to browse the front display if you're just looking for a quick—"
"I'm not looking for a quick bouquet, Y/N."
The shears slip from your fingers, clattering loudly against the tabletop. Your heart does a violent back flip. You raise your head slowly, eyes widening as they lock onto the figure standing just inside your doorway.
Hansol.
He's standing there looking very layered for a summer day, and far too cute for your own good. Rugged yet relaxed, he looks so achingly familiar that your chest tightens with an emotion you can't bring yourself to name. So much that, for one terrifying split second, you forget you aren't twenty-two anymore.
"Oh…" Your voice comes out breathy. You quickly wipe your damp hands against your apron, trying to ground yourself. "You… you just missed Hannah. She left literally two minutes ago. If you run toward the corner, you can probably catch her—"
"I didn't come here looking for Hannah," Hansol interrupts quietly, looking rather confused.
He doesn’t move from his spot by the door. His eyes sweep over the front of the shop, taking in the exposed brick walls, the dangling fairy lights, and the floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with geometric ceramic pots and lush, thriving monsteras.
"The place looks great," he murmurs, voice low. He finally takes a few slow steps forward, stepping deeper into the shop. "A lot different than when your parents ran it."
Your fingers grip the edge of the zinc counter tightly. "We did some renovations when I took over." You don't know why you feel the urge to update him on this, but you do. "It… it took a lot of work."
The shop hasn't always been Poppy's Garden. For twenty-five years, it had been a neighborhood staple run by your parents. Your dad was the business brain, and your mom was the visionary, the heart of it, her hands constantly covered in dirt. You had grown up hiding under these prep tables, watching them build a life from the soil up.
But life, as you were rapidly learned, didn't care about your plans.
Right around the time Hansol was packing his bags to move back across the country, the tremors started. At first, your mom just thought she was tired. Then she started dropping vases. Then came the doctor's appointments, the sterile waiting rooms, and the devastating diagnosis. Parkinson's.
It moved faster than any of you anticipated. Within a year, your dad—a man who had never missed a day of work in his life—had to step away from the shop entirely just to become her full-time caretaker. The medical bills piled up within months. The physical therapy, the home modifications, the specialized medications, it was a financial avalanche.
The shop started drowning. They were weeks away from selling the business to a commercial developer who wanted to get the building and turn it into a trendy vape lounge when you stepped in. You took the degree you had just earned, swallowed the bright, shiny dreams you had of working in California, and anchored yourself to this shop.
The bright side is that you don't regret the decision you made, and at the end of the day, you're happy and love working here.
"It suits you."
Hansol reaches out, his long fingers casually tracing the rim of a vintage terracotta vase sitting on the display table. He runs his hand over the textured surface with a slow pace, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again to lock onto your face.
From where you stand, the air feels charged with a suffocating tension that makes it hard to draw a full breath. He's standing in your shop again, the shop he knows you stayed in New York for. The shop that had essentially acted as the final barrier between your relationship four years ago.
"What are you doing here, Hansol?" you ask, dropping the vendor tone entirely. Your voice is a little defensive, a little raw. Whatever reason brought him, it certainly wasn't to catch up or talk about the place.
He let his hand drop from the vase, sliding both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He shrugs one shoulder. "I came because of the van."
Of course.
"I tried calling, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I figured the line was just busy since things are going so well."
The shop's phone is not a particularly busy line. Seokmin does a great job handing online and phone orders. But here's the thing: Hansol hasn't changed his number in the last four years, and when it started popping up on your screen—dozens of times, at least—you chose to ignore every single call, telling, or rather ordering, Seokmin to do the same.
You let out a dismissive breath, crossing your arms over your chest. You really don't want to go over this again, so you lie. "I told you, it's fine." Never mind that your van isn't currently working and you had to bike across the city to make a delivery earlier. "I already handled it. The damage is completely taken care of."
Hansol stares at you, his expression flatlining into a deadpan look that you recognize instantly. It's the exact face he used to make whenever you tried to convince him that your social battery hadn't run out and that he didn't need to leave the gathering early on your account, both of you knowing you were already halfway to exhaustion.
He slowly turns his head, looking out at the large glass front window of the shop. Directly across the street, parked perfectly in a loading zone, is your delivery van. The rear bumper is still aggressively caved in, a massive, jagged silver dent gleaming proudly in the afternoon sun, looking exactly like it had three weeks ago.
Hansol turns his gaze back at you, raising a single eyebrow. "Right." He drags the word out slowly. "Taken care of. Is that a new avant-garde design choice for the bumper, or are you just waiting for it to magically heal itself?"
A stubborn flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck. You lift your chin, refusing to back down. "The mechanic is backed up, okay?" you say, harsher than you intend. "The parts are on back order from Germany. It takes time."
"Y/N, it's a delivery van. The parts are made in—I don't know—Buffalo?" he counters, taking a step toward the counter. "I know you're trying to avoid sending me the bill because you don't want to owe me anything."
"Well, I don't owe you anything!" you argue, your voice rising a fraction. "I was the one who backed into you! If anything, I should be paying for your smashed SUV grill."
Knowing Hansol, there's no way he'll let you pay for it. But there's also no way you'll let him pay for anything, either. You don't want your ex-boyfriend and first love—who will soon be a married man—doing you any favors.
"My insurance covered it," he says evenly, his tone completely unflappable against your rising panic. "And yours should cover this, but you haven't filed the claim because you know your premiums will skyrocket, and the shop ledger can't handle the hit right now."
You open your mouth to shoot back a fierce, biting lie, but the words die in your throat. He knows you too well. Even four years after the breakup, he can still read through your defenses like a children's book. It's infuriating.
"You don't know anything about my ledger," you mutter, looking down at your green-stained fingers.
"I know you," he simply says.
You like to think he doesn't.
Because despite everything, there are things he doesn't know. He doesn't know that your father called you yesterday because your mom's physical therapist is recommending a new intensive program. He doesn't know it's an extra three days a week, and that it isn't covered by their insurance. He doesn't know your father sounded tired, and that he didn't ask you for money, but he didn't have to, you simply know.
And then there's Poppy, your smart-ass little sister, somehow both annoyingly and brilliantly smart. She's pulling straight A's in honors classes while surviving the absolute nightmare of being a fourteen-year-old girl, all while dealing with the fact that her mom can't even braid her hair anymore.
He doesn't know that your parents' savings are gone. Drained. Every spare dime the shop makes goes into a high-yield savings account for her, and it's still barely a drop in the bucket. Because if Poppy wants to go to Stanford and enroll in their pre-med program, she will. You'll make sure of it.
"No, you don't anymore."
He lets out a humorless laugh. "Yes, I do. I know that you'd rather work yourself to the bone than ask for a single dollar of help. Some things don't change, Y/N."
"A lot of things change," you snap, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, like you've been running instead of standing still. "People change. We haven't spoken to each other in four years. So don't stand there and act like you still have me figured out."
Hansol's eyes darken, his jaw tightening as though the thought of not knowing you anymore bothers him far more than he'd ever admit. He shifts his weight, his hands clenching inside his pockets. For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something about that, but the words never come.
"I'm just trying to pay for the bumper, Y/N." His voice drops into a careful, measured tone. "It's a standard transaction. You don't have to make it an emotional battlefield."
"Everything with you is an emotional battlefield," you whisper before you can stop yourself.
He takes another half-step forward, closing the distance between you until the clean scent of his cologne completely overwhelmed the fragrance of the sweet-pea bundles on the counter.
Hansol opens his mouth to answer you, but before he can say anything, the shop's front door swings open, the bell chiming loudly overhead.
"Sis! The farmers' market was hell. If you ever make me, go with these two again, I am going to—"
Poppy marches in dressed in her school uniform, two paper bags clutched in her hands, while Seokmin and Seungkwan trail after her, bickering about something you can't quite make out over the noise of the traffic outside.
She stops dead in her tracks, whatever complaint she'd been about to make dying on her lips as her eyes land on the man standing in front of the counter. Her jaw drops, and the bags fall onto the hardwood floor.
"Hansolo!" she shrieks.
Before you can even open your mouth to stop her, Poppy launches herself across the floor. She doesn't walk; she literally runs, skidding to a halt right in front of him and throwing her arms securely around his waist, burying her face into his jacket.
Hansol's eyes widen in brief shock, but a second later, a smile breaks across his face—the first real smile you had seen from him since you parted ways. He pulls his hands from his pockets and wraps his arms around her, lifting her completely off her feet for a second and shaking her slightly.
"Hey, kiddo," he laughs, his voice instantly dropping into a warm, familiar tone that sends a devastating wave of nostalgia straight to your gut. "Look at you. You're huge. What happened to the braces?"
You see, Poppy loved Hansol. Your relationship began when she was very little, and considering how much time she spent around the two of you, it didn't take long for her to consider him an honorary older brother. He let her ride on his shoulders, helped her with her school art projects, even took her to Coney Island, buying her a whole lot of candy and gifts because he simply couldn't say no to her.
When she found out he was getting married, she seemed a little more heartbroken than you, her nose scrunching as she looked genuinely offended. "He's getting married? To someone who isn't you? I liked him. We liked him."
Seungkwan is the first to enter the store after her, his eyes almost popping out as he takes in the scene, and then you. Even from outside, you can hear Seokmin's exaggerated gasp as he follows inside. They're the perfect combination of two people who are anything but discreet, looking between you and Hansol and gesturing like two completely insane men who have just witnessed something they shouldn't have.
You simply sigh, signaling for them to move, and the two head straight to the back with a small nod of greeting to Hansol, who is still wrapped up in a very excited Poppy.
"I got them off last summer!" Poppy beams, stepping back but keeping her hands gripping tightly to his elbows. "Oh my god, you look so old! Why are you here? Are you back in the city? Did you bring me those pink tacos from the truck near your old apartment?"
