A violent, unapologetic, Rudolph’s-nose kind of red, wrapped about fifteen times around a very familiar neck.
“What,” you say slowly, “is that?”
Yunho freezes on your doorstep like a deer in headlights. Snowflakes cling to his hair, melting into damp curls at his temples, and his breath fogs the early morning air in soft, white puffs. He blinks down at you, then tugs at the knitted monstrosity around his throat.
“This?” he asks, as if there might be another crime against fashion you’re referring to. “It’s a scarf.”
You stare.
It’s not just a scarf. It’s enormous. Thick and fluffy, knit in wide red and green stripes with little white snowflakes and—oh no—tiny reindeer faces worked into the pattern. The reindeer have pom-pom noses. POM-POM NOSES.
“I can see that it’s a scarf,” you manage. “The question is… why is it that scarf?”
His mouth twitches, the corners fighting a losing battle not to smile. “My aunt made it for me.”
Ah.
Suddenly, it makes sense. No one with free will and functional eyesight chooses that voluntarily. It’s the kind of thing that comes with expectation attached, the kind knitted with love and a faint sense of threat.
“Let me guess,” you say. “She gave it to you and stared until you promised to wear it.”
“Her exact words were, ‘If you love me, you’ll wear this every day until New Year’s,’” he admits.
You gasp. “That’s emotional blackmail.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are warm. “She makes the best holiday food. I can’t risk it.”
You snort. “So you’ve sacrificed your dignity for rice cakes and jeon. Understandable.”
He grins, and the scarf shifts with the movement, pom-pom noses wobbling.
“I think it’s cute,” he says.
“Of course you do,” you say. “You’re the one wearing it.”
His smile widens, and he reaches down to pluck at one of the long ends draped over his shoulder. Up close, you notice something else: the scarf is long. Absurdly long. The other end puddles almost to his knees.
“You’re just jealous,” he teases.
“Of being strangled by acrylic joy? No, thanks.”
He looks thoughtful for a second. Then his eyes light up with an idea that is never, ever good for your blood pressure.
“It’s big enough for two,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
“It’s snowing,” he points out. “You’re shivering. And we have a fifteen-minute walk to the station. This is an opportunity.”
“For what?” you demand. “Fashion crimes and losing circulation?”
He steps forward, and suddenly the doorway feels smaller. He towers over you, all broad shoulders and long limbs and the smell of cold air and fabric softener. There’s a tiny snowflake stuck on his lashes.
“For efficiency,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
Before you can protest, he’s already unwinding half the scarf from around his neck. The red-and-green mass spills into his hands like he’s unraveling a banner. He loops one end around your shoulders, tugging it gently until you’re pulled nearer, chest brushing against his.
“Yunho—”
“Just for the walk,” he says, already wrapping the other half back around his own neck. “We’ll both be warm. And if my aunt sees us on the street, she’ll think I’m very popular.”
You snort despite yourself. “Is that what you want, Jeong? To make your aunt think you have a fan club?”
He hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking down to where the scarf now links you. He’s pulled it snug, the thick wool brushing your chin, your shoulders nearly pressed against his chest.
“I only need one fan,” he says easily. “Quality over quantity.”
Your heart does an annoyingly soft little flip. You tell it to calm down; it ignores you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t move away.
“There,” he says, satisfaction in his tone. “Perfect. We’re like… one of those two-person sweaters couples wear in movies.”
“Don’t say that,” you beg. “I can feel the secondhand embarrassment.”
He laughs, and the sound wraps around you like an extra layer.
“Ready?” he asks.
You glance at the world outside your tiny warm apartment: the street glittering with a fresh dusting of snow, the cloudy sky promising more. Your breath curls visible in front of you, matching his.
Not ready, you think, not for this kind of proximity with him. You’ve had a crush on your neighbor and unofficial commute buddy for months now, and sharing a scarf is… dangerous.
But Yunho is looking at you with that open, expectant expression, like he’s just suggested something that makes obvious perfect sense. Which, to him, it probably does.
“Yeah,” you say. “Let’s go, Scarf Man.”
He grins at the nickname and steps back, tugging gently on the scarf to guide you with him. You stumble a little and end up closer than you were before, your shoulder bumping into his side.
“Careful,” he says, amusement coloring his tone. “Wouldn’t want you to fall before the day even starts.”
“You’re the one yanking on my leash,” you mutter.
His mouth falls open in mock outrage. “Did you just compare my aunt’s lovingly knitted scarf to a leash?”
“If it fits,” you sing-song.
He laughs so hard he has to stop walking for a second, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching the scarf.
People pass you on the sidewalk, bundled up in their own coats and hats, snow dusting their hair and shoulders. One older lady smiles knowingly at the sight of you two wrapped up together. You can practically hear her thinking, Young people. So sweet.
If only she knew you haven’t even held hands.
Yet, your heart whispers.
You tell it to shut up.
The scarf, for all its aggressive color choices, is undeniably warm.
Once you get used to the initial awkwardness of being tethered together, walking isn’t that bad. You fall into a sort of rhythm: your shorter strides matched by his longer ones, the scarf pulling taut or loosening slightly with each step.
You’re painfully aware of every point of contact: your shoulder pressed to his side, your arm brushing his coat, sometimes your hip bumping his. You’ve walked to the station together dozens of times. Sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder, sometimes with a little space between you. But somehow the scarf makes this feel different.
More deliberate.
“How’s work looking today?” he asks as you pass the bakery, the smell of fresh bread making your stomach rumble.
“Busy,” you say. “We’re short-staffed, and everyone wants hot drinks in December. Half the city suddenly remembers that I exist when it gets cold.”
“Lucky city,” he says without missing a beat.
You glance up at him, heart doing that thing again.
“Flirting before 8 a.m.?” you say. “Bold move.”
“I’m warming you up,” he says, utterly unbothered.
“You brought hand warmers?” you ask hopefully.
His lips curve. “Better.”
He leans a little closer, his shoulder bumping yours more firmly. The scarf shifts, tightening around the both of you, pulling you in.
“There,” he says. “Emotional hand warmers.”
You groan. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re smiling,” he points out.
You are. You hate that he noticed.
“So, Mister Emotional Hand Warmer,” you say, aiming for distraction. “How’s your day looking?”
“Meetings,” he says with a theatrical sigh. “Spreadsheets. My boss pretending he invented the concept of deadlines. The usual.”
You nod sympathetically. “May the coffee be strong and your coworkers not send ‘quick questions’ at five fifty-nine.”
He shudders. “That’s the worst. I would rather be hit by a snowball.”
“Careful, the universe might take that as a challenge,” you say.
He glances around at the quiet, snow-dusted street. “What, is a rogue snowball going to roll down the hill and tackle me?”
“You never know,” you say. “We live in a dangerous world.”
“You’re the dangerous one,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
You look up sharply.
He’s already looking straight ahead again, cheeks tinged with pink that could easily be blamed on the cold.
You decide to let it go for now, partly because you’re not entirely sure you didn’t imagine it, and partly because your brain might short-circuit if you press.
The station comes into view sooner than you’d like: a squat building with fogged windows, a small crowd gathered under the overhang, stamping their feet against the cold.
As you and Yunho approach, you feel the scarf tug, reminding you where you are. Who you’re wrapped up with.
You reach the station doors and reluctantly start unlooping your half of the scarf.
“Freedom,” you declare, tugging it gently over your head. Your hair stands up with static for a second before settling.
Yunho gathers the loose knit into his hands, winding it back around his neck in a familiar motion. But he doesn’t wrap it as many times as before. The scarf still drapes long down his chest, one end shorter. The one that had been around you.
You suddenly miss its weight.
“Thanks for the shared life support,” you say, rubbing your hands together for warmth more out of habit than necessity now.
“Anytime,” he grins. “We can do it again after work. The scarf and I will be waiting.”
“You’re naming yourself as a package deal with the scarf?” you ask.
“We come as a set,” he says.
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. “See you at six, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives you a goofy little salute. “Don’t let the espresso machine bully you.”
“Don’t let your boss gaslight you into thinking deadlines were your idea,” you shoot back.
He laughs, starts to turn toward his platform, and then stops.
“Oh—wait.” He rummages in his coat pocket and pulls out a small, crinkled package. “Almost forgot. My aunt sent extra.”
He holds out a neatly wrapped rice cake, the plastic slightly fogged from the temperature difference.
“You did not just pull tteok out of your pocket,” you say, scandalized.
“I absolutely did,” he says proudly. “For you. Breakfast of champions.”
“You can’t keep feeding me like this,” you say, taking it anyway. The rice cake is cold but soft under your fingers. “I’m going to start associating you with food.”
“Good,” he says. “Then you’ll think of me every time you’re hungry.”
Your heart skips.
“I already do,” you say, intending it to sound teasing.
It doesn’t.
The words hang between you, heavier than you meant them to be. His eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them.
“Good,” he says again, quieter this time.
Before you can unpack that, the station announcement cracks over the loudspeaker, calling his train.
“That’s me,” he says, shifting his scarf like a soldier adjusting armor. “Six o’clock?”
“Six o’clock,” you echo.
He gives you one last smile. Wide and bright, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle and then he’s gone, disappearing into the stream of commuters.
You stand there for a moment, rice cake in hand, watching the crowd swallow him.
Outside, snow drifts lazily past the station windows.
You suddenly can’t wait for six o’clock.
By lunchtime, you’ve decided the scarf is a menace.
Not because you hate it, honestly, it’s already growing on you, but because everyone at work is talking about “the guy in the ridiculous scarf who walked you to the station.”
Apparently, subtlety is not on your side.
“Is that your boyfriend?” your coworker Lina asks, leaning over the counter while the café has a rare lull.
You nearly drop the milk pitcher. “What? No. Yunho’s just… Yunho.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You came in wrapped up in the same scarf. That’s couple behavior.”
“He was sharing,” you protest. “It’s cold.”
She grins like a shark smelling blood. “And how long has the hot neighbor been ‘just Yunho’?”
“Lina,” you groan. “Please. I’m working.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sweetly. “I didn’t realize denial was on your job description.”
You shoo her away before she can dig further, but your cheeks stay warm long after.
It’s not denial, you tell yourself as you steam milk and pull espresso shots. You’re not denying anything. You know exactly how you feel.
You also know exactly why you haven’t said anything.
Because Yunho is… Yunho.
He’s your neighbor. Your friend. Your partner in shared grocery runs and late-night convenience store trips and “the landlord still hasn’t fixed the heater” movie marathons. He’s the one who helps you carry heavy stuff up the stairs without being asked, who texts you stupid memes when you’re having a bad day, who notices when you’re quiet and asks if you want to talk or if you just need someone to sit next to you.
He’s steady. Constant. A fixed point in your life.
You don’t want to mess that up.
Still, your mind keeps circling back to the way he looked this morning: snow in his hair, scarf half around you, eyes crinkling when he called you his “one fan.” The way his fingers brushed your collarbone accidentally when he tucked the scarf around your shoulders.
The way he said good quietly.
You’re still thinking about it when the bell over the café door jingles and a gust of cold air sweeps in, dragging your attention to the entrance.
He’s there.
It’s not six o’clock. It’s barely three.
He didn’t text to say he was coming. He’s supposed to be in meeting hell until five, at least.
But there he is. Shirt sleeves rolled up under his coat, hair slightly mussed, scarf still blindingly red around his neck. He looks a little windblown, like he walked fast.
Your heart somersaults.
“Hey,” you say, trying not to sound as surprised as you feel. “You’re early.”
He steps up to the counter, smiling like he’s been waiting all day to be here. Maybe he has.
“Emergency,” he says gravely.
You straighten, mock-alert. “Is your boss trying to make you wear a matching scarf?”
“Worse,” he says. “Office coffee machine is broken.”
You gasp. “Oh no.”
“I barely survived the last meeting,” he continues. “I had to leave before someone suggested instant coffee.”
“Not instant coffee,” you say, hand over your heart. “That’s barbaric.”
He leans his elbows on the counter, dipping his head closer to yours.
“You wouldn’t let them do that to me,” he says softly.
Your pulse stutters.
“Never,” you say. “Armed with the power of espresso, I will protect you.”
“See?” he says. “My hero.”
You roll your eyes, but warmth spreads through you anyway.
“What can I get you?” you ask, reaching for a cup.
“Usual,” he says. “And something sweet, if you have it. I need sugar and caffeine.”
“Rough day?” you ask, already prepping his drink.
He shrugs. “Just… long. Boring. Very talk, little do.”
You snort. “Corporate life, summed up in four words.”
You move automatically, making his latte the way you’ve done a hundred times. Extra shot, not too hot, the tiniest bit of sugar. You pour the milk carefully, creating a heart without even thinking.
When you slide it across the counter, he looks down and smiles.
“You did that on purpose,” he says.
“It’s latte art,” you say breezily. “Don’t get cocky.”
He taps the side of the cup with one finger. “Still counts.”
You pretend not to hear him.
“I’ll grab you something sweet,” you say, ducking into the pastry case. “We have those cinnamon rolls you like.”
“You remembered,” he says.
You freeze for a heartbeat.
Of course you remembered. You remember everything when it comes to him. How he takes his coffee. Which caramel chocolates he’ll dig for in the box. That he hates soggy fries but loves dipping them in his milkshake.
“It’s my job,” you say, placing a cinnamon roll on a plate. “I remember everyone’s favorite order.”
He hums, unconvinced.
“Jae from the office building likes black coffee and an almond croissant,” you rattle off. “Minji from the flower shop orders chamomile tea and a lemon tart. Old Mr. Han gets an Americano with one sugar and he always pretends he’s never been here before.”
Yunho considers this for a moment, then nods.
“So,” he says, “remembering my cinnamon rolls is just… part of the job.”
“Exactly,” you say.
“Then what’s this?” he asks.
When you glance up, he’s pointing at the side of his latte cup.
You didn’t write his name on it today, like you do for most customers. You wrote “YH🧣” instead, a tiny scarf doodled next to the letters.
Your face heats.
You’d done it automatically, without thinking. And then you’d gotten busy and forgotten about it.
“It’s… branding,” you say weakly. “Your alter ego. Scarf Man.”
His eyes crinkle. “Cute.”
“That was not for you,” you lie.
“Sure it wasn’t,” he says, grin widening.
You try to glare, but it’s hard to do with your heart tap-dancing in your chest.
“Take your coffee and go before your coworkers send a search party,” you say.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, picking up the cup and the plate. He pauses, then adds, “Six o’clock. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” you say.
He holds your gaze for a second longer, something like intent flickering behind the easy warmth, and then he’s gone again, back into the cold.
You watch him through the fogged glass as he disappears down the street, scarf ends flapping.
You press your fingers to your lips, as if you can catch the smile that’s been hovering there all morning.
If you were in a movie, you think, this would be the part where the camera zooms in on your face and the soundtrack swells and everyone in the audience knows what’s coming.
You’re not in a movie.
But you’re starting to hope anyway.
By six o’clock, the snow has picked up.
The flakes are bigger now, heavier, falling in thick, slow spirals that catch in the streetlights. The sidewalks are slick, the world a little quieter under the growing blanket of white.
You stand outside the café, pulling your hat down over your ears, and wrap your scarf around your neck. It’s nowhere near as impressive as Yunho’s; it’s a sensible gray one, bought on sale last year.
You’re about to text him. You’re out, you’re waiting, you’re trying not to look like you’ve been rehearsing what to say all afternoon, when you see him.
He’s hard to miss. Even from half a block away, the red-and-green scarf is like a beacon cutting through the dim.
He spots you and raises a hand in greeting, picking up his pace. His footsteps crunch softly in the accumulating snow.
“Hey,” he says, when he reaches you. There are snowflakes in his hair again, clinging to his curls. His cheeks are pink, nose red-tipped. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re literally two minutes early,” you say.
He glances at his watch. “I know. I meant I’m late for wanting to see you.”
Your brain misfires.
“Yunho,” you say faintly. “What did your boss put in your coffee today?”
“Not enough,” he says. “I still had to sit through three hours of budget projections.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too hard. “Ready to brave the blizzard?”
He squints up at the sky. “This is a blizzard now?”
“It’s more snow than I want on my face,” you say. “That’s blizzard level.”
“Good thing we have…” He grabs the end of his scarf with a flourish and tosses it over his shoulder like a cape. “The Super Scarf.”
“The Super Scarf is not waterproof,” you point out.
“It’s emotional support,” he says. “We need it.”
You’re about to argue that you can probably survive fifteen minutes without it when a particularly sharp gust of wind cuts through your coat, making you shiver.
Yunho notices.
Without a word, he steps closer. The world shrinks a little.
“Come here,” he says softly.
He’s already unwinding the scarf as he speaks, long loops spilling from around his neck. He moves with easy confidence, like he’s been expecting this moment all day.
You stand still and let him wrap you.
He loops the scarf around your shoulders, then around himself, tugging gently until the two of you are knit together again, chest to chest. The wool scratches pleasantly against your jaw. Your hands brush his chest briefly; you can feel the solid warmth of him beneath the layers of fabric.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s get you home before you turn into a popsicle.”
“Me?” you say. “You’re the one whose ears are three seconds away from falling off.”
He grins. “My ears are warriors. They’ll be fine.”
“You say that now,” you mutter, but you’re smiling.
He tugs gently on the scarf, guiding you forward. You fall into step beside him, once again adjusting to the shared stride.
For a while, you walk in comfortable silence. The snow muffles the city noise, turning everything soft and distant. Your boots crunch on the thin layer of fresh snow. The streetlights cast cones of warm yellow light, the flurries swirling through them like confetti.
You can feel Yunho’s body heat through your coat. Every time he laughs or makes a small joking comment about someone’s snowman decoration or the tragic state of an icicle hanging from a balcony. You feel the movement in your shoulder where it meets his.
You still haven’t figured out what to say. Part of you wants to keep things exactly like this forever: easy, close, unspoken. Another part wants to grab his coat lapels, pull him down, and kiss him senseless right there on the sidewalk.
The latter part is getting louder.
“So,” he says eventually, breaking the silence. “Any interesting customers today?”
“Lina suspects you’re my boyfriend,” you blurt.
Smooth.
He falters mid-step.
“Oh?” he says.
“She saw us this morning,” you rush on. “With the scarf. She said it was ‘couple behavior.’”
You expect him to laugh it off. To make a joke. To say something like, “Wow, she jumps to conclusions fast.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he goes quiet. You feel, more than see, his shoulders tense slightly next to you.
“And what did you tell her?” he asks.
“I said you’re just Yunho,” you say. “My neighbor. My commute partner. My emotional hand warmer when you’re not saying weird things.”
His throat bobs. “Just Yunho,” he repeats.
You exhale a breath that curls into the cold air like a small ghost.
“That’s not all you are,” you say, softer now.
He looks down at you, eyes searching your face.
“What else am I?” he asks.
There it is again—that thrum in his voice, low and tentative and edged with something like hope.
Your heart stutters.
You could lie. You could make a joke: my scarf mule, my rice cake dealer, my supplier of bad puns.
You’re so tired of lying by omission.
“You’re…” You trail off, words snagging on the shape of what you mean. “Important.”
His eyes flicker.
“To who?” he asks, and his voice cracks just enough that you hear what it costs him to ask.
“To me,” you say.
He stops walking.
The sudden halt tugs the scarf taut between you, pulling you a half-step closer. You stumble, catching yourself against his chest with a muffled “oomph.”
For a second, all you can hear is your own heartbeat and the muted hiss of falling snow.
He’s looking at you like he’s trying to see past your skin, into your bones, your thoughts.
“You’re important to me too,” he says quietly.
You know that. You’ve always known that, in the way he shows up and sticks around and notices things. But hearing it out loud feels like someone has cracked the window open in a stuffy room.
“Yeah?” you say, trying for lightness. “Because I make your coffee?”
“Because you make everything better,” he says, and the lightness is gone from his voice entirely.
Your breath catches.
“Yunho…”
“I had a crap day,” he says, words coming faster now, like a dam has cracked. “The kind where every meeting could have been an email and every email could have been a phone call and I started wondering if anything I do even matters.”
“You matter,” you cut in automatically.
He huffs, a small, disbelieving sound. “See, that’s what you do. I think something like that and instead of getting stuck in it, my next thought is, ‘At least I can tell you about it later.’ I look at the clock and think, ‘Three more hours, and then I get to see you.’”
Your heart is in your throat.
“The coffee helps,” he adds. “And the scarf solidarity. But it’s you. It’s always you.”
You swallow, hard.
“You’re… my favorite part of the day,” you say, because it feels unfair, suddenly, to keep that part to yourself.
His eyes go wide.
“You can’t just say that and expect me to keep walking like a normal human,” he says.
“Who said I was normal?” you ask faintly.
He laughs, breath puffing against your cheek. The scarf between you creaks softly as you shift.
Snowflakes land on his hair, his lashes, the curve of his jaw. His mouth is pink from the cold, slightly parted.
You are in physical pain.
The words that have been knocking around in your chest all day finally slam against your ribs.
“Yunho,” you say, and your voice comes out small.
“Yeah?” he says, instantly attentive.
You look up at him, at the combination of softness and worry and something else in his expression.
You think about how he showed up three hours early just to see you. How he wrapped you in his ridiculous scarf without hesitation. How he warmed your fingers with his breath that morning when you complained about the cold last week. How he always, always meets you at the station, no matter how tired he is.
You think about Lina calling him your boyfriend, about his reaction to “just Yunho.”
You think about how your life looks with him in it versus without.
“I like you,” you say.
The words are pitifully small compared to what you mean, but they’re a start. They tumble out in a rush, because if you don’t say them now, you might never.
“I like you a lot,” you continue, cheeks burning even in the cold. “More than I should, probably. More than is… neighborly. More than is… friendly.”
He goes very, very still.
“And I’ve been terrified to say anything,” you admit, the confession spilling out like a freed breath, “because I don’t want to screw up what we have. I don’t want to lose our walks and your stupid scarf and the way you show up at the café and the nights we watch terrible movies and make fun of the plot. I don’t want to lose… you.”
You take a shaky breath, the cold air burning your lungs.
“But pretending I don’t feel it is starting to feel like losing you anyway,” you say softly. “Because I keep… pulling back. Censoring myself. Acting like I don’t care as much as I do. And that sucks more than risking it, I think.”
His eyes are shining.
“Not think,” he says hoarsely. “You know.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t respond. A thousand possible expressions flicker across his face. Shock, relief, something dangerously close to joy. As if his brain is scanning through different reactions and failing to settle on one.
“I…” he starts, then stops. His throat works.
The snow falls harder, fat flakes landing silently on your shoulders, your hats, the ridiculous scarf still binding you together.
“I’m in love with you,” he says.
Your heart stops.
It’s not what you expected him to say. You were ready for “I like you too,” for “I’ve been feeling something similar,” for “I’ve had a crush on you since that time you spilled hot chocolate on yourself and tried to pretend you meant to do it.”
You were not prepared for in love.
He sees the shock on your face and barrels on, words tumbling over each other like they’ve been waiting in line.
“I’ve been in love with you for months,” he says. “Maybe longer. I don’t know when it started. Maybe when you lent me that ugly hat because I forgot mine and you said, ‘Only because I don’t want your ears to freeze off,’ but then you texted me later to ask if I got home okay. Maybe when you remembered my coffee order before I even ordered it. Maybe when you showed up at my door with soup when I was sick and pretended you didn’t notice I looked like death.”
You make a strangled sound that might be a laugh.
“I kept telling myself it was just… appreciation,” he says. “Just friendship. Just you being… you. But then I’d see something stupid, like a dog in a sweater, and my first thought was, ‘I have to send this to you.’ I’d hear a joke and think, ‘They’d laugh at this.’ I’d have a bad day and think, ‘It’s okay, I’m seeing them later.’”
He takes a breath, the scarf shifting with the rise and fall of his chest.
“And then this morning,” he says, “when you let me wrap that ridiculous scarf around you without making a big deal out of it, it hit me how much I want to be the one keeping you warm. Not just from the cold. From… everything. Bad days. Rude customers. Broken coffee machines. Life.”
Your eyes sting.
“So yeah,” he says, voice low and steady now. “I’m in love with you. It’s a problem.”
“A problem?” you echo, half-hysterical.
He smiles, crooked and self-conscious. “Because I’ve been trying really hard not to let it show. Not to push. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“You’ve been failing,” you say, dazed.
His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“Yunho,” you say, laugh escaping along with a disbelieving puff of breath, “you wrap me in your scarf. You bring me food. You show up at my work just to see me. You walk me home every day. You… look at me like… that.” You gesture vaguely at his face. “You are the least subtle person I know.”
He blinks. “You knew?”
“No,” you say. “I… suspected. But I kept telling myself I was imagining it. That you’re just naturally… like this.”
“Like what?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Warm,” you say. “Big-hearted. Taking care of everyone.”
His expression softens.
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s… different with you.”
You swallow.
“I want it to be different with you too,” you say. “I want… this. Whatever this is. I want to figure it out with you.”
Snowflakes land on your lashes. You blink them away.
“So if you’re in love with me,” you say, heart pounding, “and I’m in love with you… what do we do now?”
He laughs, a short, breathless sound.
“This,” he says.
Before you can ask what he means, his hand is at your waist.
He moves.
Not fast, not abrupt, just sure.
One moment, you’re standing there, tied together by a ridiculous scarf and a handful of half-confessed feelings, and the next, you are kissing him.
There’s no question. No warning beyond the intent you see flicker in his eyes. No “Can I?” hovering between you.
He leans down, and his mouth finds yours with an ease that makes your knees weak.
It’s not a dramatic, sweeping kiss. It’s soft. Warm. A little clumsy from the angle and the layers of winter clothing. His nose bumps yours; your hat nearly slips back. The scarf between you creaks softly as he pulls you closer.
But it feels like everything.
His lips touch yours and suddenly the whole world narrows down to that point of contact. The cold on your cheeks, your ears, your nose—all of it fades under the heat blooming in your chest.
You make a small, surprised sound against his mouth. He answers with a quiet exhale, his hand tightening at your waist.
You’ve imagined this before. Late at night, staring at your ceiling, remembering the way he laughed at something you said or how his hand brushed your back as he let you step onto the bus first. You’ve pictured what his mouth would feel like, how he’d move, what you’d do.
Your imagination didn’t do him justice.
He kisses you like he means it. Not hesitant, not tentative—just sure in that uniquely Yunho way, like he’s leaned into something he’s been wanting for a very long time.
You kiss him back.
Once the initial shock passes, your body catches up. Your hands, which had been hovering uselessly at your sides, slide up to clutch at the front of his coat. You tug him closer, as much as the scarf will allow. He hums in approval, the sound vibrating against your lips.
The world goes soft around the edges.
Snow falls on your hair, shoulders, the ridiculous scarf binding you together. The streetlights glow. Somewhere, a car drives by, tires crunching slush. But here, in this little bubble of shared breath and warmth, nothing else matters.
He tilts his head slightly, changing the angle. The kiss deepens by a fraction. Still gentle, still sweet, but with a thread of something hungrier beneath. His thumb brushes your side, even through all the layers, and the touch sends a little spark skittering up your spine.
You pull back an inch, just to breathe, but you don’t go far. Your foreheads rest together, noses brushing. Your lips tingle.
He’s smiling. You can feel it, even without seeing it.
Snowflakes land on his lashes, melting slowly. One drips down, tracing a wet line along the curve of his cheek. Before you can think about it, you reach up and wipe it away with your gloved thumb.
He leans into the touch, just barely, like a cat.
“You didn’t give me a chance to overthink,” you say, realizing it now.
“Good,” he says. “You overthink too much.”
“You usually ask before you do things,” you say.
“I figured if I gave you time, you’d talk yourself out of it,” he replies. “And then I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just been brave for ten seconds.”
Your chest aches.
“So you were brave,” you say.
“For once,” he says.
You huff a soft laugh. “You’re brave a lot more than you think.”
He brushes his nose against yours. “I feel very brave right now.”
“You just kissed me in the middle of the sidewalk,” you say. “In front of Mrs. Kim’s window.”
He goes still. “Wait, what?”
You jerk your head toward the apartment building across the street. Sure enough, Mrs. Kim the Nosey is standing at her window on the third floor, peeking through the curtains with thinly veiled interest.
You wave.
She squeaks and jerks back out of sight.
“Oh my god,” Yunho groans, burying his face briefly in your shoulder. His words come out muffled against your scarf. “We are going to be the talk of the building.”
“We already are,” you point out. “At least now the rumors will be accurate.”
He lifts his head, and there’s a new lightness in his expression. Like some invisible weight has slid off his shoulders.
“I like the sound of that,” he says.
You smile. “What, accurate rumors?”
“Us,” he corrects. “Being a thing.”
Your heart squeezes.
“Yeah?” you say. “You like that?”
“I love that,” he says simply. “I love you.”
Your breath catches again, even though you’ve heard the words already. They hit you differently this time, wrapped up in the warmth of his arms, the echo of his mouth on yours, the snow still falling around you like confetti.
“I love you too,” you say, the words coming easier now. “You and your stupid scarf.”
“You like the scarf,” he says, smug.
“I’m emotionally blackmailed into liking the scarf,” you correct. “Your aunt has weaponized knitting.”
He laughs, then shivers slightly as the wind picks up.
“Okay,” he says. “As much as I’d like to continue kissing you in the middle of the street, you’re starting to turn pink, and I promised myself I’d get you home before you froze.”
“Look at you,” you say. “Already in overprotective boyfriend mode.”
He grins. “I’ve been in that mode for months. Now it’s official.”
You pretend to think. “What comes with the official title?”
“Unlimited scarf access,” he says promptly.
“I have that already,” you say.
“Lifetime supply of rice cakes,” he adds.
“Tempting.”
“Personal delivery of sarcastic commentary on your neighbors,” he offers.
“Sold,” you say. “Boyfriend package accepted.”
His smile softens.
“Come on,” he says, giving the scarf a little tug. “Let’s go home.”
You walk the rest of the way together, tethered by wool and confession and that kiss that still buzzes on your lips.
The world feels different now. Lighter. Sharper. Like someone adjusted the focus.
You pass the bakery, where the display window is already filled with gingerbread houses. Yunho points out one with a collapsing roof and makes a terrible pun about “crumbled dreams.” You groan. He laughs.
You walk past the park, where the swings are dusted with snow and someone has built a slightly lopsided snowman. Yunho says it looks like his boss. You nearly choke.
Your building appears around the corner, its brick façade softened by snow. The steps leading up to the entrance are dusted white.
You stop at the bottom of the stairs, turning to face him.
“So,” you say. “This is the part where we awkwardly say goodnight, even though we live in the same building.”
He snorts. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
“What’s happening instead?” you ask.
He takes a step closer, closing the small gap between you.
You can smell his soap, his shampoo, the faint tang of coffee on his breath. Your heart thumps heavily.
“This,” he says.
He kisses you again.
It’s different this time. Less surprise, more intention. He knows you’re kissing him back; you know he’s kissing you because he loves you; the space between you is full of everything you said and everything you’re still going to say.
You hook your fingers into the front of his coat, pulling him down. He makes a pleased sound against your mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. The scarf pulls tight between you, drawing you closer, tethering you even when you’re already pressed together.
You lose track of time.
When you finally part, both breathing a little heavier, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Okay,” he says, slightly breathless. “I really need to get you inside now, or your nose is going to fall off from the cold.”
“Romantic,” you say.
“I’m serious,” he says, though he’s smiling. He brushes his thumb lightly over the tip of your nose. “This is precious cargo.”
“You just called my nose cargo,” you say.
“My favorite cargo,” he amends.
You groan. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m very lucky,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.
You squeeze his coat lapels one more time, then let go, fingers already missing the feel of him.
“Text me when you’re inside?” he asks, habit kicking in.
“You’ll hear me through the thin walls,” you say. “We live literally across the hall.”
“Text me anyway,” he says. “So I have an excuse to keep talking to you.”
You shake your head, smiling so hard it hurts. “Fine. But only because I like seeing ‘YH🧣’ on my screen.”
His mouth curves. “I knew you liked the branding.”
You take a step back, then another, the scarf pulling taut between you. He unwinds it slowly, letting it slip from around your shoulders, but he keeps one end looped loosely around your neck as long as he can.
When it finally falls away, you feel the absence like a sudden breeze.
“You can borrow it,” he says.
You look at the scarf. Then at him.
“Tomorrow,” you say. “You can bring it. And we can share.”
He beams.
“I’d like that,” he says.
You turn toward the door, heart ridiculously full.
“And Yunho?” you say over your shoulder.
“Yeah?” he answers instantly.
“I’m really glad your aunt emotionally blackmailed you,” you say.
He laughs, bright and delighted.
“Me too,” he says. “See you in ten minutes?”
“Five,” you say. “I don’t want to wait that long.”
His answering smile is blinding.