Hansol lets out a booming laugh, reaching out to playfully ruffle her hair, completely ignoring her squawk of protest. "No pink tacos this time, Pops. And I'm not old, I just have a more distinguished face now."
He pauses, his smile softening as his eyes drift away from Poppy and lock onto yours.
"But yeah. I'm back in the city. Permanently."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"W-what?" The word falls out of your mouth before your brain can filter it. Jerky breaths stutter over your lips, your eyes widening despite your best attempt to hide it. "You're back?"
"Yeah. I moved back last week," he confirms, watching your face closely, eyes searching for a reaction. "The production company is opening an East Coast branch."
Your mind completely goes blank. Nada.
He's back. Here. In your zip code.
A sudden, treacherous spark of hope flares up in the center of your chest. Why now? After all this time, why would he uproot everything to come back to the city? The thought comes uninvited, dangerous that could he have missed—
Hannah.
The spark is violently extinguished, replaced by a cold, heavy dread that settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone.
Of course. Hannah. The beautiful, sweet fiancée who was just standing in this very shop fifteen minutes ago, gushing about the man of her dreams. Hannah, whose family is rooted in New York. Hannah, who has been talking about looking at brownstones and loving the autumn weather.
"Wow," you finally manage to say, forcing your rigid facial muscles into a polite, hollow smile. You take a step back, putting the physical barrier of the counter between you and the crushing reality of his new life. "That's... great. I'm sure your family is thrilled."
"Are you moving back to West Village?" Poppy interrupts, completely oblivious. She leans against the counter, looking at Hansol with wide, hopeful eyes. "Because if you are, you still owe me that trip to the Natural History Museum. The one we were supposed to do before you moved."
Hansol stops. He looks at Poppy, then back at you, his eyes catching on the frantic, jerky movements of your hands as you start to scrub the counter surface like your life depends on it. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"Brooklyn, actually," he tells Poppy, though his gaze never leaves yours. "And yeah. I know still owe you that trip."
That's when Poppy starts rambling about her own life, her face glowing with the same adoration she's had for him since she was a little kid watching him help her build a volcano for the science fair. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her brain, Poppy's smile suddenly vanishes. Her eyes dart from Hansol, over to your stiff, pale face, and then back to him.
You can see the realization hitting her.
Poppy drops her hands from his arms as if his clothes have suddenly caught fire. She takes a massive step backward, her expression twisting into a fierce, protective scowl. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, mimicking your previous posture exactly.
"Wait." Her voice drops into a dramatic, frosty tone. "I forgot. I am currently mad at you. You are on my banned list."
Hansol blinks, looking entirely amused but trying to hide it, eyebrows rising. "Your banned list?"
"Yes," Poppy declares, lifting her chin with an immense amount of teenage drama. "You broke up with our family, Hansol, which is a major violation of the honorary big-brother protocol. So, I am rescinding my hug. Goodbye."
You slap your forehead, taking a deep breath. "Poppy, back room. Now."
Poppy gives Hansol one last, lingering glare that's slightly ruined by the fact that she still looks like she wants to ask him for help with her arts homework, before she spins on her heel and marches behind the curtain, letting it slam shut behind her.
The silence returns infinitely more awkward than before.
"She... she hasn't changed much," Hansol murmurs, looking at the curtain with a faint, nostalgic smile.
"She has biology homework to do," you say stiffly, hands flat against the counter.
You can't look at him anymore. Seeing him with Poppy—seeing how naturally he could still fit into your life for those brief minutes—is entirely too much to bear.
"Look, Hansol. I appreciate you coming by, but I really am very busy. The wedding is on Saturday, and I have a massive shipment arriving from the auctions. You need to leave."
Hansol stares at you for a long, agonizing moment. You can see Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for something you're determined not to let him see.
He lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll leave."
But instead of turning toward the glass door, Hansol takes one step closer to the counter. He reaches inside his denim jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded rectangular slip of thick blue paper. He doesn't hold it out for you to take. He just slides it across the surface, coming to a stop right next to your discarded floral shears.
He looks up, and it almost shocks you that you can still recognize the exact moment his guard drops completely.
"I didn't just come here to argue about a bumper, Y/N," he says, his voice becoming a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. "I came because I wanted to see you. I just... I needed to see you again."
The air is sucked from your lungs. Before you can formulate a single word—before your brain can even begin to process the confession—, Hansol turns on his heel. The little brass bell chimes wildly against the glass as he pushes the door open and steps out.
You stand entirely frozen, staring at the empty space where he had just been standing. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow gasps before your legs finally move. You walk over to the wicker table near the door, your heart pounding against your ribs.
Slowly, your eyes drop to the counter, your fingers trembling as they reach for the folded paper. You unfold it to find a personal check. The amount printed is astronomical, more than enough to replace the bumper, repaint the van, and probably buy a second transmission just for fun.
On the memo line, in his familiar, messy scrawl, are five simple words: For the van. Please.
"Sis?"
You look up to find Poppy standing in front of the curtain, her voice small and uncertain. You immediately force on a bright smile, swallowing back tears that appeared out of nowhere.
"Yes, honey?"
"If I help you load the delivery van on Saturday, am I allowed to kick him in the shin for breaking up with you, or does that violate the vendor contract?"
You walk over and press a kiss on her forehead. "Pack up your things, Pops," you murmur, grabbing her empty lunchbox from the counter. "I'm buying you tacos for dinner. And no kicking the clients, please. I'm a professional."
"That sucks."
Pink camellias — my longing for you is endless.
Four days later, dead center of Hansol's family back lawn, you're wearing an unbothered, I've-got-this smile for six hours straight, with your cheeks are already starting to hurt.
Underneath the black apron, your spine has been making its best impression of a question mark ever since hour four, while the three layers of concealer working overtime under your eyes are trying their absolute best to hide the fact you're running on two hours of sleep.
That, and the fact that you spent the entire night crying.
You cried into your pillow until the memory foam was soaked. You cried in your perfectly-fixed-bumper delivery van while Seokmin navigated the early morning traffic, pressing your face against the cool glass of the window with him and Seungkwan tactfully pretending the radio news was fascinating, and completely abandoning their usual morning sing-along.
And, most pathetically of all, you cried while assembling the bridal bouquet.
It was supposed to be a joyous task. Instead, standing in the cold walk-in cooler at two in the morning, you had systematically bound together pristine white peonies, trailing sweet peas, and delicate lilies of the valley, while hot, bitter tears slid silently down your cheeks and dripped onto the zinc prep table.
You were making the perfect bouquet for the perfect girl who would walk down the aisle and marry the only guy you ever loved—and he, too, was perfect.
"Y/N, we need eyes on table fourteen!"
Seungkwan's voice snaps you back to the present. You blink rapidly, forcing the stinging heat behind your eyelids to retreat. You plaster on a smile so bright and unbothered it makes your jaw ache. For a moment, you wonder if people are actually buying that smile, or if you just look like a raving lunatic.
"The centerpieces are slightly off axis," you call back, walking swiftly across grass, dodging catering staff carrying towering trays of crystal glassware.
You reach table fourteen and gently rotate the massive, cascading arrangement of white hydrangeas and orchids by two inches. You've done countless weddings. None of them had been as big as this one. And none of them needed to be this perfect either.
"The cascading orchids need to face the entrance, not the head table. We want the guests to feel pulled into the space, not blocked off by the foliage."
"Got it, boss!" Seungkwan salutes as if he were reporting to a general, even though his eyes keep darting over your face with concern. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray leaf off your shoulder. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to either faint or commit a felony."
You shake your head. "I am a vision of zen," you lie, grabbing your clipboard and checking off the reception tables. "I am practically levitating with inner peace. Now, where's Seok?"
"He is finishing the floral aisle for the ceremony. Everything looks incredible, Y/N. You outdid yourself."
You swallow hard, the knot in your throat feeling thicker than a fist. "Good. That's good. Everything has to be perfect."
You take a deep, shaky breath, looking down at the small tray resting on table thirteen. Sitting on the top of the velvet lining are five meticulously crafted boutonnieres, featuring a single white ranunculus blossoms accented with trailing greenery.
"I'm going to run these up to the main house," you announce, voice sounding too hollow for your liking. "If Angela comes looking for me, tell her I am delivering the boutonnieres to the groom's suite and will be back in ten minutes to do the final sweep of the aisle."
Seungkwan opens his mouth to offer to go in your place — you can see the pity forming in his eyes — but you grab the tray before he can formulate the words.
You can't let him do it. If you're going to survive today, you must face the worst of it. You have to look Hansol in the eye on his wedding day and cut the invisible cord that has kept your heart tethered to him for years.
When you walk in, the inside of the house is quiet compared to the bustling chaos of the backyard. The Persian rugs swallow the sound of your sensible flats, creating an eerie silence that only amplifies the frantic, terrified hammering of your heart.
You walk up the staircase toward the second floor, your hands gripping the edges of the tray so tightly your knuckles are stark white. The air up here smells like lemon polish, layered with the familiar scent of the house you used to spend your weekends during your university days.
You mentally rehearse the script in your head, over and over. Congratulations. Have a wonderful wedding. Clean. Professional. Devoid of the fact that you want to scream until your lungs give out.
First, you hand out the groomsmen's boutonnieres one by one, not recognizing a single face among them. It makes you wonder what happened to Hansol's friendship with Minghao and Chan—his two best friends—and whether these men belong to this new chapter of his life, one you are not part of.
They're all nice, of course, and one of them even flirts with you, giving you the certainty that they don't know who you are. The one who introduced himself as Mingyu flashes you with a beautiful smile and asks if he'll be seeing you at the reception later.
Not a single chance. Not even over your dead body.
Finally, you reach the double doors of what used to be his father's study, now converted into the groom's holding room for the day. You raise a trembling hand, preparing to knock. But before your knuckles can even graze the wood, the handle clicks loudly and the door swings open, violently knocking the air straight out of your lungs.
Hansol steps out into the hallway, and your brain immediately flashes the mental equivalent of a TV with no signal.
He isn't just handsome — he's absolutely, devastatingly breathtaking. He's wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo, but the jacket is nowhere to be seen. His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the long line of his throat. A black silk vest molds perfectly to the expanse of his chest, though it's still unfastened, and a black satin bow tie hangs loose around his neck, completely undone.
He looks flustered, his hair slightly ruffled as though he's been running his hands through it in frustration. "I swear to God, if they put one more safety pin in this collar…" Hansol grumbles to himself, looking down at his cuffs.
He looks up, and the moment his eyes lock onto yours, he freezes.
The silence is absolute as you stare at each other, both of you forgetting, if only for a minute, what you were supposed to be doing.
You force your eyes away from his face, lowering your gaze to the tray holding the only two boutonnieres left in your hands, because if you look at him for one second longer, you're going to fall apart right here against the wainscoting.
Surprise colors his voice as your name leaves his lips. "Y/N."
"I brought the boutonniere," you rush to explain before he even has a chance to ask, the words coming out almost mechanically. "For the groom and the groomsmen. I didn't want to leave them with the caterers' downstairs. They… they need to stay fresh."
Hansol doesn't look at the tray. He looks at your face, his gaze sweeping over your carefully applied makeup, catching on to the subtle, undeniable puffiness around your eyes that the concealer couldn't quite hide. A long exhale slips past his lips as his hands drop from his cuffs to hang at his sides.
"Right. The flowers."
He seems almost disappointed, looking down at his unfastened vest and the tangled silk of his bow tie. A helpless almost boyish look crosses his face—a look you haven't seen since you were nineteen and he was trying to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet in his dorm room.
"My hands are too shaky to do the tie," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. When he looks back up at you, there's a vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't get the knot right. And these fucking buttons on this vest are microscopic."
He hesitates. He doesn't have to say it, you can already see the question in his eyes.
"Could you… do you mind?"
He shouldn't ask. You shouldn't even consider. This is the absolute definition of crossing a line. You're nothing but the florist here, and he's your first love and potentially the love of your life, and he's getting married in an hour. You already know that when you tell your friends about this, they're going to call him anything but pretty for asking you — of all people — to do this.
But the panic in Hansol's eyes overrides every single rational thought in your brain.
You nod once, a jerky movement. You carefully set the tray down on an antique half-moon table sitting flush against the hallway wall. You take a breath, commanding your legs to work and step into his space.
Closing the distance between you is like stepping directly into the blast radius of a bomb. The moment you're inches from him, the scent of his perfume wraps around you. Your hands are trembling so badly you have to clench them into fists for a second before you reach up.
"Turn toward the window," you whisper, your voice barely audible, gesturing to the sunlight streaming in from outside.
He turns lightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breath. You reach out, your fingertips grazing the crisp cotton of his dress shirt. The heat radiating off his skin is impossible to ignore, and it takes the strength of a saint to keep your focus on the tiny black buttons of his vest instead of letting your gaze drift above his collarbone.
You slip the first button through its hole, your knuckles brushing against the firm plane of his stomach. The contact is fleeting, but you feel his muscles instantly contract under your touch.
Show no emotion. You are an unfeeling, emotionless void, you chant in your head.
You move up, fastening the second button, then the third. You see his breath catching just enough that you feel it under your knuckles. Neither of you says a word. Your fingers linger on the fourth button longer than they need to, and his pulse keeps thudding against your wrist.
Damn. Wedding jitters really were a thing, you think, trying to ignore the ache that thought leaves behind.
Once the vest is secured, you reach for the black satin tie draped around his neck.
"Lift your chin," you instruct.
He obeys, tilting his head back slightly. You step even closer, the toes of your flats pressing right against the leather of his dress shoes. You loop the silk around his collar, your wrists hovering just millimeters from the skin of his neck. There you can still feel the rapid, thumping beat of his pulse right beneath his jawline.
It's now racing just as fast as yours.
"You look tired," he declares, with no trace of doubt in his voice.
You shrug slightly. "I've been working," you reply stiffly, pulling the loops of the silk bow taut. You adjust the edges, making sure they are perfectly symmetrical. "Weddings are exhausting."
A quiet scoff escapes him, his mint-scented breath fanning across your face. “Your eyes are red, Y/N,” he says flatly.
You smooth your hands down the lapels of his vest, giving it one final, unnecessary adjustment.
"Allergies. The ranunculus is aggressive this season."
He looks like he wants to say something, but you step back so suddenly it almost startles him, forcing a massive, unbearable distance between you. The sudden loss of his body heat leaves you feeling hollow and inexplicably freezing cold.
"There. You're done. The tie is perfect."
Hansol lowers his chin, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something in your face. If you didn't know better — if you weren't standing here because he was about to get married to someone else — you would think he looks like he wants to grab your hands and pull your right back into his chest from how utterly torn apart he seems.
It's too much. The intimacy, the proximity, the crushing reality that within an hour, he is going to stand under the floral arch you built and pledge his life to someone else. You can't do this anymore. The dam inside you is cracking, and if you don't leave right now, you're going to sob hysterically at his feet.
You turn quickly, grabbing the tray from the table, and picking up the small box containing the most elaborate boutonniere: the one that belongs to the groom. You turn back to him, lifting your chin, forcing every ounce of professional detachment and fake bravery you possess into your posture, and hold the box out to him.
"Here…" You convince yourself your hand is trembling only slightly. "This is for you. The other one is for the best man."
He looks down at the box, making no move to take it.
"Have a wonderful wedding, Hansol," you force the words out, each syllable tasting like ash on your tongue. "I mean it. I want you to be happy. And Hannah is… she is a lovely girl. You guys are going to have a beautiful life together."
Hansol freezes almost comically. The intense gaze he had fixed on you vanishes entirely, replaced by a look of profound, absolute bewilderment. He stares at you like you have just started speaking entirely in a whole new language. He looks at the box in your hand, then back up to your face, his brow furrowing so deeply it creates a crease between his eyes.
"What?"
"I said, have a wonderful wedding," you repeat against your will. You just want him to take the box, so you can flee. "Just take the box, Hansol, please. I have to go back to the yard."
Before you can shove the box into his chest and run, his hand shoots out. His fingers wrap gently but firmly around your wrist, interrupting your movements completely.
"Y/N…" Your name comes out like it costs him something to say it, incredulous, laced with a sudden, dawning realization.
Hansol steps closer, paying no attention to the tray between you or the two boutonnieres resting on it. His eyes search your face frantically, as though it might be the last face he'll ever see.
"It's Seungcheol's wedding."
If your brain had been a TV with no signal, now it's a frozen screen desperately trying to reload.
You don't even blink. You just stare at him in complete astonishment. "What?"
"Seungcheol," Hansol repeats slowly, as if speaking to a deeply confused child. "My brother. It's his wedding. I'm just the best man."
You're pretty sure the hallway does a full three-sixty around you.
You feel stupid. You feel utterly ridiculous. The ground could — and should — open and swallow you whole. Heat floods every inch of your body, your face burning with embarrassment so intensely you can feel spreading through your face in different shades of red.
Hansol's not the groom.
The relief that crashes over you is instantaneous. It feels like a literal boulder has been lifted off your chest. Your lungs expand, drawing in the first full, deep breath you've taken in almost a month.
He isn't marrying Hannah. He isn't marrying anyone.
How deep in denial had you been to dismiss the possibility of Seungcheol getting married the very moment it crossed your mind?
Hansol's eyes flutter shut briefly, and when he opens them again, confusion is written all over his face, brows knit together. "Wait," he breathes, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Wait a second. The whole time… you thought I was getting married?"
He steps fully into your space, his grip on your arm shifting as his hand slides down to lightly grasp your fingers. You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, brain so empty you're completely incapable of forming a coherent lie.
"Yes," you admit, your face burning with a fresh new wave of fiery embarrassment. "Your father's name was on the check. And… and you were at the driveway. And I… I just assumed."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because!" you blurt, sounding distressingly like a child throwing a tantrum. "God, that explains why Minghao and Chan aren't here."
"Why would they be at my brother's wedding?"
"I thought we'd just established that I believed this was your wedding."
Hansol lets out a breathless, stunned sound that is half a laugh and half a gasp of disbelief, shaking his head. "I haven't even spoken to a woman with those intentions in years. And you thought I could plan a wedding? You thought I would not mention my impending nuptials to you, of all people?"
"I don't know, Hansol!" you squeak defensively, taking step back enough so his hands drop to his side, though the loss of his touch instantly makes you crave it again. "You were acting weird! And your mom said something about her son's big day and I just thought—"
"She has two of them!" Hansol cuts you off, running a hand through his hair, looking stressed.
"But Seungcheol said once that he was staying single for the rest of his life!"
"That was before Hannah." He looks at you, his eyes dancing with a chaotic mix of amusement and shock. "God, no wonder you've been looking at me like I peed in your sunflowers. You thought I was making you decorate my wedding to another woman."
You look down at the vintage rug, mortified beyond belief. "It seemed entirely plausible at the time."
Hansol takes a step closer, the amusement in his voice and eyes fading into something intensely serious like you’ve only seen once before—when the two of you broke up. His hands are on your shoulders again.
"Y/N. Look at me."
You don't want to. You want the hardwood floor to open and swallow you. But you slowly lift your chin, meeting his gaze.