You head up the stairs, the echo of his laughter and the memory of his mouth on yours following you like a warm breeze.
Inside, you stomp snow off your boots, hang up your coat, and lean back against your door for a moment, pressing your fingers to your lips.
Outside, snow falls steadily, coating the street, the steps, the world in white.
Across the hall, you hear a door open, then close.
A second later, your phone buzzes.
YH🧣: did you make it safely YH🧣: are your ears still attached YH🧣: i’m ready to provide emergency scarf coverage if needed
You bite back a grin and type back.
You: made it You: ears present and accounted for You: might need emergency boyfriend coverage though
There’s a pause.
Then.
YH🧣: on my way
You laugh, step away from the door, and move toward the kitchen to make hot chocolate.
When he knocks three minutes later, cheeks still vividly pink from the cold, scarf already half-unwound, you open the door before he can knock a second time.
“Hi,” he says, a little breathless.
“Hi,” you say.
Snowy nights, ridiculous scarves, and confessions that taste like cinnamon and coffee.
Synopsis: When Yunho applied for the new season of Love Island as a joke, he never expected to actually get in. He expected even less to fall in love on the very first night, especially with someone as bold and sharp-tongued as you.
Pairing: Yunho x Reader
Content: Love Island AU, Social Media AU, Nerdy Yunho, Miscommunication, Pancakes, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, Challenges
Playlist ♡
CHAPTERS:
1. same ol’ mistakes
2. it’s a crime to be gorgeous
3. you saw me for me
4. he loves me not, he loves me
5. supersonic pussycat
6. for my lipstick lover
7. you might think i’m crazy
8. a little initiative
9. if karma’s really real
10. body rock
11. picture you
more to be added …
SNEAK PEEK:
A/N: Hi guys, it’s been a while but it feels good to be back :)
You know the drill: Reply to this post to be added to the taglist ♡
Pairing: heir!Song Mingi x heir!Reader
AU: non-idol | arranged marriage | enemies to lovers
Genre: angst, humor, fluff in future chapters
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After a life-altering car accident, Mingi is given one final shot at redemption—reborn as a fuzzy little puppy. To earn a second chance at life, he must complete three tasks or risk being doomed to the afterlife forever.
Word Count: 6.5K
Warnings: angst, hints of depression and anxiety, emotional damage, violence
Fic Masterlist | Taglist Signup
a/n: drops this and runs away
You stirred awake to the sound of water running. When you reached out, Mingi’s side of the bed was empty but still warm. A moment later, he padded out of the bathroom, shirtless and barefoot, toweling off his damp hair. His smile was still sleepy, lopsided in the way you’d grown to love again.
“You left me,” you mumbled, burying your face into the pillow dramatically.
“I was gone for five minutes,” he chuckled, climbing back into bed to kiss the tip of your nose.
You reached up, looping your arms around his neck and tugging him down into a kiss, the kind that was slow and unhurried and tasted faintly of mint toothpaste. You sighed against his lips, not quite ready to let him go just yet.
“You’ve got something here,” you giggled, tapping the corner of your own mouth.
He leaned in immediately, lips puckered expectantly. You rolled your eyes, but kissed the corner of his mouth anyway.
Your newfound routine with Mingi wasn’t glamorous or dramatic. It was slow and steady, much like the pace of his recovery. Some mornings, you stayed tangled in the sheets, talking sleepily about the day ahead. Other mornings, he dragged you up with him, insisting the sun was already “too high” and there was “coffee waiting to be consumed.”
After breakfast, he’d disappear into the closet to get dressed while you lingered behind, finishing your coffee and scrolling through your phone. Sometimes you’d wander in after him, fixing his collar or finding that one belt he could never locate.
And when it came time for him to leave, you always saw him off at the door, even if you were still in pajama shorts and one of his oversized shirts that hung halfway to your knees. You’d fix his tie, smooth your fingers down his lapels, and tilt your head to the side like you were inspecting something important.
“Do I look good?”
“You look like trouble,” you hummed.
You were both grinning like idiots when he slipped his arms around your waist and leaned in, placing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“A forehead kiss? Seriously?”
“What?”
“I rode the shit out of you last night and all I get is a forehead kiss?”
“Wow. Romantic.”
“I'm just saying,” you shrugged, “feels a little ungrateful.”
He was already leaning back in, one hand finding your jaw as he kissed you properly this time. By the time he pulled away, you were flushed and breathless and he looked far too pleased with himself.
“Better?”
“Barely,” you huffed, giving him a playful shove toward the door.
He gave you one last glance, before landing a playful smack on your behind and disappearing down the hallway. The door shut behind him, but your smile lingered like the taste of coffee and his kiss on your lips.
The pent house was quiet now. Too quiet without Mingi shouting questions about where his phone had gone or dishes clinking in the sink. It should have been comforting but now it was much too overwhelming. You checked your phone and it was almost time for your therapy session with Jungah.
You opened the app and logged in a few minutes early, heart skipping every time the screen refreshed. You tried to make a mental list of what you needed to say, but the thoughts were a giant, tangled mess until all that remained was the dread that things with Mingi were going too well.
Ever since he woke up, everything about your relationship had felt surreal. He kissed you like he meant it. He made you laugh. There were no arguments, no backhanded remarks, and he even slept in your room now.
And that should’ve made you feel safe. You love him. God, you do. But instead, you found yourself looking for signs of the old him in everything he did.
“You know, he could just be putting on a front,” the voice in your head suggested.
You swallowed hard, adjusting and readjusting your screen brightness. “He’s trying,” you muttered.
“Wait until he gets comfortable again. Watch him run,” it snickered.
You pressed your thumb into your palm, digging in until the pressure bordered on pain. You inhaled slowly, then exhaled through your nose, counting each breath.
“People like Mingi always snap. Remember how he used to talk to you? How he made you feel small just because he could?”
“Stop!” you snarled, blinking hard as the screen flickered and connected. Jungah’s face appeared a second later.
“Hey, you. How are you feeling today?”
You hesitated. Then exhaled.
“Fine. Good, actually.” You paused.
“I think.”
Jungah furrowed her brows gently. “Tell me more about that.”
“Things have been going really well. With Mingi. He’s…different now. It’s like everything I didn’t think I’d ever have in this marriage is suddenly just…here.”
She nodded, encouraging but quiet.
“And that’s the part that’s messing with me,” you admitted.
“It doesn’t feel real. I keep thinking it’s too good to last,” you admitted. “Like he’s going to get tired of pretending.”
The emotional whiplash left you reeling. You kept trying to hold onto the good moments from the last few months and weeks, but doubt always crept in afterward, whispering that none of it was real. You wanted so badly to believe in the marriage, but it was hard to feel steady while waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Jungah watched you closely. “Why do you feel like you’re not enough for someone who clearly loves you?”
You blinked, fiddling with the hem of your shorts. You didn’t have a clear answer, only a flood of reasons you couldn’t voice without spiraling.
“I… I don’t know. I know I should believe him,” you said shakily.
“He tells me he loves me all the time. And I believe him. But that voice in my head just keeps asking when he’s going to change his mind.”
“What do you think would happen if you let yourself believe it was real?”
“Honestly, I think I’d get hurt,” you said quietly.
“I’m so used to being left alone, with every important thing in my life being taken away from me…” You trailed off, swallowing thickly as your vision blurred. You blinked rapidly, willing them away, but your chest had already started to ache.
The people you loved never stayed. The things you reached for, love, safety, and the freedom you wanted so desperately were always just out of reach.
“They always go,” you whispered. “It’s like the more I love something, the faster it slips through my fingers.”
Jungah didn’t say anything right away. She gave you the silence to lean into the ache in your heart, to feel the heaviness you so often pushed down in order to function. You hated crying in front of people, even her, but there was no holding it back now.
“So you’re always prepared for the worst.”
You nodded wordlessly, letting the tears slip down your cheeks.
“It’ll hurt less when it happens.”
Jungah tilted her head, jotting a couple of things down into her notebook. “But does it actually hurt any less?”
“No,” you sniffled. “I just don’t let anyone see it.”
You stared down at your hands, particularly the wedding band that weighed heavily on your finger.
“I don’t think I’ve ever really…mourned anything properly,” you said after a long pause.
“Not Hongjoong. Not Maro. Not even the version of my life I thought I’d have before everything went to shit. I just go through the motions.”
Jungah paused, her pen resting quietly against the edge of her notebook. “Y/N. You’re someone who’s been carrying more than one heart should ever have to.”
You looked away, blinking back the fresh sting behind your eyes.
Jungah let the silence stretch just long enough before asking, “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded.
“What have you done, just for yourself?”
You wracked your brain for something, anything, but came up empty. Seconds dragged by as you sifted through the past few years, only to land on a horrifying truth: there was nothing. No trip. No day off. Not even a fleeting instant where feeling good didn’t come with fear.
“I…” You hesitated, voice nearly lost. “I got Maro. But…”
“Maro is important. But I’m not talking about surviving,” Jungah said softly.
“I’m talking about choosing yourself. When was the last time you allowed yourself joy without having to earn it first?”
You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know. Because it felt like the universe was cruel, giving you things that mattered so deeply, like Hongjoong and Maro, only to rip them away without warning.
But then, somehow, it had brought Mingi back like a second chance.
“I don’t think I ever have,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
You’d convince yourself that surviving was enough. That love, when it came, would be the reward. That if you held on tightly enough to someone or something, maybe you'd finally stop falling apart.
“Then for today’s homework, let’s think of a couple of things you can do to take care of yourself. Can you do that?”
You nodded slowly. “Okay. I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Jungah glanced at the time. “We’ll stop here for today, but next time, I want to hear about those things you listed off.”
You gave a small, tentative smile, waving goodbye to Jungah as you logged off. But you were now left face to face with your own reflection and the voice you attempted to smother in the back of your head.
Ahri had never liked you.
Not because you were cruel. Or loud. Or even competitive. In fact, she might have hated you more because you weren’t.
You didn’t care about the exclusivity or politics of high society. You didn’t play the game that everyone else in your world took so seriously and that made you dangerous.
You were out of place. Unimpressed by wealth, far too comfortable sitting in silence. And yet somehow, you were the one Mingi married.
She told herself she wasn’t jealous. That she was simply concerned. That Mingi deserved someone who truly understood him. Someone who moved through this world as naturally as he did. Someone like her.
They had history, after all. She’d known him since they were kids, since the days he’d cover for her when she skipped piano lessons or bought her that Hermès bag she just had to have for her birthday. He had always picked up her calls, chased after her mood swings and made her feel like the most important girl in the room.
He let her call the shots. Let her wrap him around her finger and liked it because Mingi thrived on the attention. The praise. The validation.
And she had grown used to it. To the way he followed her lead, the way he gave her attention without her ever needing to ask for it. She’d built her life around the assumption that, Mingi would be hers, because he always had been, in one way or another.
But then you came along. Oblivious to your own status. You didn’t even want him. Everyone knew about your attempt to flee the country especially when you learned you were to be wed to him.
You didn’t deserve to be his wife.
She didn’t feel guilty for sleeping with Mingi on your wedding night, among the numerous other things they’ve done to hurt you. If anything, it was proof that she still had him. That no matter what ring he wore or what name was written on the marriage certificate, Mingi was still hers.
But then the crash happened and that’s when Ahri panicked.
Because if he didn’t wake up, her entire world would come crashing down. The access to spaces only the Songs, Chois, and Parks of the world were allowed into would vanish. Without him, she wasn’t important. She was just another pretty face from a moderately wealthy family playing dress up in a league she was never truly part of.
But then he woke up and changed.
He wanted to be with you. He loves you.
And that, more than anything else, made her seethe.
Her heels clicked as she resumed her loop around the front of the building, careful not to linger too close to the door. Every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the street for any sign of Ming or to ensure the paparazzi she had hired were in position.
Mingi had a spring in his step as he made his way to the office.
Things with you had been steady these past few weeks, full of everyday moments that felt more intimate than anything he’d ever known. He was on cloud nine, wrapped up in a happiness so real it almost scared him. He knew love like this wasn’t something everyone got to keep, and he would do anything, anything, to protect it.
He was already thinking about dinner. Maybe he’d stop by that Chinese place you liked and pick up something savory before the gala. He could already imagine the look on your face when he walked in with it: the playful eye roll, the fond smile you didn’t try to hide anymore.
He was smiling to himself, heart full and stupid, as he rounded the corner to the office.
But the bounce in his step faltered the second he caught sight of the figure waiting near the glass doors.
Ahri.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Mingi,” she said softly, trying to fall into step beside him. “Please. Just give me a minute. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
He started to walk past her, but she quickly moved to block his path, desperation flashing in her expression for just a second too long.
She reached for his arm.
And he recoiled like she burned. “Don’t touch me.”
Click.
Ahri shifted her angle just slightly, stepping closer, tilting her face up to his that made it look like they were mid-reconciliation.
“Can we not do this here?” she whispered, loud enough to be picked up if anyone was close. “I miss you.”
Click. Click.
“Ahri,” he warned, jaw clenched. “Don’t do this.”
She gave him a sweet, sad smile like she was the victim. Like this was his betrayal.
“It’s just a conversation. Just two old friends catching up.”
“I’m serious,” he bit out. “If you don’t leave right now, I’ll call security and have you removed from the property. You’re going to regret coming here.”
Click.
Her smile wavered, but only for a second. She stepped back just enough to look obedient but not enough to ruin the shot.
“Fine,” pouted “But don’t say I didn’t try.”
She pivoted smoothly on her heel, sauntering off like the whole thing had been beneath her. As if she hadn’t just dragged his past into the light and twisted it into a knife.
Mingi didn’t move. His fists stayed clenched at his sides, heart hammering in his chest. The world around him had gone eerily still, like a calm before the storm.
He had no idea where the lightning would strike.
⋆
You were stirring the last of your noodles absentmindedly, not really listening to whatever Jongho was saying about the recent case he'd been assigned. Jiwoo was halfway through her iced latte, scrolling on her phone like always, occasionally chiming in with a sarcastic remark whenever he got too animated.
“OH FUCK!”
Your head snapped up.
Jongho paused mid-sentence. “What?”
Jiwoo paled. Her phone froze in her hand, screen tilted toward her chest like she was trying to shield it from the table.
You frowned. “Jeon Jiwoo, what is it?”
Jiwoo sat there motionless, but you knew that look. You’d been friends since middle school and you’d seen the way her eyes went wide and how she always went quiet right before telling you something you weren’t supposed to hear.
She exhaled through her nose like it physically pained her. Then, slowly, without a word, she turned the phone around.
Mingi and Ahri were caught outside the Song building. She was up on her tiptoes, leaning in far closely to Mingi. His hand hovered near her back, not quite touching, not quite pulling away. His body looked stiff. Uncomfortable. But the angle told a different story.
Your stomach dropped.
Old Habits Die Hard: Song Mingi and Socialite Ex Stir Up Dating Rumors
“I told you,” said the voice you’d shoved to the back of your mind.
“No, you’re wrong,” you snapped under your breath.
“Am I though?” it sneered. “Because he promised he’d change?”
“Shut up—”
“Y/N?”
Jiwoo’s voice interrupted your train of thought. The screen was still in front of you.
“He looks uncomfortable.” You shrugged, forcing a huff through your nose as you turned your attention back to your food.
“It’s not nothing,” the voice in your head whispered. “It never is with her.”
You reached for your chopsticks and went back to stirring your cold noodles like you were suddenly starving, even though your appetite had long since disappeared.
“Oh, come on,” Jongho muttered, pulling out his own phone and zooming in on the photo with an irritated glare.
“That’s such bullshit. He’s clearly not engaging. She’s the one leaning in, not him.”
He swiped to another angle, scowling deeper. “Honestly? That looks like entrapment. He probably didn’t even know the paparazzi were there. There’s no way he gave consent for this shit to be published.”
“She’s clearly staging it,” Jiwoo added quietly, folding her hands tightly around her drink.
“Hell, if he wanted to, Mingi could make a case for defamation by implication,” Jongho said, tossing his phone onto the table.
Your phone buzzed loudly against the table. You glanced down and nearly dropped your chopsticks mid-bite. Mingi’s name was flashing on the screen. You fumbled for the phone as Jiwoo and Jongho leaned in like vultures.
“Hey,” you answered, turning on the speaker.
“Hey baby,” Mingi’s voice came through, a little rough around the edges but none worse for wear. Jiwoo and Jongho both gagged in unison.
“Hell has definitely frozen over,” Jongho whispered, and you shot him a sharp glare.
“Are you okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm. “I’m guessing you saw the photos.”
“Yeah,” Mingi replied.
“I want you to know I’m not hiding anything. Ahri was hanging around outside the building this morning. She confronted me, trying to get me to take her back—”
“It’s never going to be over between them,” the voice mocked.
But you pushed it aside.
“We pulled security footage of her,” Mingi continued. “I’m already talking to legal about it. We’re going to file a restraining order and possibly a defamation lawsuit.”
“I trust you,” you said quietly, swinging your legs beneath the table. “I just hate how she’s trying to drag you back into her mess.
There was a pause on the other end and you could almost hear Mingi’s heart swell with relief.
“I love you,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you posted.”
You turned slightly, away from Jiwoo and Jongho who were practically breathing down your neck to hear every word.
“I love you too,” you said with a small smile. “I’ll see you at home.”
You ended the call and set your phone down, only to find Jiwoo and Jongho pressed on either side of your face with zero shame.
“Oh my god, who is she?” Jiwoo gasped.
“She’s in her soft girl era,” Jongho added.
You rolled your eyes, batting them both away. “You two are insufferable.”
You leaned back in your seat, letting them tease you. But the headlines loomed in the corner of your mind, and no matter how hard you tried to stay present, dread was all you could feel.
You sat at your vanity, mindlessly dragging the brush through your hair as if it tethered you to reality. You weren’t looking in the mirror anymore, just staring past it. Somewhere behind you, Mingi was talking. Something about how the Chinese restaurant changed sauces. He was laughing. You should have laughed too. But all you could hear were those headlines.
Old Habits Die Hard.
“She’s coming for him.” The words echoed beneath your skin, crawling like something alive.
You clenched the brush harder. The bristles snagged in your hair, but you didn’t stop. The room felt like it was closing in on you, the walls inching closer with every breath. You tried to focus on Mingi’s words as he adjusted his cufflinks and the sound of his laugh but the voice was louder.
“You’d better do something before he leaves you.”
The brush slipped from your fingers, clattering against the vanity. You blinked, willing your reflection to steady, begging it to confirm that the love you’d been nurturing was real. Not another illusion. Not just another headline waiting to ruin you.
“Babe? Are you okay?”
Mingi stepped into view behind you, and you forced a smile, even as your throat tightened like it might strangle you from the inside out.
“Yeah,” you sighed, turning to face him, forcing a lightness into your voice.
“Just tired. I had therapy this morning, then lunch with Jiwoo and Jongho. After that, I rushed home to get ready.”
Mingi’s eyes searched yours, as if he could see straight through the act. It had always been easy for him, even when he was still Maro. Back then, he didn’t have words, but he didn’t need them. He could sense it in the way your fingers would go still in his fur or in the way you’d stare blankly at the wall for just a second too long.
Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Then he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to your bare shoulder, lingering just long enough to breathe you in. His gaze trailed down to the strapless black gown you’d chosen for the evening.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “But we don’t have to go, you know.”
Mingi straightened, his hands settling lightly on your arms. “We could ditch the gala. I can tell my parents you aren't feeling well and we can just stay in.”
“I’m fine,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over the curve of his cheekbone.
“We should go. It matters to your family.”
His brows drew together, and his hand rose instinctively to catch yours, holding it against his skin.
“Yeah, but you matter to me.”
“I know,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him. You weren’t sure if it was to quiet the storm inside or to make sure he felt it—that you were grateful, that you trusted him.
When you pulled away, he met your eyes and said firmly, “The second you want to leave, you say the word.”
“Okay…I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kissed you again, then helped you to your feet. You smoothed your dress, did one last glance in the mirror, and slipped your earrings in with trembling hands.
When you finally turned to him, Mingi gave your hand a gentle squeeze and offered his arm. You slipped yours through his, leaning into the quiet comfort of the gesture as the two of you stepped into the waiting car—then into the sea of flashing lights.
The gala was already in full swing by the time you arrived. As the door opened, Mingi reached for you without hesitation. The lights hit you instantly, harsh and unforgiving. Beyond the barricades, the crowd buzzed with low murmurs. The press called out his name. And worse… they called yours.
“Did you see the Ahri photos? I bet she’s pissed.”
“Can you imagine showing up after that kind of embarrassment?”
Your smile tightened, straining to withstand the flashing lights that burned relentlessly into your skin. Your fingers gripped Mingi’s arm a little harder, grounding yourself.
“Yeah, aren't you embarrassed? Where’s your dignity?” The voice dripped with disdain and you blinked through it, keeping your head high as the cameras flashed.
Mingi shifted beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
And you let him lead you forward, even as the voice whispered that you didn’t belong here.
The lobby doors parted, and the noise hit you like a wave. For a moment, you stood in the threshold, blinking against the glare. A few heads turned. Then a few more. And suddenly it felt like the whole room had noticed.
“Y/N! You look stunning.”
“So good to see you two together again.”
Voices overlapped, warm and relentless. People began stepping closer, and instinctively, you stepped back. Mingi didn’t seem to notice. He remained beside you, calm and composed, exchanging pleasantries with business partners, stakeholders, and guests alike. His hand rested at the small of your back, steady in appearance, but it no longer grounded you.
You smiled, nodded, said hello. But everyone was looking at you, and suddenly you couldn’t tell if they were happy to see you or just waiting for you to break.
And underneath it, the panic was starting to creep in.
“I need a minute,” you murmured, turning slightly toward Mingi, keeping your voice low enough that only he could hear. “I’m just going to the bathroom.”
He gave a small nod, eyes still scanning the room, and squeezed your side gently. You slipped away, trying to move with purpose. But your heels felt too loud against the marble floor and you were drawing more attention to yourself.
⋆
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you counted anyway. Again. And again.
Name five things you can see.
The marbled counter. The flickering light above the mirror. The stall door. Your wedding ring. The vase in the corner.
Four things you can touch.
Three you can hear.
Two you can smell.
One you can taste.
You did it all, like Jungah taught you. Your breath started to even out and the knot in your chest loosened, just a little. You smoothed your hair and patted your cheeks.
“You’re okay. You’re okay. Just go back out there.”
Out there, Mingi was smiling, laughing, maybe even waiting for you. He had become the version of himself you once hoped for. The one who fought for you, for himself, and moved through the world with a lightness that no longer came with bitterness.
But beneath all that lingered the memory of distance. The cold shoulder after fights. The excuses. The waiting. The ache.
You wanted to believe this time was different. You wanted to believe the worst was behind you.
Your heart wasn’t sure yet. You were still caught in the whiplash of what had been and what was trying to be. But tonight was about showing up. For him. For your family. For the version of yourself that still believed something meaningful could be built from the wreckage.
You reached for the door, smoothed your dress one last time, and stepped out.
“Oh look,” a voice slurred, pushing off the wall, “the princess emerges.”
Your steps faltered when you spotted Ahri slouched against the hallway wall just outside the bathroom, her dress slightly askew, eye makeup smudged, and a sparkling remnant of champagne swirling in the glass she still clutched.
“You ruined my life,” she spat, pushing off the wall and stumbling toward you.
Despite the haze of alcohol, she was fast, cutting around you to block your path.
“I gave him everything,” she hissed. “And now legal’s crawling up my ass because he’s decided he wants nothing to do with me!”
“You did that to yourself,” you replied coldly. “You chose to show up where you weren’t wanted and leak those photos. And now you’re surprised that there are consequences?”
“You think you’re untouchable because your family has power? Because you married into the Songs?”
You didn’t blink.
“Yes.”
Her jaw dropped. That wasn’t the answer she expected, especially not from you, someone she always thought was passive, forgettable, soft.
“Let’s be honest,” you said, turning away, “you were convenient. A messy one at that.”
She stumbled after you, but you were already walking briskly back toward the ballroom. The hum of conversation, the swell of music, and the flash of lights through the glass doors felt like a return to solid ground.
But Ahri wasn’t finished.
“He loves me! You hear me? He always has. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t. You’re just playing house while he dreams about me!”
Heads turned. Then she lunged.
From across the room, Mingi’s eyes snapped to you the moment he heard the shrill edge in Ahri’s voice; the second her arm lifted, glass in hand, he surged forward, weaving through the crowd without hesitation and reaching you just as the glass flew. He pulled you into his chest to shield you as champagne exploded across his back.
Gasps rippled through the room and everything came to a screeching halt. All eyes were on you.
She was swaying, her chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides as she glared at him, at you, at the way he was still holding you protectively, one arm bracing your back.
"You threw me away for this?" She gestured wildly to you, her eyes burning with drunken hatred.
"Some charity case!?”
"That's enough!” Mingi bellowed, pulling even closer to him.
"Enough? Enough?" She let out a hysterical, humorless laugh before sneering at you.
"You should have run away when you did! Everyone knows you’re fucking weird! You’re fucking weird for hanging around poor people! If you had just disappeared, everyone would be—”
Disappeared.
If you had disappeared…
Disappeared. Like you were nothing. Like your absence wouldn’t have even mattered.
Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the murmurs and judgmental stares. The humiliation was suffocating. Anger surged beneath it, years of swallowed pain and unmet expectations clawing their way up from the depths.
Your vision tunneled and you felt your fingers curl into fists, nails digging into your palms so hard they might bleed.
And then, before reason could catch up, your body lurched forward.
With a force you didn’t know you had, you jerked back your arm and swung. The crack of your fist against Ahri’s cheek split the air like a thunderclap. Her head snapped sideways, one heel collapsing beneath her as she stumbled back, eyes blown wide with disbelief.
For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. And then she let out a garbled, indignant shriek.
“Shut the fuck up,” you snarled, chest heaving, hands still trembling with the force of your rage.
You lunged again, adrenaline surging through your veins like wildfire. Your second punch landed harder, fueled by raw humiliation and the desire to be seen, to make her feel every ounce of rage you had endured over the last few years. You wanted her to understand that you weren’t someone to be dismissed, pitied, or spat on.
But before you could go in for another hit, strong arms locked around you from behind, yanking you back.
“Get her out of here,” San ordered as he restrained you.
Kira was already at your side, looping her arm through yours, steering you from the wreckage you’d left behind.
Ahri was still clutching her cheek, her lips trembling as if she wanted to scream again, but no one was paying attention to her anymore. The impact of your punch left guests in stunned silence before the inevitable storm of whispers and murmurs erupted.
The stares burned into you from every direction. Guests murmured behind their hands, some gawking, others exchanging scandalized glances. A few looked almost amused, relishing the unexpected entertainment unfolding before them. The spectacle of the night wasn’t the elegant gala, the niceties or the venue…it was you.
But you didn’t care. You never did.
Your knuckles ached, tingling from the force of the hits. Your heart pounded against your ribs as adrenaline coursed through you in waves. Even as Kira hurriedly led you toward the exit, you kept your head high, refusing to let the weight of their judgment crush you.
“I got this,” Mingi murmured.
He slipped off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, shielding you without a word, then placed a steadying arm around your waist. Together, you moved through the crowd, people parting without a sound.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Your mother’s shrill voice cut through the air as your entire family and your in-laws stormed into the room.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” she continued, eyes wide with disbelief.
Jongho immediately stepped between you and them, his lawyer instincts kicking in, as he spoke with a measured tone.
"I think we should all take a moment to calm down—"
“Calm down?!” your father-in-law cut in, exasperated. “The media’s going to have a field day with this!” He dragged a hand down his face.
“You assaulted someone in front of donors, the press, everyone.”
The arguments overlapped, voices rising, accusations and concerns piling on top of each other.
“You need to apologize immediately.”
“You’ve put the entire family at risk.”
“What were you thinking?”
“She baited you, and you walked right into it—”
It was suffocating. The walls of the room felt like they were closing in. The stifling noise, the spotlight, the pressure, they had followed you here, and now they were suffocating you.
You’d had enough.
Your fingers clenched. Your jaw tightened. The pressure built, and built, and built until you snapped.
“Shut the fuck up! Everyone shut the fuck up!”
Silence.
“I don’t fucking care about damage control, gossip, or about what anyone thinks.” Your voice was hoarse but unshaken.
“I’ve had enough.”
Your father took a step forward, but you pointed to the door, stopping him in his tracks.
"Get out."
Your mother blinked. “Y/N—”
"I said. Get. The. Fuck. Out."
For a moment, your parents stared at you as if you were a stranger. As if the person standing before them was someone they barely recognized. And maybe you were. Because in truth, they had never truly known you at all.
One by one, your in-laws, Jongho, and San slipped away, leaving the room.
Your parents were the last to go, your mother’s lips pressed into a tight line, your father releasing a frustrated sigh. Even they knew better than to push any further.
The door clicked shut behind them.
You buried your face in your hands, hot tears spilling onto your lap as sobs ripped through you. Humiliation, isolation, and years of judgment came crashing down all at once and you couldn’t even tell what hurt the most.
Mingi knelt down in front of you, reaching for your hands gently, his thumbs brushing over your bruised knuckles.
“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that happened.”
You let out a shaky breath, blinking past the tears to look at him. He was kneeling before you, his broad frame slightly hunched, as if he was trying to make himself smaller.
“Mingi, I-I’m so tired. I’m tired of all of this. Of everything.”
His brows knit together, guilt flashing across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How could I? I’ve spent so long trying to be good enough for my parents, for your family, for the entire fucking world!” Your voice rose with the ache of it all.
“And for what? To always feel like an outsider in my own life? Like I don’t belong anywhere?”
“You belong with me,” he said quietly, tightening his hands around yours. “No matter what anyone says.”
“If I did, you wouldn’t have made me feel so worthless," you seethed, jerking your hands away from him.
Mingi’s lips parted, but no words came. He knew he was the reason you were here, the reason Ahri singled you out, humiliated you in front of prying eyes, and why you’d endured undeserved cruelty for so long.
He’d allowed his own resentment to fester, blind to the damage he caused, hurting you repeatedly because he was too afraid to face the truth: you were never the enemy, and he had been wrong about you from the start.
“Y/N, I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I should have never let you feel alone, not for a second.” His hands twitched, as if aching to reach out, to pull you close, but he held back, knowing you wouldn’t let him.
"Please--"
“You expect one apology to erase years of making me feel like I was never enough?”
The words spilled out before you could stop them. You just couldn’t.
“You belittled me. You made me feel like I was just…taking up space in a life you didn’t even want me in. You went out of your way to humiliate me! And now you say you love me, but where was that love when I needed it the most?”
You stopped, breath catching in your throat as you looked up at your husband.
His face had gone pale, lips parted slightly, but he said nothing. He didn’t have to. You could see it written all over his face like you’d taken a knife and driven it straight into his chest.
But Mingi knew. He knew he deserved every word.
“I’m sorry,” you swallowed, guilt settling deep into your bones. “That wasn’t fair.”
Mingi’s throat bobbed as he struggled to hold back his emotions. His lashes fluttered, blinking rapidly, fighting the tears threatening to spill over.
Your hands trembled as they hovered between you, unsure whether to reach for him or stay still.
“I just…I need you to understand how badly it’s hurt. How alone I’ve felt. But I didn’t mean to hurt you too. I’m sorry.”
Mingi’s hands found your arms first, then your waist. For a moment, you stiffened. He could feel the way your body tensed under his hold. But then slowly, cautiously, you melted into him.
He exhaled, quietly, as if the contact alone steadied the both of you. He wanted to say he’d do better, be better. And he meant it. But the truth was, no matter how deeply he loved you, it wouldn’t erase the years you’d spent feeling unseen.
Still, he didn’t blame you for lashing out. He forgave you instantly. Because how could he not? You had been the one who stayed.
And for him, that had always been more than enough.
Mingi pressed a kiss to the top of your head, as if trying to soothe away all the hurt he’d caused. His fingers moved in slow circles against your back, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.
You buried your face in his chest as the tears came, and his arms tightened around you like he could hold all your broken pieces together. In his arms you imagined a world where he was yours you were truly his.
You pictured slow dancing to whatever was playing on the record player. Maybe he’d teach you how to paint. Maybe you’d take that road trip to nowhere and never come back.
But the world, for all its beauty, hadn't made space for your kind of love.
A Familiar Kind of New - Mingi x Reader MASTERPOST
PART 1: You, the most popular girl at school, and Mingi, the school’s geek and punching bag, grow a friendship at the library after school as he tutors you. You beg him to come to prom but instead, he disappears. No texts, no goodbye, nothing. But after 10 years, he suddenly appears again. The quiet, nerdy boy who used to be bullied and ignored, is now a successful, confident and heartbreakingly handsome man. As time pass, you both open up about the past and maybe you realize that maybe he was never just your tutor. Maybe he was the one that got away.