"If I was getting married, you wouldn't be just the florist."
Your heart stops. You swear you can feel it flatline right there, lurching from a frantic rhythm to nothing at all before kicking back to life in a wild, panicked sprint.
Before you can even process the magnitude of what he just said, before you can formulate a response, the doors of the master suite down the hall fly open with a violent BANG.
"It's catastrophe! It is an absolute disaster!"
Hansol and you instantly jump apart, the bubble between you popping instantly.
Two seconds later, Angela bursts into the hallway like a one-woman tornado in a tailored pantsuit. Her signature tight pear-bun is beginning to fray, and she's clutching her iPad to her chest as though it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
You're certain you've never seen her like this before.
"Angela, what's wrong?" you ask, feeling Hansol's gaze reluctantly shift from you to her.
"Is it Seungcheol? Did he hyperventilate again?"
Angela gasps, marching down the hallway. "No, the groom is fine. He's with your mother." She stops short in front of you, her wild eyes sweeping over you from head to toe in frantic assessment. "It's Leonor. Her flight was grounded because of a massive freak storm. She's not going to make it."
"Okay…" Hansol says, calm as ever. "That's unfortunate. But I can just walk down the aisle alone, and—"
"You don't understand!" Angela interrupts, her voice shrill. "Hannah is inconsolable. And the symmetry is ruined. I cannot have an uneven bridal party. It's asymmetrical. I do not do asymmetrical weddings!"
Watching her spiral makes you — though unwillingly — step far away from Hansol, slipping back into your role as the florist, and just another professional hired to keep this wedding from falling apart.
"Angela, breathe," you say, resting a reassuring hand on her forearm. "It happens. If you want, I can adjust the floral arch to cover the empty space on the bridesmaids' side—"
"No!" she snaps, pointing a manicured finger directly at your face. "We don't need more flowers. We need a body. And Hannah specifically asked for you."
There's no way you're hearing her correctly. "I'm sorry… what?"
Angela steps directly into your personal space, her eyes so wildly determined that even Hansol takes a step back.
She points a finger squarely at your chest like she's just solved the world's biggest problem. "You. Hannah loves you. And you know the schedule. You're young, you're objectively very good-looking, and more importantly, you look like you can fit in Leonor's dress."
A cold, creeping dread starts to pool in the pit of your stomach.
"Angela, no. I'm the florist. I'm wearing a black apron covered in sap."
"Leonor's dress is in the master suite," Angela barrels on, completely ignoring you. She grabs your arm with an iron-clad grip. "It's a silk slip. It requires zero tailoring. We have the hair and makeup team on standby. They can fix…" she waves a hand vaguely at your face, "whatever happened to your eyes."
"I cannot walk down that aisle!" Your voice comes out in another panicked squeak as you struggle to keep it from turning into a full-blown shout, desperately trying to pry your arm free from her vice-like grip.
You turn to Hansol for help.
"Tell her this madness! Tell her I'm just a vendor!"
Hansol stares at you for a moment before slowly turning to Angela. A dangerously slow grin spreads across his face.
"Well…" he drawls, crossing his arms and leaning into the hallway wall like he has all the time in the world. He looks entirely too relaxed for a guy whose brother's wedding is supposedly imploding. "The symmetry is very important, Y/N. We wouldn't want to ruin Hannah's day."
"I will kill you," you hiss at him.
Angela yanks you forcefully toward the master suite. "C'mon! We have exactly forty-nine minutes before the prelude music starts!"
You stumble after her, your brain desperately trying to catch up with the absurdity of your life. You're about to be forced into a bridesmaid dress for a woman you spent the last three weeks deeply resenting because of a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that, in hindsight, was a spectacular problem of your own making.
You dig your heels into the carpet, forcing Angela to a sudden halt. You twist your body around, looking back down the long stretch of the hallway.
Hansol is still standing exactly where you left him. The tray sits abandoned on the table beside him. The grin is gone. Instead, he's watching you, his brown eyes blazing with that same complicated emotion that had brought your heart to a complete standstill only moments ago.
He raises a hand, adjusting his cuffs, and even from twenty feet away, his voice carries perfectly down the quiet corridor.
"I guess I'll see you at the altar."
Primrose — a sweet bond and young love.
Marriage only came up once during your entire relationship with Hansol.
Not because you didn't want to marry him, or because you thought he didn't want to marry you. It was more like you didn't think he wanted to get married at all.
It wasn't that he didn't love you, you never doubted that he did. It was just that marriage had never seemed like his thing—the idea of legally binding himself to someone for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, you had always seen marriage as little more than a social contract, a legal institution created to interfere in people's private lives and, sometimes, pressure them into bringing more children into the world, as if the planet wasn't already populated enough.
You loved each other deeply, and neither of you believed a piece of paper could strengthen what already existed between you. Love was enough. As long as he was walking through life beside you, you never needed anything else.
But as you watched Chan, the youngest in your friends group, marry the love of his life at barely twenty-one, you couldn't help wondering throughout the ceremony whether Hansol had ever given that possibility any thought.
The reception was very loud, the exact kind of thrown-together party you'd expect from a couple still finishing their sophomore year. Minghao was DJing for the night, blasting early 2010s club anthems alongside an impressive amount of Michael Jackson. The open bar consisted entirely of cheap vodka and aggressively sweet cranberry juice, both of which you were avoiding religiously.
You were leaning against the edge of a sticky high-top table, watching Chan and his new wife attempt to drop it low on the dance floor without tearing her rented tulle dress.
Hansol was standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He had already ditched his suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair, and had rolled the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt up to his elbows. He looked entirely too good, which unfortunately had your mind wandering straight to the private after-party you definitely weren't supposed to be thinking about.
He was nursing a can of beer, nodding along to the beat of On the Floor.
"I give Chan a lot of credit," Hansol said, tipping his can in the Chan's direction. "He's twenty-one and he just signed away his right to file single on his taxes. That's brave."
You let out a small laugh, peeling the lid off your plastic cup filled with ginger ale. "You think he even knows how to do his taxes yet?"
"Absolutely not." Hansol shakes his head, taking a slow sip.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed, your thumb now tracing the condensation on the cup. You took a breath, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the chaotic dance floor, trying to make your voice sound as casual as humanly possible.
"Have you ever thought about it?" you asked, the words coming out a little too quickly for someone trying to sound nonchalant.
Hansol didn't flinch. He didn't choke on his drink or tense up. He just turned his head, his eyes studying the side of your face. "Thought about Chan's taxes?"
"No," you corrected, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You bumped your shoulder against his, a defensive little reflex. "Getting married. The whole thing."
He looked at you for a long moment, and your heart rises into your throat, almost making you regret asking the question at all. He didn't look panicked by the loaded question, though. He just looked like he's processing it, turning the thought over in his mind like a piece of information he wants to understand before answering.
"Not really," he finally said, resting his elbows on the table. "Never saw the appeal of paying the government to validate a relationship."
It was exactly the answer you expected. It aligned perfectly with his practical, logic-driven brain, and yet, a tiny, irrational silver of disappointment snagged in your chest.
You nodded, going back to picking at your cup. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
Hansol shifted his weight, closing the small gap between you. He bumped his shoulder back against yours, his voice dropping slightly so you could hear him clearly over the music.
"But," he added, his tone entirely conversational, "if it was with you, I'd be down."
You froze, your fingernail catching on the edge of the cup. You looked up at him. "You would?"
"Yeah." Hansol nodded, confirming it with a small shrug. He didn't look like he's making some grand, theatrical declaration. He looked like he's stating a completely obvious fact. "I'd do the whole thing. The legal paperwork, the expensive rings, the house with the yard in Westchester. Two kids."
You abandoned your plastic cup on the sticky high-top table, turning to face him completely. Stepping into his space, you reached up, lacing your fingers together behind the nape of his neck.
"Two kids, huh?" you asked, a teasing smile breaking across your face.
His hands settled naturally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer over the pounding of the music. "Yeah," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "The first one is going to need company."
You let out a genuine, breathless laugh. The image was entirely ridiculous. "Babe, you don't know the first thing about kids. Last week at the grocery store, a toddler waved at you in the cereal aisle, and you froze up and gave him a stiff salute like he was a foreign dignitary."
"I'll figure it out," he stated, completely unfazed by his own total lack of qualifications. He leaned in a little closer, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your hip. "I'm a fast learner. If it's with you, I don't really care about the rest of it. I'm in, babe."
He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just stood there holding you in the middle of the chaotic reception, entirely unfazed by the fact that he had just casually rearranged your entire internal universe.
You stared into his eyes, a ridiculous warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your fingertips. You couldn't stop the huge smile that broke across your face, so you buried it against his chest before he could catch you grinning like an absolute idiot.
Snowdrop — hope and the warmth of a heart waking up.
You're shoved, zipped, and sprayed into a bridesmaid status in precisely forty minutes and twelve seconds. The makeup artist-slash-hairstylist worked like a woman possessed, wielding a canister of strong-hold hairspray in one hand and powder puff in the other, muttering something about miracles under pressure while aggressively taming every flyaway.
The sage green satin slipped over your hips with a satisfying rustle, the fabric molding effortlessly to your figure. The softly gathered sweetheart neckline settles perfectly across your chest, draping exactly as it's meant to, as though the dress had been made for you instead of Leonor.
You barely had time to send a message to the group chat with Seokmin and Seungkwan, telling them you'd explain everything later and that they were okay to leave. They even offered to pick you up afterward, but you turned them down, knowing that would only delay the inevitable conversation waiting for you later.
You're still fastening the strap of your left heel when Angela grabs you by the elbow and practically catapults you out of the room.
You burst into the back hallway just as Hannah is finishing her final veil adjustment. She looks breathtaking, a vision delicately off the shoulder lace, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her glowing face. The moment she sees you, her eyes light up, completely devoid of any panic.
Hannah squeals, entirely ignoring Angela's horrified gasp as she steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around you. "Y/N!"
The scent of her expensive orange blossom perfume surrounds you. She leans back just enough to hold you at arm's length, her expression shifting into a radiant—and conspiratorial—smile.
You can't help but wonder how much she knows about... well, everything.
"Thank you so much for doing this!" Hannah whispers in your ear, her voice bubbling with excitement. "You look so beautiful!"
You smile back at her, tilting your head. "Me? You look like a literal goddess," you say, voice breathy with genuine awe. Your fingertips lightly graze the delicate lace of her sleeve. "You look gorgeous, Hannah."
Hannah smile gets even bigger, a soft, very knowing sparkle dancing in her eyes as she gives your hands another squeeze.
"Thank you. I really hope we can be great friends after today. And, you know…" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Maybe someday sisters."
Your heart breaks into a violent tap dance against your ribs. But before you can process—let alone question—the implication of her words, Angela is already dragging you away again, steering you toward the grand staircase.
"Positions! Now!" Angela hisses.
At the bottom of the staircase, the groomsmen are all lined up. And there, standing at the very front of the line, is Hansol.
The moment your foot touches the bottom step, his eyes find yours. Every trace of his usual relaxed posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden stillness. His gaze follows the line of the sage green silk, lingering at your collarbone before finally returning to your eyes. You hold your breath.
Hansol steps forward, offering you his arm. His black tuxedo jacket is fully buttoned now, his bow tie perfectly straight. You thread your hand through his arm, and even through the fine wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body seeps into your skin, sending a flush creeping across your cheeks.
He clears his throat. "Nice dress," he murmurs, teasing tone in his voice as you both step into queue behind the other couples.
"Don't start, traitor," you grumble, keeping your eyes fixed forward as the double doors leading to the backyard swing open. The warm summer breeze carries in the sound of a string quartet playing what sounds like a cello-and-piano rendition of You're Still the One.
"I'm serious, though. You look beautiful."
You do your best to ignore what his words do to you—how the sound of his voice settles deep in your chest—because, at that very moment, the two of you step out into the ceremony. Hundreds of guests turn their heads, their eyes sweeping over you both as you walk down the aisle towards the massive archway you spent all morning constructing.
"I still can't believe you thought I was the one getting married," Hansol whispers, keeping his stride perfectly in time with yours. There's humor in his voice again.
You wave subtly at distant relatives of Hansol's you recognize. "I don't want to talk about it," you mutter through a frozen smile.
He doesn't seem to care, though. "To Hannah? Really?"
Hansol doesn't sound dismissive of Hannah when he says it—far from it. If anything, he sounds as though the very idea is the most absurd thing in the world.
Then, his shoulders start to vibrate.
You glance sideways to find Hansol biting his lower lip, his jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. But it's a losing battle. A moment later, a breathless snort escapes him, completely shattering the solemn, elegant atmosphere of the processional.
"Hansol, stop it," you hiss, smile tightening into a grimace. "People are looking."
"You—" he starts, but his voice cracks, and he has to stop, clearing his throat, his chest heaving. He looks up at the sky, trying to blink back tears of amusement. "You actually thought… oh my god, Y/N."
"I had a momentary lapse in judgment!" you whisper-yell, cheeks burning with a heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the burning sun above you.
Another wave of silent laughter hits him, making his shoulders roll, and this time you're laughing with him. A lady in the third row, wearing an enormous, feathered fascinator, gives you a highly disapproving look, Hansol barely notice; he's too busy trying to draw a breath without snickering.
"It completely blows my mind that you actually thought I could ever stand at an altar with anyone else."
Your chest does a funny thing, stomach currently doing a dizzying free-fall.
"Shut up," you breathe, staring straight ahead.
As you pass the front row of chairs, your eyes catch his mother. She is sitting in the place of honor, looking like a queen in her dusty rose gown. Seeing her son recovering from a literal laughing fit while walking you down the aisle, she offers you a smile, raising her eyebrows an inch in a silent, conspiratorial smile that makes your own brows knit together in confusion.
What the hell is going on?
You reach the altar and you release Hansol's arm, stepping to the left to take your place exactly where Leonor was supposed to stand.
As you settle into place, you look up and lock eyes with Seungcheol. He—standing stiffly in his suit—looks at your face, then down at the dress, and then back at your face. His thick brows furrows in absolute, comical bewilderment. He raises a hand gives you a small, incredibly confused wave, his mouth twisting into a silent, What on earth are you doing here? expression.
You offer him a helpless, apologetic little shrug in return.
Hansol steps to the right, taking his place beside his brother, who immediately nudges him with an elbow, whispering what can only be a frantic question that Hansol shuts down with a quick entertained shake of his head.
You stand rigidly, clutching your small bouquet of peonies. You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. You don't know when to hold Hannah's train, you don't know when to take her bouquet, and your mind is entirely consumed by the fact that Hansol is standing directly across from you, his eyes not leaving you for a second, watching your every move.
The music swells. The guests stand. Hannah walks down the aisle, a radiant beam of light, and the ceremony officially begin.
But as the minister starts to speak, the words wash over you in a blur. Your focus is entirely pulled to the guy standing across the floral-draped altar. The space between you feels incredibly small, charged with unsaid words, missed phone calls, and the lingering sting of a sunny July afternoon.
Seungcheol clears his throat, taking Hannah's hands as they prepare to exchange their vows.
You would have thought that, not knowing their story, the vows wouldn't affect you all that much. You are proven wrong the moment Seungcheol opens his mouth.
"I don't promise you a life without hardship," he begins, his voice clearly emotional, not even trying to hide. "I know there will be days when the road is steep, when the answers aren't clear, and when life asks more of us than we think we can give. But what I do promise is that you'll never have to face those days alone."
Across the altar, you can see the exact moment Hansol's expression changes, darkens, even. Any lingering traces of laughter that had been in his gaze moments ago completely disappear, replaced by a raw vulnerability that cuts straight through you.
You wish you didn't know him well enough to understand what was going through his mind. Even if parts of you tried to deny it, your heart already knew. His gaze, his expression, they were telling you the same thing.
Hansol was thinking about you.
"I promise to stand beside you when the world feels too much, to hold your hand when you're afraid, and to remind you of your strength when you've forgotten it yourself. And if distance ever separates us, my love won't. Whether there are miles between us or life pulls us in different directions, I'll keep choosing you, Hannah. I'll always find my way back to you, because home has never been a place for me, it's wherever you are."
Seungcheol's vows shouldn't feel like a brutal mirror, reflecting every single piece of your unresolved wreckage back at you while Hansol and you make unbroken eye contact—but they very much do.
You can't stop the hot, fat tear that spills over your eyelashes, tracing slowly down your cheek. An overwhelming mix of emotions crashing over you all at once. The sudden relief of knowing he isn't marrying someone else tangled with the aching regret for all the years you wasted, sitting in your own separate silences, waiting for the other person to break first.
But most of all, you're feeling hopeful.
Because as you wipe the tear away with a trembling finger, Hansol doesn't look away. He watches you, his own eyes shining with a faint, watery warmth, even if you know he’s not going to cry, his gaze holding something so that fuels that feeling. He is looking at you exactly the way he did before he left—like you're his home, and he is finally ready to walk through the door again.
Forget-Me-Not — true, undying love.
The battery percentage on your screen ticked down to fifteen percent, but you barely notice. Your eyes remain fixed on the digital clock in the top corner of the screen marking 7:42 PM, wondering what acceptable time would be to leave.
The reception in the backyard is a mix of a live jazz band, clinking glasses, and people laughing happily under canopy of warm fairy light strung between the trees. In the last three hours, you watched the newlyweds' first dance, the bouquet toss, and a dozen other wedding traditions, yet you still couldn't find a moment alone with Hansol.
You barely caught glimpses of him through the crowd.
So now you just sit by yourself at a table near the edge of the dance floor, staring at a plate with a half-eaten slice of wedding cake.
It didn't help that a few of Hansol's relatives had already made a point of coming over to speak with you. His great aunt had stopped by your chair to pat your shoulder with an agonizingly happy smile, telling you that she had always known you and Hansol would find your way back to each other. Meanwhile, his older cousin had asked if you were seeing anyone new yet, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of a breakdown.
You had just smiled until your cheeks cramped, nodding through the thinly veiled interrogations while aggressively shredding a paper napkin under the table.
"The cake is actually terrible, isn't it?"
You jump slightly in your chair, startled.
A guy is standing next to your table, and you recognize him immediately. He's the same one that flirted with you earlier while you pinned a white ranunculus boutonniere on his lapel: Mingyu. He's tall, with a really nice smile, and he's already ditched his tuxedo jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and loosened his black bow tie so it hangs casually around his neck.
"Never said it was terrible," you reply, offering a polite smile.
"You didn't have to," Mingyu laughs, pulling out the empty chair next to you and sitting down. He rests his elbows on the table, holding a glass of club soda with lime. "I watched you push that same piece of frosting around for a solid two minutes. It's okay to admit it. Fondant is basically edible plastic."
"It really is," you admit, relaxing a little. "I think people just buy wedding cakes for the pictures. No one actually expects them to taste good."
"Exactly. I'm hitting up a diner for a real burger the second this is over," Mingyu says, setting his drink down. He leans back in his chair, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. "I thought I wouldn't be seeing you here tonight."
You thought that too. But you don't tell him that. You pick at the edge of your paper napkin, instead, offering a small smile. "Small change of plans."
"Well, it's a really nice thing you did for Hannah." Mingyu gestures toward the dress and the surrounding floral setups with a smile. "Seriously. The flowers look incredible."