PART 2: You're still in the process of getting to know Mingi again after 10 years apart. He's grown into a successful, handsome man, but there's still parts of him that hasn't changed. And when you accidentally push him too far, just before the reunion, you're scared you've ruined it. At the reunion, things continues to escalate, because there's a certain person who made Mingi's life a living hell during High School, and he still hasn't changed. But maybe, that is what pushes you and Mingi in the direction you both longed for and maybe... you see a whole new side of Mingi you didn't expect him to have.
EPILOGUE: You and Mingi are months deep into your relationship. You've never been happier and in love. Though you are going strong, your relationship is long distance, until he surprises you with something you hadn't seen coming. He's truly the best thing that's ever happened to you - so you decide to show him that. How, you may ask? Let me just say; it's not for the weak ones, and you might have to make sure no one can see your screen while reading...
Pairing: heir!Song Mingi x heir!Reader
AU: non-idol | arranged marriage | enemies to lovers
Genre: angst, humor, fluff in future chapters
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After a life-altering car accident, Mingi is given one final shot at redemption—reborn as a fuzzy little puppy. To earn a second chance at life, he must complete three tasks or risk being doomed to the afterlife forever.
Word Count: 6.6K
Warnings: angst, character d*ath, attacks on animals, mentions of blood, swearing, mentions of mental health, only half proofread, use of crude language
Fic Masterlist | Taglist Signup
a/n: it hurt me to write this chapter 😭
You weren’t particularly close to your father. His life revolved around his work—the family business he hadn’t wanted but had accepted out of obligation when your uncles, San and Jongho’s fathers, stepped aside, unwilling to subject their sons to the challenges of running a conglomerate.
Sometimes you wished he had done the same too.
He was often away, traveling to meet clients or locked in endless board meetings. He wasn’t the type of man to swoop in with comforting words or a warm embrace. Instead, he listened without interrupting, nodded without judgment, and spoke only when he felt it was necessary. Despite the distance between you, his steady presence had a way of making you feel oddly secure.
And maybe that was why, as you paced the length of your penthouse, you found yourself dialing his number. Mingi followed your every move, his small body glued to your side. He kept glancing up at you, occasionally tripping you with how close he was.
“Come on, pick up, pick up…” You muttered to yourself. Your pacing carried you in a loop—through the kitchen, into the dining room you barely used, and then into the living room. Then, you wandered back into the kitchen, your footsteps quickening with every unanswered ring.
“Y/N?”
Your shoulders sagged in relief, and you stopped pacing, planting yourself in the middle of the kitchen as Mingi bumped up against your ankles.
“Dad!”
“Is everything alright?”
You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the phone. How were you supposed to explain everything that had transpired the last few weeks without sounding unhinged?
What were you even supposed to say? Hi, Dad. Quick question: Are you sure the woman you’re married to is actually my mother?
Your parents’ marriage had always seemed like a curious thing to you. It was a product of an arrangement. Yet, over the years, your father’s quiet gestures of affection seemed to keep your mother content, even happy.
Surely, he couldn’t have had an affair.
The idea felt absurd, but then again, you’d always felt like a stranger in your own home, an outsider looking in at a family that didn’t quite seem to know where you fit.
“I-I need to talk to you about something. I didn’t want to call mom because…you know how she gets.”
Your mother had a flair for theatrics, a tendency to turn even the smallest inconvenience into a grand production. If you’d called her instead, the situation would have escalated before you even finished explaining.
“What’s going on?”
“I…” You faltered for a moment, running a hand through your hair before continuing your train of thought.
“There’s this woman who I think has been stalking me. A friend of mine was dogsitting Maro when she approached him at the park.” Your voice dropped slightly, recounting your conversation with Yeosang.
“She recognized Maro…and referred to me as her daughter.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you took a moment to crouch down and stroke Mingi’s fur as he leaned into your side.
“I don’t know who she is,” you admitted softly. “But…something about her felt wrong. And it’s been bothering me ever since.”
“Did she hurt you or Maro?”
“No, but she tried to abduct a little girl a few weeks ago. We stopped her and she fled.”
“Y/N, I need you to listen to me carefully,” he said, his tone suddenly firm.
You froze mid-step, his words rooting you in place. “Okay,” you said hesitantly, your voice small.
“I need you to stay put,” he continued. “Don’t do anything or go anywhere, especially not alone. I’m going to call the lawyers and have them review the court order and police files.”
“Court order?” you repeated, confusion rising in your chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Call either San or Jongho,” he said instead, his tone softening just enough to sound like a plea.
“Let them know I’ve asked one of them to stay with you until we sort this out.”
“Dad, what court order?” you pressed, gripping the phone tighter as your heart raced.
Mingi, sensing your distress, pawed at you insistently, his soft whines urging you to sit down. But you couldn’t move, couldn’t tear your focus away from the ominous edge in your father’s voice.
“There was an incident when you were three. If she is who I think she is, she’s someone we dealt with a long time ago.”
“Who?”
“Your former nanny,” he admitted, his voice steady but grim. “She tried to take you,” he said bluntly.
“At first, she seemed fine. Kind, attentive, everything you’d want for a child. But things started escalating. Your mother noticed something was off right after she lost her own daughter in an accident. She’d grown too attached to you. Too possessive. We let her go, but before we could take any legal action, she attempted to abduct you.”
“She tried to kidnap me?”
“She managed to evade security at first. It was like any other day. But by the time we realized what was happening, she was already on her way to the airport with you.”
The room spun, and before you realized it, you had sunk to the floor. The color drained from your face as the weight of the revelation hit you. Mingi froze, his small body going still as he struggled to process the gravity of what he was hearing.
He let out a soft whine, curling closer to you. He hadn’t fully understood your fears, the reasons behind your walls, the way panic sometimes overtook you without warning.
Now, as a dog, powerless to do anything but sit beside you, the weight of guilt felt almost unbearable.
“We caught her in time,” he continued quickly, his tone shifting, as if trying to calm you.
“She didn’t make it far. Security intercepted her at the gate just as she was preparing to board a flight. We filed charges immediately and she was arrested.”
“But?” you scoffed. “Your money and influence couldn’t keep her behind bars?”
“We didn’t think she’d ever get out, Y/N. The charges were serious, and the evidence was solid. At the time, we were assured she’d be locked away for decades.” He hesitated, and for a moment, you thought you heard his voice waver.
“You were so young. We didn’t want to burden you with something you wouldn’t even remember. We thought we could protect you from it all.”
“So much for power,” you muttered bitterly, rubbing your temples. “She seems to be escalating. She’s openly trying to kidnap children now. Who knows what else she’s capable of?”
Your father’s sigh was heavy. “Which is why you’re not to go anywhere alone, Y/N. Not until this is resolved.”
“Dad—”
“I’ll be increasing the security presence around the penthouse as well. And before you ask, yes, I'll be coordinating with Mingi’s family to ensure their resources are aligned with ours.”
The mention of your in-laws made your stomach twist. They were probably unaware of the situation, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. You could already imagine your mother-in-law spinning the story to her social circle about her damsel of a daughter-in-law and how her poor son was unable to save her. The thought of being the centerpiece of their gossip left you feeling exposed and vulnerable.
“Make sure there’s a secure presence at the hospital too,” you said, cutting in before the conversation could linger on your in-laws.
“She might try something there.”
Your father arched a brow. He knew you didn’t particularly like being married to Mingi—he wasn’t blind to the strain in your relationship. Truthfully, he regretted agreeing to the arrangement in the first place. He’d witnessed firsthand the coldness with which Mingi had treated you, most notably the way he’d rebuffed your birthday gathering that first year of marriage. It had been a bitter reminder that not all alliances were worth the price they came with.
But upon hearing your request, it made him realize that you had always been kinder, and more compassionate than those around him. While he had always seemed distant, caught up in his own world of business and power, moments like these reminded him that you had grown into someone he was proud of. Someone who cared, even for those who didn’t deserve it.
“Is there anything else that you need?” he asked, his voice softer now.
“No,” you replied, shaking your head slightly. “But I’m not going to live in fear forever. She doesn’t get to have that power over me.”
“I don’t expect you to. I just want you to be safe.”
The line disconnected and you set the phone down, your hand lingering on it for a moment before turning back to Mingi. You felt a surge of emotions–anger, frustration, fear, and a flicker of determination.
But when you saw him sitting patiently on the floor, watching you intently with his big eyes, fluffy ears, and wrinkled nose, everything inside you softened. The weight of the world seemed to melt away in that moment, and your heart ached with affection.
“You’re so cute, I can’t stand it,” you squealed, the intensity of your emotions spilling out in a completely unexpected way.
Without thinking, you scooped him into your arms, pressing your face against his soft fur as you swayed back and forth with him. Mingi melted into your embrace, his small body going limp as he relished your warmth.
“I just want to squish you!” you exclaimed, giggling as you kissed him between the ears.
Mingi let out a soft, rumbling growl, not out of annoyance but because he didn’t know how else to respond to the flood of emotions washing over him. If only you knew how deeply he wanted to protect you, not just as a dog, but as the man who had failed to see your worth for far too long.
“I should probably text the group chat,” you murmured, reaching for your phone while balancing Mingi securely in your other arm.
[Y/N]: My dad said I can have a sleepover
[Grumpy Bear]: fuck yeah
[Mountain Mayne]: Can Kira come too?”
[Y/N]: Only Kira, you stay home
⋆
Mingi found himself scowling, scooped up in San’s arms, as the four of you lounged in your living room, covered in mountains of blankets, pillows, and snacks. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in this situation, but he was definitely not thrilled when your cousins and San’s fiancée came crashing into the penthouse after you summoned them with a single text.
“Why isn’t the dog distribution system working for us?” San asked, holding Mingi out toward Kira like he was some kind of offering. Mingi shot him a glare, but the effect was somewhat lost given his tiny size and the way his fur poofed up around his face.
“Because we already have three cats at home,” she replied, chomping on a piece of cheese without looking up from her phone. San sighed dramatically, pulling Mingi back to cradle him like a baby.
“Don’t worry, Maro, I'll save you from your owner and her evil husband.”
Mingi bristled, his fur puffing out even more. He barked indignantly, but it only made San laugh as he nuzzled Mingi’s fluffy face.
“Yeah, if the evil husband ever wakes up,” Jongho snorted from under his fortress of blankets.
The room fell silent, save for the faint sound of Howl’s Moving Castle playing in the background. Mingi froze, his small body tensing in San’s arms. His ears flattened against his head as Jongho’s words echoed in his mind.
Sure, he hadn’t been a perfect husband. He wasn’t even sure he’d been a good one. But…evil?
“Oh come on, that’s not fair,” you replied, albeit with an edge to your tone.
“What?” Jongho raised his hands defensively, his expression a mix of guilt and awkwardness.
“It was a joke. I mean, come on, the guy cheated, publicly humiliated you… you can do so much better, Y/N.”
“I know a good divorce lawyer,” Kira added, waving her phone as if the solution to your problems was just a call away.
The truth of their words clawed at Mingi, a painful reminder of everything he’d done wrong. He wanted to bark, to growl, to defend himself, but what could he even say? That they were wrong? They weren’t. Not completely.
You inhaled sharply, your lips pressing into a thin line as you plopped down next to San. He glanced at you, but you ignored it, your focus entirely on the small dog curled stiffly in his arms.
“I get it,” you said finally, your voice clipped as you reached out and gently plucked Maro out of your cousin’s arms. He went still in your hold, his small body tensing as he waited for what you’d say next.
“Mingi has his own problems, but right now, he doesn’t have anyone in his corner. I don’t know what will happen when he wakes up, but it’s not fair to say things like that when he’s not here.” You cradled him closer, your touch instinctively protective as if shielding him from their judgement.
Jongho exhaled loudly, his earlier confidence deflating as he sank deeper into the pile of blankets. “Fair point,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. That was out of line.”
Mingi stayed silent, nestled in your arms, his mind racing. You could have left him at the hospital. You could have walked away, started over. Hell, maybe you should have. You could have even entertained Jongho’s suggestion about Seonghwa, or Yeosang, or anyone else. Anyone but him.
But you hadn’t.
You spent countless nights in that hospital room, talking to him, even when he couldn’t say anything back. You stood up for him, even now, when he didn’t deserve it.
Mingi could picture it so clearly: someone else making you laugh, someone else holding your hand, someone else seeing the best parts of you.
Maybe they were right, he thought bitterly. Maybe you really could do better.
But even if that was true, he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. Not when there was still a sliver of hope that he might wake up, make amends, and find a way back to being the man you once believed he could be.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” you announced, rising to your feet with an exaggerated stretch. “It’s way past bedtime.”
“I’ll stay here,” San declared. “In case your stalker tries anything.”
“Good for you, honey,” Kira patted his shoulder. “But I’m going into one of the guest rooms because that’s what sane people do.”
“You’ve got this covered,” Jongho muttered sleepily, dragging himself out of the blanket pile. He stretched with a loud yawn and shuffled toward his room without even waiting for a reply.
“We’re supposed to be in this together,” San grumbled, throwing a pillow halfheartedly at Jongho’s retreating figure. It missed by a wide margin, flopping harmlessly to the floor.
As you slipped into your room, the shift was immediate. The air turned quiet and soft, a reprieve from the playful chaos outside. You closed the door gently and set Mingi down on the bed, his fluffy body sinking into the plush comforter.
He sat perfectly still, watching you move around the room. You pulled back the covers on your side of the bed and fluffed the pillows before finally settling in.
Patting the space beside you, you called softly, “Time for bed.”
He padded over, his small paws making barely a sound as he climbed onto the blankets and curled up near your side. When he tucked his nose into the crook of your neck, you giggled.
“I love you. Night night, puppy,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
As you drifted off to sleep, Mingi stayed awake, tracing the gentle slope of your nose to the soft curve of your lips. It all seemed so fleeting, like everything could slip away in the blink of an eye.
He sighed softly, rolling onto his back and then to his side again, unable to find a comfortable position. San’s snores rumbled faintly through the door, a reminder of the others nearby. But Mingi’s mind was too restless to relax.
His mind drifted to his last task: What did it mean to offer you happiness without expecting anything in return?
Isn’t it about giving you what you wanted? Protecting you, making you laugh, or ensuring you were never alone? But the more he thought about it, the more complicated it became.
How could he possibly give you that when so much of his past had been spent hurting you?
He remembered the times he’d chosen his own pride over your feelings, the cruel words he couldn’t take back, the moments he’d walked away when you needed him most. He had made you feel small, like you were the one who didn’t belong, the one who wasn’t good enough for him, all while he continued living his life while you were left to pick up the pieces of your own.
“You’re home all the time, don’t you have any friends?”
Your response had been blunt, cold, almost dismissive.
“No, they’re dead.”
That was all you said to him. No explanation, just a heavy finality that left him speechless. He didn’t know what it meant then, but now, looking back, it felt like a confession, a glimpse into a part of you that was buried beneath the walls you’d built to protect yourself after losing Hongjoong.
Kim Hongjoong, the ghost of a man who had never left your heart. The man who had held a place there long before Mingi had even existed in your life. And in that moment, jealousy crept in. It was sharp, bitter, the thought of losing you to a ghost threatening to consume him.
He hated that Hongjoong would always carry that piece of your heart he couldn’t touch, a piece that belonged to someone who had once been your everything. Because in this moment, Mingi, more than anything, coveted that place in your heart.
No matter how much he tried to remind himself that he was here, that he was now, it didn’t quell the sense of inadequacy growing within him. He couldn’t love you with the expectation of erasing your past or taking what wasn’t his to have.
If he was to prove himself, to earn his humanity, it couldn’t be about him. It had to come from a place of selflessness. He had to love you for who you were, even if it meant living in the shadow of a ghost. Even if it meant never being able to fully claim a place in your heart.
Even if it might mean accepting that some parts of you could never belong to him, no matter how much he wanted them to. And as painful as that truth was, Mingi knew it was the only way forward.
He nestled into your side, his fluffy form fitting snugly against you as he placed a paw against your nose. The steady rise and fall of your chest soothed him, reminding him that he was yours, even if it was only as Maro.
“I’m so bored,” you groaned, hanging your head over the back of the couch dramatically. The ceiling wasn’t particularly interesting, but you were so desperate for stimulation that you started counting the corners of the crown molding.
Kira glanced over from the kitchen, her brow furrowing in concentration as she whisked a bowl of batter with a bit too much vigor.
“You should try being useful. Come help me bake.”
“I’d rather be anywhere but here,” you muttered, sliding further down the couch until you were almost horizontal. “I’ve seen every corner of this penthouse.”
“Drama queen,” she said lightly. “You’re safe here. That’s what matters. And besides, I thought you’d enjoy the time off.”
“Time off from what?”
“I don’t know? The hospital? The back and forth must be draining.”
You hummed in response, though that was all you could muster. Draining wasn’t quite the word for it. It was true the days spent at the hospital had a way of blurring together, but you didn’t mind staying there. In some strange way, it felt right.
At the hospital, you had a routine. You’d arrive in the evening, lay on the sofa and stare out into nothingness. Sometimes you’d read, talk to him about trivial things, or just sit quietly, the hum of the monitors filling the silence. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A way to show him that he wasn’t alone, even if he couldn’t respond.
Because deep down, you knew he needed someone on his side.
It wasn’t easy to admit, even to yourself, but a part of you still held out hope for reconciliation. Not the fairytale kind, where everything magically resolved and all wounds were healed, but something quieter. A mutual understanding, perhaps. A moment where he’d open up, even just a little, and let you see the person behind all the walls he’d built.
You knew he was hurting. You’d always known, even when he tried to mask it with anger or indifference. His actions, the coldness, the distance, the biting remarks, were all symptoms of something deeper.
But there was another part of you, a quieter voice that you couldn’t ignore. The part that braced for no change at all. That prepared for the possibility that when, if, he woke up, he’d still be the same person he was before. That he’d still look at you like you were the problem, the obstacle, the thing standing in the way of his happiness.
That part of you longed for freedom.
You’d spent so much time tangled up in his chaos, in his pain, that you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to just...be.
Maybe, if and when he woke up, he’d be willing to part ways. And maybe that would be for the best.
“I ran out of eggs!”
You blinked, momentarily disoriented. “What?”
“Eggs!” she repeated, holding up the empty carton. “I can’t believe I forgot them. I’m halfway through making this cake, and now I have to stop everything to run to the store.”
“I’ll go with you!” you said quickly, standing up from the couch so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet.
Kira froze, narrowing her eyes at you. “You know you’re not supposed to leave.”
“And you’re supposed to be at the courthouse, but here you are, baking a cake for a man.”
“First of all, it’s called paid time off,” she replied, narrowing her eyes further. “Secondly, San’s stroke game is top tier.”
“Oh my God, stop!” you cut her off, throwing your hands up.
“I do not want to hear about your sex life with my cousin. He used to eat mud as a kid.”
Kira rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Anyway,” she continued, “your dad would absolutely kill me. He gave strict orders to keep you here. And unlike you, I actually follow them.”
“Come on, Kira,” you pleaded. Your eyes landed on Maro, lounging nearby. You scooped him up in one swift motion, holding him up like a fluffy shield.
“Even Maro thinks it’s a good idea!”
Mingi tilted his head, his dark eyes widening as he gave Kira his best impression of a sad, helpless puppy.
“Look at him. He’s begging you.”
Kira groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s a quick trip. Five minutes, tops,” you promised, your tone bordering on desperate. “I won’t go anywhere, I’ll stay by your side the entire time!”
She sighed, clearly wavering. “Fine.”
The ding of the store’s bell announced your arrival, and the comforting smell of fried food from the deli counter made your stomach grumble. Kira grabbed a basket, striding purposefully toward the back where the eggs were stashed.
“Eggs,” she said firmly, shooting you a warning glance over her shoulder.
“Got it,” you replied, though your eyes immediately wandered to the chip aisle.
The small store was quiet, almost unnervingly still, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you. As you followed Kira, your gaze flicked around the store—a habit you’d picked up recently without fully realizing it. Your shoulders tensed, the faint prickling sensation at the back of your neck making you feel exposed. It was probably nothing, you told yourself, trying to brush it off.
Kira tossed a carton of eggs into the basket and turned to you with a raised brow. “Anything else?”
Her voice startled you, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, before grabbing a bag of chips from a nearby rack and a pack of chocolate-covered pretzels from the next shelf over.
“Alright, ready!” you chirped.
The cashier rang up your items without much fuss, and soon you were both on your way. But as the store door clicked shut behind you, that sense of discomfort returned. You glanced over your shoulder, your movements slow and deliberate, as if any sudden motion might draw unwanted attention.
Your eyes darted to the empty street ahead, scanning the familiar buildings and darkened windows. It looked deserted, but the nagging feeling told you otherwise.
“You okay?” Kira asked, noticing your hesitation.
“Yeah,” you said quickly, the word tumbling out a little too fast. You forced a smile, hoping it looked convincing.
You told yourself it was nothing, a stray thought feeding your paranoia. But as you turned the corner toward your apartment, your worst fears materialized. A shadow detached itself from the side of a building ahead, stepping into the weak glow of the nearest streetlamp. Your stomach dropped, and your chest tightened when you noticed the glint of the knife in hand.
“Y/N.”
Your stalker. Your former nanny.
Kira froze beside you, her posture immediately tense. Her free hand twitched toward her phone, but her other gripped your arm tightly, as if anchoring you in place. You shook her off with a small, almost imperceptible gesture, your lips moving silently to form the words: Call San.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t argue. She stepped back, her movements careful as she pulled her phone from her pocket.
“Hey…mom,” you said, your voice trembling but just steady enough to hold its own. The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but it was all you could think of to buy yourself time.
The woman’s head tilted, her expression softening into something disturbingly tender. “Oh, my sweet Y/N,” she cooed, taking a step closer.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long,” she continued. “You’ve grown so much. You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
The delusion in her voice sent ice down your spine. She didn’t just see you as a person. You were a possession—something she believed she owned.
“It’s been a while,” you said cautiously, keeping your tone light, though your hands trembled at your sides.
“What…what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take you home!”
“Right…home,” you repeated, your stomach churning at the word. You took a step back, careful to keep your movements slow and nonthreatening.
“Why don’t we go for a walk and catch up? I just ate, and walking helps with digestion. Did you know that?”
The woman blinked, her head tilting further to the side. For a moment, she seemed caught off guard by the suggestion.
“A walk?” she echoed, suspicion flickering across her face before fading into hesitant curiosity. “You want to spend time with me?”
You nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “O-Of course! I mean, it’s been so long, right? We have so much to talk about.”
Behind you, Kira moved as quietly as possible, her phone pressed to her ear as she whispered into the receiver. The nanny walked ahead, still clutching the knife tightly in her hand as your figures disappeared into the darkness.
⋆
Mingi paced restlessly around the penthouse, his claws clicking softly against the floor. His tail flicked with agitation, and his ears twitched, straining to catch a sound that wasn’t there. Something felt wrong—deeply, inexplicably wrong. You were only supposed to be gone with Kira for five minutes.
But those five minutes had turned to an hour.
The door to the penthouse slammed open, and Jongho burst inside, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. His face was pale and his brow furrowed deeply as he listened to the voice on the other end.
“Yes, I’m here now,” he said hurriedly, his tone clipped and tense. Mingi froze mid-step, his ears flicking forward as Jongho’s words sank in. Looking for you? His heart dropped. Did something happen to you?
“I’ll stay here in case she comes back. Yes, San and Kira are out looking for her along with law enforcement.”
Mingi’s nose twitched, catching the faint remnants of Jongho’s scent. There was something else mingled with it—the sharp tang of fear. A shiver ran down his spine. Jongho wasn’t scared for himself; he was scared for you.
In his frenzy, Jongho forgot to shut the door completely. It clicked behind him, but the latch didn’t catch, leaving it slightly ajar as he retreated further into the penthouse.
Mingi knew you were most definitely scared, but were relying on your wit to keep your abductor as distracted for as long as possible. But it could only go so far. You needed help. You needed him.
He darted after Jongho, letting out a short, sharp yip that made him turn with a frown.
“Maro?” Jongho’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong?”
Mingi barked again, more insistent this time. He jumped in place, then headbutted Jongho's leg with surprising force, urging him toward the hallway. When Jongho still didn’t move, Mingi let out a sharp yip, trotted to the door, and paused to bark over his shoulder. Come on, follow me!
Out in the hallway, Mingi’s incessant barking continued until Jongho relented, reaching out to push the call button for the elevator.
Jongho stared down at the little dog, confusion etched across his face. “Why are you so interested in the elevator?”
Mingi stayed silent in an attempt to get this timing right. Then, as soon as the doors began to close, he darted forward, squeezing inside at the last second. Jongho blinked, momentarily stunned, before the realization hit him.
“I just…got played by a dog.”
Outside, Mingi paused just long enough to pick up your scent on the breeze. Darting forward, Mingi weaved through the bustling crowd, his small frame slipping unnoticed between legs and around obstacles. His nose twitched, staying locked on the trail, as he took off into the night with the promise of finding you
“I’m coming,” he whispered under his breath, to keep himself moving. His legs burned, and his lungs ached, but he didn’t stop.
Your nanny stood a few feet away, as you guided her to a nearby park. Her body taut with a kind of unnatural stillness. Her expression was deceptively calm, but her eyes gleamed with something unhinged.
“How have you been? You’re married right? I see the ring on your finger.”
Your fingers twitched involuntarily, brushing against the cool platinum of your wedding band. It felt heavier than usual under her scrutinizing gaze. “I am,” you replied, keeping your tone calm and steady despite the way your stomach churned.
“Almost three years now.”
“Three years? That’s wonderful. What’s your husband like? Oh, I’d love to meet him!”
“Unfortunately, he’s on a business trip overseas. B-But when he comes back, maybe we could have dinner.”
Her smile stretched impossibly wider, her eyes glinting with a strange light as she clasped her hands together. “Dinner? Oh, how wonderful! Just like old times!”
“Y-Yeah, just like old times. You, me, um, Mingi and…dad.”
“Dad?” she echoed, her voice hollow and strained. “Your father?”
The moment the word "Dad" left your lips, her expression darkened and her grip on the knife tightened, turning her knuckles white as the blade trembled in her hand.
“No! Not him! Not while he’s married to that bitch!” she spat venomously.
“You know, his wife didn’t love you like I did! She didn’t raise you! She wasn’t there for you!”
Her face twisted with fury, her voice rising as she screamed. “She left you behind! Do you remember that? Do you? She didn’t care about you! She abandoned you—threw you away like trash! But me? I stayed. I cared. I’m your family!”
Mingi’s ears perked up at the sound of that voice. It was her—the same woman who had tried to abduct Yena weeks ago. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but he forced his down, shifting his focus to the sights and sounds around him. In the distance, he caught fragments of Kira’s raised voice, as she argued with the District Attorney.
“She should never have been released!”
“Her delusions weren’t just untreated, they were escalating. And instead of following protocol, the facility discharged her prematurely without an appropriate plan in place.”
Mingi’s ears flicked toward the sound as Kira’s voice grew louder, her pace quickening.
“The ruling was explicit! The family was to be notified of any changes in her care plan. But no one was! And now she’s out here, putting Y/N in danger!”
The echoes of Kira’s tirade faded into the background as Mingi tuned everything else out, his focus narrowing to a single goal. Find you. Protect you.
She won’t hurt you. I won’t let her, he promised.
You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you searched for the right words to diffuse the situation. “You’re right,” you said gently, taking a slow step forward as your eyes stayed locked on the blade.
“I should’ve done more to stay in touch. You were important to me, and I didn’t show that the way I should have.”
Mingi crept closer, staying low and moving with careful precision. His small frame blended with the shadows cast by the trees, his paws silent against the ground. His ears were pinned back as he watched the stalker. For a split second, her grip on the knife faltered. Her expression softened, dimming into something more fragile, almost childlike.
But then her face contorted again. “You’re lying!” she screamed, taking a step toward you.
“You don’t mean that! You’re just saying that to make me go away.” She took a step closer, the knife jerking with her erratic movements.
His nose twitched, catching the faint scent of your fear mingled with her unbridled rage. Her emotions were spiraling out of control, and with every step she took, the gap between you and danger grew smaller.
“I’m not,” you said firmly, taking a careful step backwards.
“I mean it. You were there for me when I needed someone, and I want to be here for you now. But I can’t do that if you don’t trust me.”
She hesitated, the knife wavering slightly in her grip. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like your words might be getting through.
Mingi inched closer, his eyes tracking her trembling hand, and his body tensed, ready to spring.
“You’ll leave me again! Just like her!”
That was his cue. With a burst of speed, Mingi darted forward, his small body a blur of motion. His sharp teeth clamped down on her ankle, eliciting a startled cry. She stumbled, but her fury only intensified. She lashed out blindly, her hand sweeping through the air, the knife flashing dangerously.
“Maro!” you screamed.
Without hesitation, you lunged forward, your heart pounding as you reached for her wrist. Your grip was firm, fueled by adrenaline and sheer determination as you kicked her back, sending her stumbling slightly. With a swift motion, you scooped Mingi into your arms, cradling him against your chest.
As she steadied herself, her arm swung wildly and you raised your arm to shield Mingi. The knife sliced through your forearm leaving streaks of blood, but you didn’t let go, tightened your hold on him as you focused on the woman in front of you.
“I’m sorry you lost your daughter,” you began, your tone water as you tried to bite back the pain radiating down your arm.
“I can’t imagine the pain you’ve been carrying, or how much it’s changed you. I’m sure whatever happened broke you in ways no one can see. But trying to replace her won’t bring her back.”
You could see the tears threatening to spill over, but they did nothing to soften her. If anything, they seemed to fuel her anger. Her grip on the knife tightened as she took a shaky step toward you. Your heart pounded and Mingi whimpered softly, pressing his small body closer to yours, and you instinctively held him tighter, bracing yourself.
“Police! Drop your weapon!”
“Y/N!” your dad’s voice rang out. You turned your head just enough to see him running toward you, San and Kira close behind, flanked by a group of police officers.
The stalker froze, her head snapping toward the source of the commotion. Her grip on the knife faltered, and for a split second, you thought she might comply. But then her face contorted with fury once more, and she tightened her hold, her body tensing as if preparing to lunge.
“Stay back!” she screamed, her voice shrill and panicked.
The officers fanned out, their weapons drawn, their voices calm but firm as they repeated their commands. “Drop the knife! Put it down now!”
Your dad reached you first, his hand gripping your shoulder as he stepped slightly in front of you. “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently, his sharp eyes taking in the blood streaking down your arm and the puppy trembling in your hold.
“She cut me,” you admitted, glancing at the blood streaking down your arm. “It’s not deep, but—” You shifted Mingi slightly in your hold, cradling him closer.
Mingi let out a soft, sleepy sigh, his head resting heavily against your chest as your dad checked you over. His breaths came slower now, each one softer than the last. His little paws twitched as though he were trying to cling to you.
His mind wandered, a hazy string of thoughts pulling him along. He couldn’t wait to go home, to finally feel safe and warm. He imagined curling up in your lap, nuzzling into your arms while you stroked his fur. He thought about Hetmon and all the running around they’re going to do at the park.
Oh, and snacks, he thought sleepily. Lots of snacks. His little tail gave a faint twitch at the thought, but even that felt like too much effort now.
Just a nap, he thought. I’ll rest for a bit, then we’ll go home. We’ll be okay.
When Mingi woke, the air around him was...different. It wasn’t the plush sheets of your bed or the soft pillow he’d grown accustomed to sleeping on. Instead, he found himself in a small, cozy basket lined with a soft cushion, placed near a gently crackling fireplace.
He blinked, his vision adjusting to the soft light streaming through the windows of a small cottage. The space was intimate, with wooden walls lined with shelves overflowing with books, plants, and stacks of parchment. The scent of tea and ink hung in the air, faint but familiar, tugging at something deep in Mingi’s memory.
The atmosphere was comforting, nostalgic even, though Mingi couldn’t quite place why.
“Ah,” the man said, his lips curling into a soft smile. “You’re finally awake.”
Mingi’s ears perked up as he turned toward the sound. A man crouched next to him–his features were sharp but his expression was soft and kind. Mingi tilted his head, his ears twitching as he studied the man. He’d never met him before, but his scent was unmistakable.
It was audacious and bold, much like the jazz notes he remembered sitting on the piano back at your home.
Pairing: Jeong Yunho x witch!Reader
AU: non-idol | supernatural
Summary: Yunho should be happy--he's got everything going for him and he's set to marry the love of his life! So why is he standing outside of your shop on the night of his engagement party?