"Thanks, Mingyu," you reply, feeling a small wave of relief at his easygoing demeanor.
He gestures toward the centerpieces this time. "Hannah told me you own a shop in the city. Poppy's Garden, right?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"That massive flower arch thing during the ceremony?" Mingyu continues, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "I have no idea how you built that without it falling over on the minister."
He sounds like he means it. He isn't giving you a sleazy line. He’s just a genuinely nice guy making conversation.
"A lot of zip ties and silent prayers," you explain, letting out a real laugh for the first time in hours.
Mingyu smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down again and looks at you. "So, you've been sitting over here by yourself for the last forty minutes. I know because I've been trying to figure out an excuse to come talk to you."
You blink at least three times, slightly taken aback by how straightforward he is. "Oh. You didn't need an excuse."
"Good to know." He leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward the dance floor. "The band is actually pretty decent. I know you've probably been on your feet all day dealing with the setup, but I was wondering if you’d want to dance."
"W-what?"
"I mean… you're definitely the most beautiful girl here, and it seems like a shame that you're hiding in the corner."
It's a nice compliment. It's polite, it’s flattering, and Mingyu is objectively very handsome. You open your mouth, fully intending to say yes, just to get out of your own head for a few minutes.
Before you can even form the first syllable, a shadow falls over the white linen tablecloth.
"She's actually taking a break right now."
The voice is low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection.
You look up to find Hansol standing right behind Mingyu's chair.
He still has his tuxedo jacket on, though it's unbuttoned. His hands are shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He isn't glaring, and he isn't puffing his chest out. He just looks incredibly, intensely solid—and hot. His eyes fixed on Mingyu, and his jaw is set in a rigid, immovable line.
Mingyu turns around, looking up at Hansol in surprise. "Oh. Hey, man. I was just asking Y/N if she wanted to hit the dance floor."
"I heard." He doesn't move an inch. "She has company, though."
Mingyu blinks, looking back and forth between Hansol and you as he pieces it together. He's smart guy, it only takes him two seconds to reach the tension rolling off Hansol in waves. He let out a short, incredulous laugh, raising an eyebrow at Hansol.
"Wait... I thought you guys broke up."
"We're handling it." Hansol's tone isn't aggressive, but it's final. He doesn't offer an explanation. He just holds Mingyu's gaze, projecting an aura that very clearly says this conversation is over until the message lands loud and clear.
Not even you knew what exactly you were handling, let alone Mingyu.
"Got it," Mingyu finally says, holding his hands up in easy surrender as he stands up from the chair. He picks up his drink, giving you a slightly amused wink. "My bad. I'll leave you two to it. Catch you later, Y/N. Great job on the flowers."
You offer him a small wave. "Thanks, Mingyu."
Mingyu walks away, disappearing into the crowd near the bar.
You sit frozen, staring at Hansol. Your heart is suddenly beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. Seeing him act like this is entirely jarring. In all the time you dated, Hansol was the king of nonchalance. He never got jealous. If a guy ever hit on you, Hansol would just laugh, wrap an arm around your waist, and shrug it off. He was always so ridiculously secure in himself. And most of all, he always trusted you.
But right now? He looks very territorial. And you absolutely hate that the only thing you can think about is how incredibly hot it is.
Hansol watches Mingyu walk away until he is completely out of sight. Then, he pulls his hands out of his pockets. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you, and holds his right hand out to you, palm facing up.
"C'mon."
You stare at his hand. "Come on where?"
"Dance floor," he clarifies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It isn't.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Hansol, you don't dance. The last time we went to a wedding, you literally hid by the buffet table for three hours eating crab cakes so my aunt wouldn't drag you out there."
"I know." He shrugs, not withdrawing his hand. His eyes lock onto yours, completely serious. "But I want to dance with you."
The lack of hesitation in his voice leaves you totally speechless. There is no joke, no sarcastic deflection. He is just standing there, waiting for you.
You reach out and place your hand in his, his fingers closing around yours immediately. His grip is warm, firm, and familiar. He pulls you up from the chair, and the silk of your dress rustles against his trousers as he leads you way from the table, navigating through the maze of guests and empty chairs.
You step onto the dance floor just as the band transitions into a Frank Sinatra song.
Hansol doesn't ask how you want to hold him. He just steps in close, sliding his right hand firmly onto the small of your back, right at the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm seeps instantly through the thin silk of the dress. You rest your left hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, and your joined hands settle comfortably between you.
It leaves you breathless how you fit together exactly the way we did years ago. Your heights match perfectly. The muscle memory is so immediate, so natural, that it actually makes your chest ache in the best way possible.
For the first minute, you just sway. You don't say a word. You move slowly to the song, ignoring the dozens of couples swaying around you. You keep your eyes focused on the knot of his bow tie, acutely aware of his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your spine.
"You shouldn't have been rude to Mingyu. He was just being nice," you say eventually.
"I wasn't rude," Hansol states, his chin brushing the top of your head. "I just stated a fact. You were busy."
"I was sitting by myself staring at a napkin."
"You were busy," he repeats stubbornly.
You shake your head, looking up at him. "I'm only here because of your sister-in-law, Hansol."
"Mhm." His lips twitch. "Not even a little for me?"
"You're asking that after I spent the last three weeks terrified because I thought you were the one getting married today?"
A laugh escapes him. "I think it's safe to say we had a pretty catastrophic case of miscommunication there."
You glance around the reception, only to find his parents watching from a nearby table, both wearing impossibly—and suspiciously—wide smiles. Across the dance floor, Hannah and Seungcheol wear that very same expression, their attention fixed on the two of you as well.
You tilt your head to the side, meeting Hansol's gaze without breaking your rhythm. “I suspect that was entirely intentional.”
Hansol sighs and looks away toward the band.
"I know." He looks down at you again, as though he's about to confess something. "My mother and Hannah planned all of this behind my back. They purposely booked your shop, so we'd run into each other again."
A corner of his mouth lifts shyly.
"It was all on purpose."
"They actually wanted me to think you were the groom," you gasp, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "They wanted a reaction."
"Did it work?" he asks, one perfectly lined eyebrow arching.
"I threw up in a trash can behind the loading dock this morning," you admit, deciding you don't care about preserving your pride anymore. "What do you think?"
Hansol's jaw clenches, and he stops swaying for a second. His hand tightens against your back, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, as though the mere thought of having caused you that much pain unsettles him.
"I'm sorry. I never would have agreed to that. It was a stupid, manipulative thing to do."
You shrug, looking away. "It doesn't matter. The wedding is over. You can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine."
"But I told you I'm living in Brooklyn now," Hansol reminds you, his eyes searching yours. "I transferred my contract to the New York division. The rest of my stuff is getting shipped next week."
He sounds hopeful, and against your better judgment, you feel hopeful too.
You nod, the memory of what he told Poppy weeks ago still making your thoughts scramble. Even so, there's one thing you still need to know.
"Since when?"
You don't need to explain. Hansol knows.
"The day I saw you in the driveway."
An incredulous, breathy laugh escapes you. You shake your head, your mind scrambling to make sense of the timeline. “You decided to uproot your entire life and move across the country because we had one awkward conversation?”
"It wasn't just the awkward conversation, Y/N." His voice was losing the casual tone. "You looked at me like you hated me. And it bothered me so much I couldn't sleep for two days."
"But you were fine for four years!" you argue, your voice rising slightly over the music. The frustration is bubbling up, fast and hot. "You were completely fine, Hansol."
"I wasn't fine," he admits bluntly. "I hated it."
You hated it too.
Your break wasn't dramatic. It hadn't been a screaming match over who was right or wrong.
It was a random Tuesday afternoon, and Hansol had come over to your apartment to pick up the last of his winter coats before his flight back to Los Angeles after spending the weekend in New York again. You had been sitting at the kitchen table, buried under a pile of your mother's medical bills and past-due notices for the flower shop. You were exhausted, hair a mess, and you hadn't slept in three days.
When he sat down beside you, you both just looked at the paper mountain between you. There wasn't any fight left in either of you over whether you were going to Los Angeles anymore. You both already knew the answer; you were staying in New York. So, you looked each other in the eye and mutually agreed that pulling the plug was the only logical thing to do.
He had been so calm. So logical. You laid it out together like a business transaction, like two partners analyzing a bad contract and agreeing to walk away. Neither of you cried. Neither of you begged. You hugged goodbye, he picked up his bag pack and walked out the door. It was the absolute, shared coldness of it—the silent agreement to just give up—that had broken you.
Hansol lets out a sharp exhale. He drops his hand from yours, bringing it up to rub the back of his neck, looking incredibly frustrated. "I went along with the breakup because I felt completely useless, Y/N. I didn't push back because I knew I had nothing to offer you."
You frown. "What?"
"I was standing in your kitchen," he continues looking at you intently, "and you were drowning. Your mom was sick, you were working twelve hours a week, and you were stressed out of your mind. And I was leaving again. I couldn't pay your bills. I couldn't fix your mom. I couldn't do a single thing to actually help you."
He drops his hand, stepping closer to you again, forcing you to look up at him.
"I'm a practical guy, baby," he says, lifting his shoulder. "I couldn't fix your life, and I wanted to. So bad. When you suggested maybe we should end it, I went along with it because I knew if we stayed together, I would just be one more thing you had to worry about. One more person you had to text, one more schedule you had to manage. I thought letting us both walk away was doing you a favor."
Meanwhile, you believed you were doing him a favor by lifting the burden of your life off his shoulders with the breakup. And then you hated yourself for feeling hurt—for feeling almost hypocritical—that he hadn't fought against it.
You stare at him, your chest aching. "That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard."