Word Count: 7.4K
Warnings: poorly written SMUT (cunnilingus, unprotected p in v), swearing, fluff, hurt/no comfort
Fic Masterlist
a/n: read fate bound for context and listen to silver springs by Fleetwood Mac, k bye
You sat on the edge of your bed, gripping the covers tightly as a dull, relentless throb pulsed through your skull. Your vision wavered in and out of focus, as if the world was shifting beneath you and you couldn’t find steady ground.
You wiped at your tears, hands shaking uncontrollably. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was as if the memory you had seen moments ago had ripped something open inside you, something deeper and more primal than you could understand.
Jongho’s quiet, steady presence grounded you as he entered the room. He moved deliberately, swiping through his medical tools that floated in the air. He was focused, gentle as he examined your head, his fingers pressing lightly against the spots where the pain seemed to sear the most. His touch was clinical but comforting, the faint hum of magic from his hands soothing the sharp edges of your migraine.
He took a deep breath before manifesting an intricately carved device from his bag. He held it up and flicked it on, the tip glowing with a soft, steady light. He shined it into your eyes, watching the way your pupils reacted, murmuring something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.
The pain behind your eyes spiked sharply, making you wince as fragments of visions began to flood in—faces, voices, moments of another life. In the visions, you could see Yunho—sharp, detached, devoid of the kindness you once knew. Your heart raced, and you felt a cold sweat break out across your skin as the memories clawed their way to the surface. You couldn’t control them, couldn’t stop the rush of fragmented emotions they dragged with them.
Jongho clicked off the light and sighed, pulling back to observe you for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought. “That wish,” Jongho began, “definitely weakened your magic and the shop’s hold on you.”
Your brow furrowed as you processed Jongho’s words, eyes narrowing. “Meaning?” you urged quietly as if you feared the response.
“Yunho’s wish reversed the magic that erased your memories and restored them. Fragments of your past lives, of your connection to him, and to this realm are coming back in pieces, but it’s causing immense strain on your mind and body.”
“Memories?”
“Your mind is attempting to reconcile the past with the present, to piece together everything that was erased. The migraines will subside eventually,” Jongho assured you, his voice calm and steady.
“In the meantime, get plenty of rest and no strenuous activities. I do hope you enjoy your time off from the shop, my lady.”
As he spoke, his medical bag—hovering midair like it had a mind of its own—began to respond to his movements. With each flick of his wrist, instruments and vials floated back into place, reorganizing themselves with a series of smooth, mechanical clicks. With a graceful dip of his head, Jongho stepped back from you. His form shimmered, growing fainter, until all that remained was a trail of smoke curling in the air.
You blinked at the now-empty space, rubbing your temples as the dull throb of the migraine continued to pulse beneath your skin.
“Why do I have a feeling everyone in the magical realm knows about this outing?” you muttered, turning to face Wooyoung and Hongjoong as they made their exit from your room.
“Word travels fast,” Wooyoung said with a shrug, his voice light and teasing. “Get some sleep.”
You offered a weak smile in response, but your mind was elsewhere. As Wooyoung moved toward the door, you glanced at Hongjoong, a knot tightening in your chest. A thousand questions swirled in your mind and you couldn’t let him leave without asking.
“Did you know that this would happen?”
Hongjoong paused in the doorway, the usual lightness that accompanied his presence was replaced by something more somber. He exhaled slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly as if bracing himself for the conversation ahead.
"I had my suspicions," he finally admitted, his voice softer now. "When I granted your wish, there was resistance. That’s when I realized there was a magical force tied to you—something inevitable, woven by Fate herself."
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, confused.
“There’s no way I could go against anything predetermined by destiny,” he replied. “I must say, Yunho’s desire to set you free probably surprised the emporium itself,” he added, almost as an afterthought, as if that part had surprised even him.
You let out a breath, trying to absorb the weight of his words. There was so much you still didn’t understand—so much you wished he had told you before—but part of you recognized the truth in what he said. Fate had its own rules, its own way of working, and no matter how much you fought it, some things were simply destined to happen.
Hongjoong gave you a small, knowing smile then, his tone shifting back to its usual playful cadence. “You should rest before your getaway this weekend,” he teased, his eyes glinting mischievously as he leaned against the doorframe.
“Wouldn’t want you getting sick during your date with Yunho, would we?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in mood. “It’s not a date,” you sputtered, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. But Hongjoong just raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening.
“Sure, sure,” he drawled, clearly unconvinced. “You two are just going to the beach, alone, for the weekend…no date at all.”
Hongjoong left, closing the door to your room with a quiet, final click. The sound echoed in the stillness, and you slumped under the covers, your body heavy with the weight of what he had just revealed.
The truth was overwhelming. How could you possibly make sense of it all? How could you begin to reconcile the life you thought you knew, with the life you had apparently lived before entering the emporium? You couldn’t even remember that version of yourself, and the moments that had shaped the bond between you and Yunho.
All you had were vague impressions and fleeting feelings that left you both terrified and comforted.
⋆
"I can do this," you whispered to yourself, your fingers trembling slightly as you held the door of the emporium open. The familiar scent of jasmine incense and old books wafted from behind you, mixing with the sharper, vibrant smells of the world outside.
You glanced out the wide-open door, the sunlight streaming in like an invitation. It felt like the edge of a cliff, daring you to leap into the unknown. Beyond that door is the chaotic, bustling human world—the one you've watched but never stepped into since becoming the emporium’s keeper.
"The shop isn’t going to stop you," Wooyoung chirped from his seat in the counter, legs swinging slightly with a lollipop in his mouth. "It’s rude to keep Yunho waiting," he added, the teasing edge replaced with something more sincere.
You opened your mouth to protest, the words forming on your tongue before you could stop them. "But—"
"There are no buts!" he interrupted, his voice louder now, impatient. "Are you seriously going to keep the love of your life waiting, or what?" He raised an eyebrow, giving you a pointed look as if daring you to argue.
Your cheeks flushed at his boldness, and you crossed your arms, grumbling under your breath, "He’s not–"
Wooyoung chuckled, shaking his head as he waved a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine," he relented, though his grin only widened.
"Your soulmate, then."
You shot him a glare, but there was no denying the way your heart leaped at the word. Soulmate. It felt heavy and loaded with meaning and expectations you weren’t ready to face. Yet at the same time, you yearned for it. Despite your hesitations, there was something in you that craved the connection with Yunho. That craved him. You loved Yunho in a way that felt deeper than you had ever known. It was more than just affection, more than just a desire to be near him—it was as though your very being resonated with his.
Yunho took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. His eyes flickered to the door of the emporium for what felt like the hundredth time in the last few minutes. He couldn’t help but feel like a teenager waiting for his crush, that same flutter of nervous energy coursing through him.
His hand tightened slightly on the roof of the car as he spotted movement at the door. There you were, lingering at the entrance, hesitating. His heart gave a little jump at the sight of you. Despite the anxiety buzzing in his chest, just seeing you—standing there–made everything seem a little more bearable.
He stepped around the car, worried that you would change your mind. His breath caught in his throat as your gaze flickered to meet his. For a moment, he thought you might turn back, retreating to the safety of the shop’s shadows. But instead, you stood still, eyes searching his face for reassurance.
"You’ve come this far. Don’t let fear hold you back now," Hongjoong encouraged from behind the counter.
Your heart calmed as you focused on Yunho. You can do this. You have to. The shop isn’t trying to stop you. There’s no invisible force dragging you back. Yunho's steady gaze promised that nothing bad will happen once you take that first step.
His soft, patient smile and presence alone made the unknown seem less daunting. He’s the thread that pulled you toward something tangible, something real. No matter how deep the emporium’s magic runs, Yunho was your tether to the world outside.
And then, you stepped forward.
You took a deep breath, the air outside smelling fresher than you remembered. Slowly, you lifted one foot and placed it on the sidewalk beyond the emporium’s threshold. The pavement beneath your shoe felt real—solid and grounding. You waited for a pull, some magical force yanking you back into the safety of the shop, but nothing came.
You took another step, then another. The bustling sounds of the city—cars, chatter, life—gradually filled your ears as the magic of the emporium faded into the background. For the first time in what feels like forever, you were standing on the other side of that threshold.
Free.
You paused and glanced back at the shop. Its door remained closed behind you, quiet, as if respecting your choice to leave, even just for a little while.
You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and a small smile tugs at your lips. "I... I’m free," you whisper to yourself, the excitement of the realization coursing through your veins.
“Hey,” he said gently as he stopped in front of you. His hand rested on your arm, grounding you in the moment. “You okay?” His voice was so tender, as if he was afraid you might change your mind at the last second.
"I’m okay," you murmured, your smile growing. "I just...I can’t believe I can leave the shop whenever I want to." The words felt foreign on your tongue, but at the same time, they carried so much truth, you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
“You did it,” he said softly, pride evident in his voice. His hand slid down to take yours, fingers gently intertwining with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah…same,” you breathed, meeting his gaze.
You ready?” he asked, but his tone was playful now, the anxiety replaced with a light-heartedness that made you giggle.
“Yeah,” you nodded, feeling the excitement bubbling up again.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Without letting go of your hand, Yunho gave it a gentle tug, leading you toward the car. As you slid into the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of anticipation fluttering in your chest.
“Young love,” Wooyoung sighed dramatically, watching with a fond smile as you and Yunho drove off.
Hongjoong, however, wasn’t having it. He stood with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a disapproving father watching his daughter head out on her first date. His narrowed eyes were fixed on the fading car.
"Is this what it’s come to?" he muttered, shaking his head. "Watching her drive off into the sunset, with Yunho?”
"Relax, Dad," Wooyoung teased, the playful tone only making Hongjoong huff in response. "Something tells me they’ll be just fine."
You and Yunho arrived late in the afternoon, the golden hues of the setting sun casting a warm glow over everything as the ocean breeze gently tousled your hair. The air was filled with that familiar, salty tang of the sea, and for a moment, it felt like stepping into a memory—even if you couldn’t quite remember it.
Yunho pulled into the driveway of a cozy seaside cottage, the kind that felt like it had been there forever.
"This is where we stayed during the summer as kids," he said softly, glancing over at you with a hopeful smile.
"I thought that by coming here, it might help with your memories."
The little house, the ocean just beyond, the faint sound of seagulls in the distance—it all felt strangely familiar, like a dream you couldn’t fully grasp. But more than anything, it was the warmth in Yunho’s voice, the gentle way he was looking at you, that made you feel…safe.
You smiled at him, feeling the tenderness in his words. He had brought you here with hope in his heart, thinking it might spark something within you.
“I appreciate it, really,” you replied, offering him a small smile. “Even if I can’t remember everything, I know that this is at least a start.”
Yunho’s eyes softened as he held your gaze, his expression full of quiet understanding. Whatever you couldn’t remember didn’t seem to matter in this moment. Being here with him felt…right.
But then, the spell was broken by the sudden sound of his stomach gurgling loudly. He blinked, his eyes widening in surprise as the unmistakable noise of his stomach made itself known. His cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink, and before he could stop himself, he let out a sheepish laugh, the sound breaking through the tension.
“Let’s unload, and then we can grab something to eat,” he suggested, his voice as casual as if you’d done this a hundred times before. “I know a place.”
As the two of you strolled through the quaint town, Yunho pointed out all the spots where you used to visit.
"That’s the ice cream shop we went to every summer. You always got matcha, even though you’d end up stealing my salted caramel," he teased, nudging you playfully as you passed the familiar storefront.
You laughed, the image of a younger you doing exactly that playing in your mind. "We should stop by for dessert, except maybe this time I’ll have the salted caramel.”
A little further down the road, Yunho’s eyes lit up as he pointed toward the boardwalk. "And there," he said, his voice softening, "that’s where you won the puppy plush." His smile turned fond, his gaze lingering on the spot.
“You were so determined to win it, and somehow beat the system on your first try. You were pretty good at shooting.”
Something about the way he spoke, the way his eyes sparkled with the memory, made your heart swell. You could almost picture it—your younger self, beaming with pride, clutching that puppy plush as if it were the greatest prize in the world.
As the evening rolled in, you found yourselves at a little restaurant by the beach front. You sat across from each other, as Yunho guided you through the fragments of memories that slowly began to feel less distant. He painted vivid pictures of your childhood, his voice warm and full of fondness for those simpler days.
“We used to spend entire afternoons at each other’s houses,” he began, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
“Most of those days were either trying to stop Gunho from doing something stupid or helping your dad grow the ultimate vegetable.” His eyes grew distant, like he was reliving each memory as he spoke.
There was a certain magic in those days, when the biggest concern was who would win the next game or who could build the tallest fort. It was a time before the weight of growing up had set in.
“And baseball.” He chuckled. “Baseball was always there, too. I’d always insist on batting while you pitched because you had the better arm. You never missed.” He glanced at you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing grin.
Yunho’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with playful mischief as he continued, “You tried convincing me that the Samsung Lions were better than the Tigers. I think it’s the only real argument we had as kids.”
“I think blue still looks better on you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and for a moment, you weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe you had told him the same exact thing before.
Yunho’s expression softened as he continued. “You know, you were a great artist,” he began, his voice tinged with admiration.
“Every time there was a school festival or some club event, it was always the same—everyone would come running to you, asking for help with posters or signs.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “But you’d always turn them down,” he said, shaking his head as though the memory amused him.
“You’d tell them you were busy, then you’d go right back to drawing in that journal of yours. I used to think you were hiding something in there.”
The mention of the journal stirred something deep inside you, a sense of loss that clung to the edges of your mind. You had always been protective of it, guarding it like it held the most important pieces of yourself. But now, the very thought of it brought a dull ache that began forming behind your eyes, slow and insistent. You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the discomfort away, but the memories came flooding back, vivid and cruel.
Sungjae flipped through the pages with exaggerated movements, revealing sketch after sketch of Yunho. “Look at this!” he laughed, his voice dripping with mockery as he showed Yunho your illustrations.
“You’ve got a whole gallery dedicated to him!” He turned to face you, your cheeks burning with fury. “What are you, obsessed with him or something?”
“Y/N? Are you okay?” Yunho’s voice was filled with worry as it pulled you back from the memory. His hand hovered near yours, unsure but ready to offer comfort if needed.
You blinked hard, trying to steady yourself, but the edges of your vision wavered, and you could feel the tears threatening to spill over. You nodded even though the pain was still there, pounding in your head.
“I…I’m fine,” you lied, grabbing your glass of water. “It’s just a headache,” you added quickly, trying to explain away the unease. “I’m probably dehydrated.”
Yunho’s brow furrowed, his eyes searching your face for any sign of the truth. “Do you want to head back?” he asked, his voice soft, careful, like he didn’t want to push you but didn’t want to ignore the obvious either.
You hesitated, the throbbing pain in your head clouding your thoughts. Part of you wanted to leave, to escape the growing tension and the memories that had started to unravel inside you. But another part of you didn’t want to cut the night short. Being here with Yunho felt like you were on the verge of something—something you couldn’t even name yet.
“I’ll be okay,” you finally said, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “We can stay a little longer. I still want ice cream.” You tried to sound lighthearted, but you knew the effort was only half-convincing.
Yunho’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied you for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. But he nodded, his concern evident in the way his hand hovered near yours, like he was ready to catch you at any moment.
“Alright,” he said quietly, “but let me know if it gets worse and we can leave, okay?”
⋆
There was something timeless about the way Yunho looked, as if the universe had carefully crafted every detail. The way his dark hair fell slightly into his puppy-like eyes, soft and warm, gave him a boyish charm. His lips curved ever so slightly, as if he was always on the verge of a smile, and you couldn’t help but feel as if he was meant to be…yours.
You glanced over at him, watching the way the fading sunlight settled across his features. He looked peaceful, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but there was a gentleness in it that made your heart flutter.
He must have felt your gaze on him, because he turned his head slightly, catching your eyes with a small, knowing smile. There was something playful in the way he looked at you, like he knew exactly what you were thinking but was content to wait for you to say it.
“Enjoying the view?”
You felt a blush creep up your neck, and you smiled back, trying to play it cool.
“Maybe,” you shrugged, “it’s not bad, I guess.”
There had been moments recently—small, fleeting things. The way he would look at you for just a second longer than before, the way his touch seemed more intentional, more deliberate. And you had felt it too, this slow, quiet shift. But you weren’t sure what it meant, and a part of you was afraid to ask, afraid to break whatever fragile thing had been building between you.
"How’s your head?" he asked, his voice carrying over the sound of the waves.
“The migraine is gone. Probably thanks to the ice cream.”
“Must be the magic of the salted caramel,” he teased.
You let out a soft laugh, but as the sound faded, you could feel the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you, unsure whether to say what was on your mind or let the moment pass. Without fully thinking, you blurted out,
“Do you…believe in soulmates?”
The instant the words left your mouth, you felt a wave of panic. Your face flushed with embarrassment as your hand flew to your mouth. Yunho blinked, surprised by your sudden question. There was a pause, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he smiled softly, the expression both tender and thoughtful.
“Soulmates, huh?” He tilted his head slightly, looking at you with an intensity that made you feel as if you were the only person in the world. “Why do you ask?”
You scoffed, feeling a little flustered. “Wooyoung mentioned something about us being soulmates once.” You rolled your eyes at the memory, trying to lighten the moment. “I thought he was being ridiculous.”
“Well,” Yunho said, his voice dropping slightly as he leaned in closer to you, “maybe he’s not so far off.”
Wait, what?
“When I’m with you, everything just…makes sense,” he began, the words heavy with meaning, like they had been weighing on him for far too long. He let out a slow breath, as if finally releasing a burden he’d been carrying for years.
“The night I showed up at the shop,” he continued, his voice quiet but clear, “I was desperate. I wanted a fresh start—a chance to rewrite everything because every choice I’d made felt wrong. I was miserable, I didn’t know who I was anymore, or what I wanted.”
He paused, searching your eyes, as if looking for reassurance, for a sign that you understood what he was trying to say. And you did.
“But then…” His voice dropped lower, filled with a quiet awe that made your heart ache. “I found my way back to you. And after a series of twists and turns and some bullying from Wooyoung, I just knew…I couldn’t let you go again.” He reached out, thumb brushing tenderly over the back of your hand, the touch gentle but full of meaning.
“If soulmates are real,” he whispered, his voice catching slightly, “then I’d like to think you’re mine.”
This was the deepest truth Yunho knew. There was no one else, and for him, there never could be.
“Yunho–”
Yunho squeezed your hand gently, as if grounding himself in the moment. His eyes, earnest and full of emotion, never left yours. “You don’t have to say anything right now,” he murmured, his voice steady but tender.
“To be fair, I don’t think I’d be able to handle the rejection. But! I-I don’t want to push you, because I want you to know that I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Because…” His voice cracked ever so slightly as brought the back of your hand to his lips.
“It will always be you,” he confessed, so quietly it was as if the words were meant just for you to hear.
You opened your mouth to respond, but the weight of his words left you speechless. As your gaze met his, you found yourself caught in the pull of his eyes. And then you saw it—the sincerity, the vulnerability, the hope, all laid bare just for you.
You and Yunho walked back inside, the quiet comfort of the evening settling around you. As you reached the door to your room, you shared a small smile, both of you trying to hide the reluctance to say goodnight.
"I’ll...see you tomorrow," you murmured, as you gave a half-hearted wave from the doorway.
"Yeah…see you tomorrow," he whispered, his heart fluttering as you closed the door behind you.
But as the door clicked shut, you hesitated, your hand still gripping the handle, unable to let go. You stood there for a moment, that invisible thread tugging at you. Was he still out there? The thought crept in, and with it, an undeniable ache—the need to stay in his presence, even just for a moment longer.
With a deep breath, you slowly turned the handle and pulled the door open, half-expecting to find only the quiet emptiness of the hallway. But there he was, standing right where you left him, as if he hadn’t been able to leave either. Your eyes met, the air between you thick with anticipation, neither of you daring to move.
Then, without saying a word, Yunho stepped closer, and you did too, closing the distance between you.
The kiss started soft, tentative, as if testing whether this was the right choice. But when his hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, something inside you broke free. You kissed him because you needed to, because you wanted to. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t—but right now, none of that mattered. All that mattered was Yunho, and this moment you had right now.
Yunho backed you up against the edge of the bed, his presence overwhelming in the most intoxicating way. His hands settled at your waist, firm yet gentle, guiding you until your legs hit the mattress behind you. You stumbled slightly, falling back onto the soft sheets, your breath hitching in your throat as you looked up at him, heart pounding with anticipation.
His hand trailed up your side, fingers brushing against your skin, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. He leaned down, his body hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but still not touching. Without hesitation, his lips found the juncture of your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw. Each kiss was deliberate, lingering just long enough to make your heart race, your body responding to his ministrations.
You let out a soft mewl, barely aware of the sound leaving your throat, as his fingers found the hem of your shirt, teasingly brushing against your skin. In one smooth motion, Yunho lifted your shirt, pulling it overhead without breaking contact, his lips never leaving your skin for more than a second.
“This is what you’ve been hiding from me?” he murmured, voice low as he trailed his hand up your stomach to brush the underside of your breast. Your back arched off the bed when he flicked his thumb over your nipple, drawing circles before squeezing.
"Shut up," you playfully smacked his chest, your voice teasing despite the heat rising between you. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, before tilting his head and capturing your lips in a kiss, deep and urgent this time, as if he couldn’t bear even a second of distance between you.
“It’s not fair you’re still dressed,” you pouted in between kisses, reaching for his button down.
You hastily unbuttoned the shirt, pushing the garment off his shoulders, and it fell to the floor with a light thud. His hand came to grip your jaw, thumb pressing into the underside of your chin, tilting it upwards. Your lips met, and he nipped your bottom lip, tongue slipping past your teeth. You let out a breathy moan, eyes fluttering closed as you felt him press his erection against your clothed core.
“Yunho, please,” you whimpered, hands grasping at his trousers. Your hands were shaking too much to unbuckle it, so he pushed your hands away, swiftly undoing it himself.
“Please what?” he mocked, kicking off his trousers to bite down on your nipple with a wet pop. He smirked at your flushed face as his fingers trailed down your stomach, teasingly dipping below the hem of your underwear. He leaned back, tugging off the fabric that separated you, and you felt heat creep up your neck and face at the way he licked his lips.
“I need you.”
"Not yet," he hummed, refusing to give you what you craved except for a light smack against the underside of your ass. “Wanna taste what I’ve been missing.”
He hooked his fingers over your panties under the waistband of your shorts and pulled them off in one motion. He pushed your thighs apart, spreading you open as his lips descended to devour your heat. He groaned as his tongue made contact with your heat, savoring your very essence. The vibrations caused you to squirm, but Yunho held you still. He continued to lick at your heat, tongue dipping into your hole, then dragging up to press against your sensitive bundle of nerves.
Your breath hitched as you watched him, mouth falling open in a silent moan. A string of praises slipped past your lips, as his tongue pressed into your slit, nose brushing against your clit.
“Fuck,” you breathed, looking down at Yunho lapping at your folds. The sight of him between your legs was almost enough to send you over the edge as a weak, shaky moan escaped your lips. But you didn’t want to come undone without him inside of you.
Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling him away from your dripping cunt. You yanked him towards you, capturing his lips in a searing kiss, moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. The tip of his cock brushed against you, and your entire body tensed with need.
"I love you," he confessed, his hand intertwined with yours, fingers locking together as if anchoring himself to you in that moment.
He leaned down for another kiss, groaning against your mouth as he pushed into you. The stretch of his thick cockhead had your back arching off the bed, and Yunho moved one hand to grab your ass, keeping you in place as he slid all the way inside you.
"Yunho!" you gasped, your walls fluttering around him as your head pressed back into the pillows. His hips pulled back slowly, almost all the way, before thrusting forward and seating himself deep. He repeated the movement, and you couldn't help the sounds that fell from your mouth as you felt him thrust in and out of you.
He pressed chaste kisses to your chest, your neck, anywhere his mouth could reach. Your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every part of him, every heartbeat. Yunho shifted positions, bringing one of your legs hooked around his waist over his shoulder, increasing his pace, where you suddenly found yourself teetering on the edge as you clenched around him.
“Like that, Yunho just like that!”
"Feel so good," he grunted, his hips snapping forward harder, faster and the pressure in your core grew. “So good for me.”
Your mouth hung open as you could barely focus on anything Yunho was saying. Your face twisted with pleasure and your legs shuddered against his shoulder. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” you cried out, barely contain the noises escaping your lips and Yunho was relishing every second of it.
"Come for me, love.” His breath mingled with yours as he brought his forehead to rest gently against yours, the closeness heightening the intensity of the moment. “I’ve got you.”
Your vision blurred at the edges, a wave of overwhelming pleasure consumed you as you rode out your orgasm on Yunho's cock. Every nerve in your body was alive, sparking with sensations that came together, making it impossible to focus on anything but the sheer ecstasy surging through you. Yunho’s hips stuttered against your ass as his own release followed, groaning into your ear as he filled you completely to the brim.
The only sound in the room was the ragged rhythm of your breathing, mingling with his as Yunho pressed his forehead to the nape of your neck. The feeling of him inside you, so intimate and real, like finally grasping something you’d been reaching for in the dark.
The man who had haunted your dreams, who had lived in the corners of your mind and heart for so long, was now here. With you.
⋆
You crept out of the room, careful not to disturb Yunho as he slept beside you. The warmth of his body still lingered on your skin as you slipped from the bed, the sheets rustling softly as you pulled them away. You hesitated for a moment, watching him—so peaceful, so unaware of the turmoil swirling inside you.
Another migraine. Another memory resurfacing.
The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the heat that had built up in your chest. You inhaled deeply, the salty air filling your lungs as you made your way down to the shore.
The image struck you like lightning—a flash of a distant life, one of many you had shared with Yunho. You stumbled slightly, gripping your head as the pain intensified.
Your eyes filled with tears as you looked at him, feeling the weight of his indifference. “Are you seriously telling me that your girlfriend’s shitty friend matters more than me? You don’t even like him, Yunho!”
Yunho looked away, his jaw set in a hard line. “Haewon’s friends are important to her, and I didn’t want to make things awkward.”
A bitter laugh escaped you, but it quickly turned into a choked sob. “So fuck my feelings, right?” you said, your voice trembling as tears streamed down your face. “You’d rather protect that asshole than stand up for me?”
Yunho’s eyes finally met yours, but they were empty, cold, devoid of the warmth you once knew. “She’s my girlfriend, Y/N. I have to prioritize her!” He spat, his voice growing harsher. “And maybe if you weren’t such a loser, always clinging to that stupid journal, you wouldn’t be in this mess! You’re so embarrassing, it’s pathetic.”
You felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under you. The words cut deep, each one a dagger to your heart. You took a shaky breath, the pain piercing through you.
Your body trembled, curling in on itself instinctively as the memories, once forgotten, now surfaced with brutal clarity. Cold sweat broke out across your skin as you gasped for breath, each inhale shaky and uneven. Everything came crashing back, the hurt, the anger, the loneliness—and the emptiness that followed your disappearance.
The night you disappeared—the fight, the cruel words Yunho had thrown at you—replayed over and over in your mind. He had blamed you, walked away, and in doing so, left you to unravel alone.
Now, doubt began to cloud your thoughts, creeping in slowly, suffocating, making you question everything that had happened earlier that evening, and all your interactions with Yunho before. The confusion was maddening, and you felt yourself sinking into a pit of despair, unsure if you could ever climb out.
Yunho's arm instinctively reached out for you, but his fingers brushed against the empty sheets where your warmth should have been. Panic settled in and he shot up in bed, his eyes frantically scanning the room.
You were gone.
For a split second, he froze, his mind racing with a dozen possibilities. But before he could think, he scrambled out of bed, barely pausing to put on clothes as he rushed toward the door. His eyes darted across the horizon, searching desperately until they finally landed on you, sitting quietly by the edge of the beach.
Without a second thought, he made his way toward you, his footsteps quiet on the sand as he approached. He knelt down beside you, the tension in his body easing the moment he was close enough to feel your presence again.
“You scared me,” he murmured softly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. His hand found its way to your back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. “I woke up, and you were gone.”
You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile, though there was a quietness in your eyes that hadn't been there before. “Sorry,” you whispered.
“I’ve been having these migraines,” you sighed, leaning into Yunho’s touch. “Makes it hard to sleep.”
Yunho frowned, concern etched deeply into his features, and you felt his thumb gently caress your cheek before he pressed a kiss against your temple.
“They come in flashes like episodes from the past. I don’t really know how to explain it, but the most recent one…was with you.” You paused, gauging Yunho’s reaction, but he remained silent.
Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence between you growing thick and heavy. This wasn’t how you had imagined this moment. This was supposed to be a chance to reconnect, but instead, it felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong step away from falling into an abyss.
“You told me that I was everything to you,” you finally said, the bitterness creeping into your tone despite your best efforts to stay calm. “So when were you going to tell me the truth?”
Yunho’s eyes widened as if the ground had suddenly given way beneath him. His lips parted, but no words followed—just the sound of his shallow, uneven breathing as the reality of what was happening settled in. His reckoning had come.
Your memories had returned.
"Tell me," you demanded, voice trembling with the weight of years of pent-up anger and hurt, "were you ever going to tell me the truth about how fucking horrible you were to me?”
"Y/N.” There was a desperate, pleading look in his eyes, hoping that somehow, you would understand that he regretted everything—every word, every action, every painful second of his silence that night.
“Please…just let me explain. I–" His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. "I never meant for it to go that far. It was wrong of me to take it out on you. I didn’t know–"
"You didn’t know how to what?” you interrupted, voice rising. “How to stand by me when I needed you?"
"You left me, Yunho. You blamed me, doubled downed on me, and called me pathetic.”
Yunho winced as if the memory physically pained him. “Y/N, I didn’t mean it,” he choked out, his voice barely holding steady.
“I’m so sorry—God, I’m so sorry. I’d take it all back if I could.”
You let out a hollow laugh, the sound devoid of any warmth. “Didn’t mean it?” Your eyes burned with a fury that had been waiting for this moment. “You didn’t care enough to mean it.”
Yunho recoiled again, eyes wide, his breathing shallow. His mouth opened, but no words came—just the unbearable silence between you.
“Some shit friend you turned out to be,” you continued, your rage impossible to contain.
“You cared more about what they thought of you than standing up for me. You let me take the fall because you were too scared—too scared of what people would think if they saw you defending someone like me. Someone who didn’t fit into their perfect little world of what was acceptable.”
“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he began, voice rough with emotion. “And I’ll always regret that I wasn’t the person you needed me to be. I let you down, and I’ve spent every moment since thinking about that night.”
“You regret it?” you spat, your voice quivering with disbelief. “That’s it? You regret it, and now what? We just pretend that’s enough? That I’d move on like you didn’t tear me apart?”
You paused, your breath ragged as you struggled to keep your emotions in check, but the weight of the moment was too much, the years of buried hurt and confusion rising to the surface as tears blurred your vision.
“I loved you, Yunho. I loved you so much, I would have done anything for you. But I realized that no matter how connected we are. No matter how many dreams or lifetimes I see you in, you never changed for me. But for others, you did.”
Yunho’s face paled, the color draining as your words hit him like a blow. It was as if everything he believed about fate—about you and him—was suddenly crumbling beneath him. His breath quickened, and he searched your face, desperately trying to find something, anything, that would reassure him this wasn’t happening. That this wasn’t the moment he lost you.
“I was never going to run from this,” he replied, his voice soft, but no less urgent. "I’m scared because I don’t want to lose you, but I’m not trying to pretend like it didn’t happen. I know I hurt you. I know I fucked up.” His words came fast, desperate, as though if he spoke them quickly enough, they could stop you from leaving.
“I’ll face everything—the mistakes I made, the way I hurt you. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make it right. I’ll do anything."
You turned to face him fully, the ache in your chest growing sharper with every second that passed. It would be so easy to give in, to let his desperation pull you back into his arms. But the thought of always wondering if he would ever truly choose you, was a weight too heavy to carry.
Tears blurred your vision, spilling over before you could stop them, and you could no longer hold back the sobs that had been building in your chest. Your shoulders shook as the dam finally broke, and the pain of everything you’d held inside came pouring out.
“I wanted nothing more than to think that we were meant for each other," you choked through the tears, the words barely audible between sobs. "That Fate was pulling us back together, that all of this was just part of our destiny, and that we’d be together."
You paused, trying to steady your voice as the emotions surged. “But love shouldn’t feel like this…like something I’m always waiting for, only to be heartbroken over and over again.”
Your heart clenched, the ache almost unbearable as you fought to hold yourself together. But you had to let the words out, the one thing that had been tormenting your soul for what felt like lifetimes.
“If you’re willing to do anything… anything,” your voice broke as fresh tears streamed down your cheeks, your breath hitching between sobs.
“Then let me go.”
<< vi | viii >>
a/n: just two more chapters and then the epilogue to go :D
romaincrisis
janainaart
origamiaround
gummygunk
areudirty
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