"I know." He nods, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his mouth. "It was stupid. I was twenty-two, and I was an idiot. I thought we were being realistic. I didn't realize that being practical doesn't matter when you're miserable."
You stare up at him, the fairy lights blurring slightly as his words settle over you. For four years, you had convinced yourself that he walked way without a fight because it was the easiest thing to do. To hear him admit that he had been just as miserable—that he had broken his own heart out of some misguided attempt to protect yours—shifts the foundation of your memories.
"Have you dated anyone?" you ask, the question finally pushing its way out of your throat before anything else. You feel a little silly, yes, but you need to know.
"I went on a few dates," he answers, because of course he must be factually accurate. As always. "They sucked. All I could think about was how much I wished it was you instead. I couldn't do it." He gives the smallest shake of his head. "So, I just stopped trying."
The simplicity of his confession is staggering. There are no grand declarations, or poetic metaphors about stars and fate. It's just Hansol. The same you've always known. The same you've always loved.
"Why come back now?" you ask, your voice trembling. "My life is still messy, Hansol. The shop is doing objectively better, but everything is still the same. I still work crazy hours. None of the logistics have actually changed."
"I changed," he says simply.
He reaches out, resting both of his hands on your waist. His thumbs press against the silk of the dress, right over your ribs.
"Forget about logistics. I have a stable job. I have a car. I can drive your mom to her physical therapy appointments. I can come to the shop and carry the heavy buckets when you have a massive order. I don't need to fix your life, Y/N. I just want to be in it. I want to carry everything with you."
The tears you've been fighting back since the ceremony ended finally spill over, tracking down your cheeks and ruining whatever setting spray the makeup artist used.
"Are you seeing anyone?" Hansol asks, his thumbs brushing against your sides. "Tell me the truth."
You shake your head. "No."
He breathes out a sigh, and you can see the tension completely drained out of his shoulders. The rigid posture is quickly replaced by the relaxed, comfortable Hansol you know. "Thank God. I really don't want to have to fight another groomsman tonight."
A wet laugh escapes you. "You are an idiot."
"Yeah. I really am."
The next second, Hansol is closing the final few inches between you, and when he kisses you, it's like you've been trapped in a coma for four years.
A soft, involuntary moan escapes you, almost more of a gasp than a sound. He swallows as your hands slide up his chest and curl around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck and holding on to him as though your next breath depends on it. Hansol's arms tighten around your waist, pulling you squarely against his chest so there's no space left between you.
His mouth moves against yours with grounding pressure, almost as though he's been waiting for this for years and has no intention of rushing it. You kiss him back just as hard, parting your lips just enough to meet him halfway, catching the cool taste of peppermint and the lingering hint of whatever he'd been drinking earlier mixed on his tongue.
The jazz band keeps playing, and the other guests keep dancing around you, but you barely notice them or when the music changes to another Frank Sinatra song. You just stand there in the middle of the crowded floor, holding onto him for dear life as though letting go would mean losing him all over again. All while letting him explore your mouth deliberately, sucking and biting deliciously.
For the first time all day, you aren't thinking about the time on your phone, the flower shop, or making a quick exit.
Hansol pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He is breathing a little heavily, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"I'll buy you a burger after this," he murmurs against your mouth. "Since you hate the cake."
"Okay," you whisper, smiling back. "Okay."
Except the burger doesn't happen.
Well, not right away.
Because two songs after the kiss on the dance floor, Hansol's hand is fisted in yours and he's pulling you through the crowd of guests, past a slightly tipsy Seungcheol who whistles at the sight of you, past his mother who pretends not to see the urgency her son is dragging you toward her house, past Angela who is too busy directing the sparkler send-off to notice her florist flipping away from the reception with the best man.
You laugh, stumbling over your heels on the stone patio. "Hansol, slow down."
You try to slow him down, but he only tightens his grip on your hand, glancing back at you with hungry eyes.
"Can't," he mutters, tugging you through the doors and into the quiet hush of the house. "I'm not waiting another goddamn minute."
The house is empty, since the staff are all outside handling the reception and the guests are gathered on the lawn. The only sound is the distant thumping of the bass from the band and the click of your heels against the hardwood as Hansol pulls you up the staircase, two steps at a time.
He leads you unhesitatingly to the last door on the left, exactly where you knew he would: his childhood bedroom.
The hallway passes you in a blur before he's pushing the door open and pulling you inside. The room is like a whole new wave of memories. The same navy-blue walls, the framed vinyl records above his old desk, the queen bed against the far wall with its rumpled white duvet. You can see that he probably slept here last night, because there's a duffel bag by the closet and a pair of sneakers kicked off near the desk.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And then Hansol is on you.
His hands cup your face, tilting your chin up, and his mouth crashes down onto yours with none of the careful restraint he'd shown before—if you can even call it that. This kiss is greedy and hungry. His tongue slides against yours, and you're, once again, moaning into his mouth, hands flying up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
The way he kisses you— like he's been starving, like you're the only thing he's ever craved—makes your mind spin. You want nothing more than to be devoured by him.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the closed door. His hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping the silk of the dress. "Fuck, I forgot. I forgot how good you taste."
"Hansol—"
He kisses you again before you can say another word. One hand slides up the side of your throat to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. His thumb presses against the corner of your mouth, and you open for him willingly, letting him lick into you with slow, filthy heat that makes your knees go weak.
Your hands are shaking as they push his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, and Hansol doesn't even glance at it. He's too busy dragging his mouth down the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the pulse fluttering wildly under your skin.
"Look at you in this fucking dress," he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your collarbone. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them possessively.
You gasp, arching into him as his teeth assault your throat. "It's not my dress."
He nips at your skin, and you feel it all the way down between your legs. "Don't care. It might as well be made for you."
His mouth is on yours again, and this time his hands start moving more frantic than before. They slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the silk, and you whimper shamelessly, feeling like you could melt right there.
Your head spins as he slowly draws back from your lips again, a fine thread of saliva stretching between them. He rests his forehead against yours for the briefest moment before nuzzling his face into the curve of your cheek, his lips brushing your ear in a teasing bite.
"You have any idea," he groans, breath hot against your ear as his hands skims down over your hip, gathering the silk of the dress in his fists, dragging the hem higher, "how many times I've thought about having you again? Every fucking night. Every fucking night for four years."
"Hansol—" His name breaks on your tongue as his palms slide under the hem of the dress, up the outside of your bare thigh.
"Tell me you thought about it too."
"I did," you whine. "So much."
His fingers trace the elastic of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your throat. "Yeah? Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought about, baby."
You can't. You can barely form words right now. His hands are inching up, thumbs pressing against your hipbone, and you're clinging to his shirt like you'll fall over if you let go.
Hansol seems to take pity on you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, and what he sees there makes his eyes darken to almost full black. A millisecond later he's kissing you again, and moving, and before you fully register what's happening, he's guiding you across the room to his old study desk.
In one smooth motion, he grips your waist and lifts you up onto it. You gasp at the sudden movement and the cool wood pressing against the backs of your thighs where the dress has ridden up. Hansol steps between your knees, forcing them apart with his hips, and cups your face again, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
Then he drops to his knees.
Your breath leaves your lugs. He's still in his tuxedo pants and his white dress shirt, sleeves shove up his forearms now, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck—the one you tied for him hours ago—and he's staring up at you like you're something holy.
"Hansol."
"Yeah, baby?"
"I—" You don't know what you're going to say. You just want to say his name again. And again, again, again, again.
He smiles, soft and slow. And then his hands are on your knees, spreading them wilder, pushing the silk dress up higher until it's bunched around your waist and you're bare to him except for the thin cotton of your underwear. For a moment, you wish you were wearing something prettier and nicer for this moment, but those thoughts are soon silenced by his voice.
"Fuck me."
His fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it meets your thigh, and your hips roll forward instinctively at the touch.
"You're already wet, baby. I can see it through your underwear."
You cover your face with your hands. "Oh God."
He immediately catches your wrist, grip gentle as he guides your hand away. "Don't. Don't hide. I want to see you."
Hansol then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and drags it down your legs, slowly, taking his sweet time, his eyes fixed on your core. You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls it off over your heels, then shoves them into his pocket.
"Hansol!"
He grins, and it's so wolfish, so filthy, that more heat floods between your legs. "Mine now."
He plants his hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider. His breath ghosts over you, warm and unbearable, and you shudder.
"Look at that," he murmurs, almost reverent. "Look how pretty. Missed this. Missed you so fucking much, baby."
The first stroke of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips jerking forward, and he immediately clamps a hand down on your hip to hold you in place. Hansol drags his tongue up through your folds, slow and thorough, and you throw your head back so hard it thuds against the wall behind the desk.
"Oh fuck!"
"That's it. Let me hear you," he groans against your core.
Hansol knows exactly what he's doing. Most importantly, he remembers—God, he remembers—that you like it slow at first. Long, flat licks up your center, his tongue soft and unhurried, warming you up. His hand slide under your thighs, hooking your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.
You look down at him and almost combust. His head is buried between your legs, his dress shirt rumpled from your grabbing hands, and his eyes flick up to meet yours the exact second you look at him. He holds your gaze while his tongue drags a slow circle around your clit, and the sight of him—your Hansol, one his knees for you—is almost enough to push you over on its own.
A whimper escapes you, certain there's no air left in your lungs. "Baby."
You don't even know how it's possible, but his gaze grows darker. Hansol sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and your back arches off the wall.
"Hansol!"
He hums against you, appreciatively, and the vibration makes your thighs shake around his head. He's making obscene, borderline pornographic noises, wet, filthy sounds that echoes through the room, and he's not slowing down, not letting up, his tongue flicking against your clit in fast, precise strokes that have you climbing embarrassingly fast.
"Oh god, I'm—already, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah, you are," he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "Come on my tongue. Give it to me."
Hansol dives back in, and this time he slides a finger inside you, then a second, curling them up in that perfect way that only he ever figured out how to in all these years. There, you lose it. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, and you come hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly into his mouth.
He works you through it. Slow, gentle laps of his tongues, his fingers sliding out of your and stroking soothingly along your inner thigh. When you finally slump against the wall, boneless and shaking, he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and looks up at you with the most self-satisfied smile you've ever seen.
"There she is."
Your voice is wrecked but you manage to say, "Shut up."
"Missed that face."
"Hansol, I swear to god—"
He stands up, and before you can catch your breath, he's kissing you again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should be too much but instead it makes something hot coil low in your belly all over again. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he kisses you like he can't help himself.
"Bed," he says against your mouth.
"Please."
He pulls you away from the desk. Your legs are so shaky that you would have stumbled if he hadn't slipped an arm around your waist to steady you. Without letting go, he guides you backward to his old bed, dressed in navy sheets and topped with mismatched pillows, before easing you down onto the mattress as though you're made of glass.
Then he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at you like he can't quite believe you're real.
You're a mess. The dress is bunched around your waist, one strap slipping off your shoulder, your hair coming loose from the chignon. Your legs are bare, spread slightly, and you can feel yourself still throbbing from his mouth. You should be self-conscious, but the way Hansol's looking at you makes it impossible.
"Get up here," you practically beg.
"In a second."
His fingers move to his bow tie, tugging it loose the rest of the way. It drops to the floor. Then the buttons of his vest, one by one—the same vest you buttoned for him hours ago. Then the crisp white shirt, tugged out of his waistband and unbuttoned with maddening slowness.
You can't take it. You sit up, reach for him, and pull him down onto the bed on top of you.
Hansol laughs against your mouth, a real, warm laugh, and then he kisses you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip. He rolls his body against yours, and you feel his hardness straining against the fabric of his pants, making your hips buck into his.
"Off," you gasp, tugging at his shirt. "Off, off…"
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and then he's shirtless above you, all muscle and warm skin, and you drag your palms down his chest, over his ribs, memorizing him all over again. There's a tattoo on his ribcage, a small line of Korean script, that you don't recognize.
You trace it with your fingers. "What does this say?"
He looks down at you. His eyes are soft. "I'll tell you later."
"Hansol—"
"Later, baby."
He closes the distance between you again, and this time when his hand slides down your body it's to shove the bunched-up silk of the dress up over your head. You lift your arms and let him pull it off, and then you're lying beneath him in nothing but strapless bra and your heels.
He sits back on his heels, taking you in. His pupils are blown wide.
"You," he says, voice rough, "are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
"Body worship later," you reply, breathless. "Pants off now, Chwe."
Hansol laughs, but he obeys. He stands off the bed just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants and briefs down together, kicking them off with his shoes and socks in one graceless motion, and then he's back on the bed, back on top of you.
You feel him against your thigh, hot and hard, and you gasp.
"Hansol, please…"
"I know, baby." He reaches down between you, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself. "I know. I'll take care of you."
He pauses right at your entrance. His forehead drops to yours.
"I don't have anything," he whispers. "I didn't—unlike my mother, I wasn't planning this."
You giggle briefly. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean, I haven't… it's been a while."
"Me too. It's been a while."
"Then don't stop. Please."
He kisses you as he pushes inside you.
You both moan. His forehead is pressed to yours, and his eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He sinks into you inch by inch, and it's been so long that it's almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of him inside your again.
"Fuck. Holy shit, you feel—"
"Hansol." You cup his face. "Hansol, look at me."
He opens his eyes.
"Hi," you whisper.
His voice cracks. "Hi."
You pull his mouth down to yours, and he starts to move.
Slow—so slow. Long, deep rolls of his hips that push him all the way inside you and drag him back out to the tip, and every stroke he groans against your mouth like it's killing him. His hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up higher around his waist, and the new angle makes him hit somewhere inside you that has you gasping into his mouth.
"That's it," he mumbles. "Feel that?"
"Yes!"
"I know. I know, baby. I've got you."
He kisses you again, and again, and again. Between every stroke. His mouth on yours, on your jaw, on the hinge of your neck. His hand slides up from your thigh to your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple through the bra, and you arch up into him with a whimper.
"Take this off," he groans against your throat, tugging at the strapless bra. "Wanna see all of you."
He slips it off your shoulders and tosses it over the side of the bed as though it has personally offended him, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple as he continues to fuck into you with those deep rolls that are unraveling you thread by thread.
He's whispering something against your skin, but you can barely make it out, your mind clouded by everything he's making you feel with every stroke.
"Beautiful. Every inch of you. Fucking perfect. Made for me."
"Hansol…"
"Made for me," he repeats, biting down gently at the swell of your breast. "Say it."
"Made for you."
He drags his mouth back up to yours. "Yeah. That's right. That's fucking right, baby."
Hansol picks up the pace just enough that the pleasure that had been slow and unfurling suddenly starts to spark hotter. Your hand slides up his back, nails scraping lightly, and he groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.
"Do that again."
You do. You drag your nails down his back, and he shudders, hips stuttering, and buries his face in your throat.
"Fuck, I'm not gonna last if you—"
"I don't care." You turn your face into his hair. "I don't care, Hansol, I want you to."
"No." He pulls back. Kisses you hard. "No. You come first. You always come first."
He slides a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and starting to circle it in tight, precise little strokes that match the rhythm of his hips, and you feel it building fast, embarrassingly fast, that hot coil low in your belly winding tighter and tighter.
"That's it," he coaxes, watching your face. "I can feel you, you're squeezing me so tight."
You come with a cry, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he fucks you through it with those same slow, deep strokes, his thumb still circling your clit until you're twitching and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.
"Good girl," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Good girl. Look at you."
You can barely catch your breath before he's rolling you.
You gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, one big warm hand splayed at the small of your back, holding you down. He drags a pillow under your hips, tilting you up, and then he's pushing back inside you from behind and you're moaning into the pillow before he's even fully seated.
"You okay, babe?" His hand slides up your spine, gathering the loose strands of your hair into his fist. He tugs, gently, tilting your head back. "Fuck, this angle."
"Yeah, more. Please."
He drives into you, deeper this time—thanks to the new position—his hand in your hair keeps your head tilted so he can lean down and speak against your ear, and his other hand is gripping your hip so tight you know you'll have marks tomorrow.
"So good," he mumbles. "So fucking good for me. Taking me so well. You feel so goddamn perfect around me. Missed this. Missed you."
You whimper into the pillow.
"Yeah? You like this?" He tugs your hair again. "Talk to me, baby."
"I love it, Hansol, I love it, please don't stop."
His voice cracks. "Never. Never again. I swear to fucking god, never again."
He fucks you like he means it. Even deeper and harder, purposeful strokes that have you gripping the sheets, whimpering with every thrust. His hand releases your hair and slides down under you, finding your clit again, and you nearly sob.
"Hansol— Hansol, I can't— again, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah you are. That's three. Come on. One more."
His fingers work you in tight circles, and his hips don't let up, and you fall apart under him for the third time, your orgasm ripping through you so hard that your whole body shakes. You feel him falter, feel him groan into your hair, and then his fingers tighten on your hip.
"Holy fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Inside." You barely recognize your own voice. "Inside, Hansol, please."
Hansol curses again, and slams into you one more time. And then he's coming with a low, guttural groan against your shoulder, his hips jerking, his forehead pressed to your back, and you feel every pulse of him deep inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you move. His weight is warm and heavy on your back, and his breath is ragged in your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your spine.
He kisses your shoulder. The nape of your neck. Behind your ear.
"Babe," he mumbles.
"Hmm?"
"Don't move."
Hansol carefully slides out of you, and you feel him, hot and thick, dripping down your inner thigh, and you make a small, embarrassed sound into the pillow.
"Hansol, oh my god!"
"Shh." His hand slides down between your legs, and you feel his fingers gather what's spilling out. "I've got you."
You feel him drag his fingers back up, pushing it back inside you, and you moan into the pillow.
"There we go. That's mine. All mine."
He does it again one last time, slow, deliberate. Then he turns you gently onto your back, and he's staring down at you with such open, wrecked adoration that your eyes prick with tears.
"Open your mouth, baby."
You do.
Hansol brings his fingers—slick with him, with you—to your lips, and slides them in. You close your mouth around them and taste him, salt and heat, and his eyes go completely black.
He bends down and captures your lips in another kiss, licking into your mouth, chasing his own taste on your tongue. The kiss turns wonderfully deep and messy, leaving you both breathless before he finally pulls back just.
"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me."
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down against you. He collapses onto his side, gathering you into his chest, one heavy leg thrown over your hips, keeping you pinned to him.
There's a small silence, and you can hear the distant thump of the reception band, still going strong outside. Someone must have started the sparkler send-off; you can hear cheers filtering up through the window.
Hansol traces slow circles on your bare hip.
"The tattoo," he says quietly, after a long moment.
You lift your head from his chest. "Hm?"
"You asked what it said." He looks at you. "It's from that old book you had. The Dictionary of Flowers? The meaning of a forget-me-not."
You feel dizzy.
"I got it after I realized I was never going to feel it again unless I came back to you."
You don't have words. So you kiss him instead. When you pull back, he brushes your hair off your forehead. His eyes are impossibly soft.
"Still want that burger?" he asks.
You laugh. Wet, watery, real.
"Yeah, Hansol."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But maybe in an hour."
"An hour." He grins, slow and wicked, and rolls on top of you again. "And maybe tomorrow we can take Poppy to the Natural History Museum."
"Sounds perfect to me."
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