story: A quiet rooftop movie night, a soft drizzle under the stars, and two best friends who have spent years dancing around their feelings for each other. As the world fades away, they find themselves facing the unspoken truth they've both been waiting for. In a moment that's neither dramatic nor flashy, they discover that sometimes the most perfect love story is the one that's simply theirs.
a/n: got this idea while listening to cinematic love by dokyeom. Also this is my very first one shot if there's anything that you think I should change plz so tell me and I'd love to know your thoughts!
Seokmin's POV
"You need a main character moment."
It was something I'd been rehearsing since the morning.
Not because it was profound or anything — I mean, come on, it sounded like a line from a coming-of-age film with a slightly-too-quirky male lead. But it was the kind of thing Yuna would smile at. Not roll her eyes — well, maybe she'd do both — but the kind of smile that tugged at the side of her mouth before she realized she was giving it away. That was always the goal.
The sun was still hanging high when I left my apartment. Hot pavement radiated up through my sneakers, and the air had that sticky warmth that made every fabric cling to your skin. Typical summer in the city — loud, sweaty, alive. Kids laughing in the distance, a dog barking from a balcony somewhere overhead. The kind of day that was made for ice cream and spontaneous plans.
And yet, I knew where she'd be — probably holed up in her apartment with the curtains drawn and her laptop screen glowing judgmentally at her.
She hadn't said as much, but I could tell. The texts had gotten shorter. The calls came less often, and when they did, there was a weariness in her voice. Like even talking was one more thing she didn't quite have the energy for.
I climbed the steps to her building two at a time, heart pounding slightly from the heat more than the effort. Still, I paused outside her door.
Three knocks. Sharp, but not rushed.
There was a moment of silence. I could hear soft music playing inside — something instrumental and moody. Typical Yuna soundtrack when she was deep in her own head.
Then the door creaked open.
And there she was.
Hair tied up in a lazy bun, loose t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, her glasses slightly askew. She blinked at me like she'd just come out of a nap, or maybe a fog.
"Hey," she said, voice low and scratchy in a way that somehow made my chest ache.
I held up the two paper tickets like they were winning lottery numbers.
"Movie night," I said. "Rooftop screening. 7:30. You, me, and a critically-acclaimed love story with subtitles."
She squinted at the tickets like they were written in another language.
"It's Wednesday."
"Exactly."
"That's not a reason."
"It is if you're free."
"I'm not."
I tilted my head. "Really? What pressing plans do you have? Intense scrolling? Judging yourself for not writing? Alphabetizing your sticky notes?"
Her mouth twitched, and for a second, I saw it — the ghost of a smile. She sighed and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe.
"I'm just... stuck, Seokmin," she murmured. "The words aren't coming. I feel like I'm floating in place."
"Which is why," I said, stepping closer, "you need a main character moment."
There it was. I said the line.
She blinked.
Then laughed, soft and incredulous, like she didn't mean to. "Did you rehearse that?"
"Maybe."
Her smile cracked through fully now, and I swear, it lit up the entire hallway.
"I've got snacks," I added. "Your favorite — the caramel popcorn that gets stuck in your teeth and makes you hate yourself a little bit."
"You're really playing all your cards."
"And I brought a blanket. Just in case you try to use 'city breeze' as a dramatic excuse to cancel."
She studied me, eyes narrowing slightly — not in suspicion, but like she was trying to see through me. She always had that look. Like she was reading a line I hadn't said yet.
"Is this a pity invite?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"No," I said. Too quickly. "I just... I thought of you. That's all."
She didn't say anything. Not at first. Just looked down at the tickets, then back up at me. Her expression softened, like she was letting go of something heavy she didn't realize she'd been carrying all day.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Just let me change."
I exhaled — probably too visibly — and she smirked as she turned and disappeared into the apartment.
While I waited outside, I glanced down at the tickets again. The film was one I hadn't even heard of until that morning — some artsy, atmospheric indie flick with a too-long title. But it had an open rooftop venue, fairy lights, skyline views, and a soundtrack that screamed nostalgia. That was all I needed.
Well, that — and her.
She came out ten minutes later, wearing a light denim jacket over a sundress, her hair now loosely curled and a tiny bit frizzy from the humidity. She looked casual, effortless — the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you if you aren't paying attention. Not that I ever stopped.
"All set?" she asked.
I held out my arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Lead the way, main character."
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the grin she tried to hide.
And as we stepped into the fading sunlight, the sky a soft peach behind the buildings, I couldn't help but wonder:
Maybe this was the moment the story began to change.
.
The rooftop is peaceful now. The movie has started, but the world around us feels suspended, as if everything has slowed down, just for a moment. The screen flickers with soft light, casting a glow that dances over the crowd, bathing the people in a warm, golden hue. The air is heavy with the warmth of summer, but there's also a cool breeze that slips between the cracks, brushing against the skin like a whisper. It smells faintly of grilled meat from the food trucks down below, the kind of smell that makes your stomach growl without warning.
I can hear the soft hum of the city beneath us — the distant rumble of traffic, the muffled chatter from nearby conversations, the far-off clinking of bottles and glasses from a bar that's open late. But up here, on this rooftop, it's quieter. A space carved out from the noise. There's an unspoken intimacy in the air — the kind you don't notice until it's already there.
And then there's her.
Yuna. Sitting beside me. Just being.
The space between us is narrow, but it feels wide in the most unsettling way. We've been friends for so long that this proximity, this closeness, should feel easy — normal, even. But tonight it doesn't.
Tonight, everything feels sharper. More vivid.
I can feel the heat of her shoulder brushing against mine. It's not an uncomfortable heat, not at all. It's the kind of warmth that feels natural, like we've always been this close, like the space between us has always existed. It's the sort of warmth that lingers on the skin long after the touch has gone, like a mark that can't quite fade. And it doesn't make me uncomfortable — no. It makes my heart beat just a little faster. Makes the air feel thick and full of possibilities.
Our legs are stretched out in front of us, and I feel the lightest touch of her leg against mine. A brief, accidental brush — but hell, it's enough to send a shock through me. It's not the first time this has happened. We've sat this close a hundred times, in our cozy spots in the apartment, on the couch with our legs tangled under blankets, eating takeout and laughing at old sitcom reruns. The usual. But tonight? Tonight feels different.
I'm aware of every little detail now. The way her knee hovers just above mine, the way the fabric of her dress brushes against my skin in the gentle breeze. It's so small, so subtle, but I feel it like it's electric, like my whole body is hyper-aware of her in a way it's never been before.
I reach for the popcorn in the middle, mostly out of habit, to break the silence that's settled around us. She looks at me for a second, her eyes flicking over the motion of my hand as I stretch toward the bag, and she reaches for it too. Her fingers brush against mine as she takes a handful, and it's like the world narrows for a brief moment, the touch reverberating through me in ways I'm not quite ready for.
"Thanks," she murmurs, her voice low, soft, and I nod, swallowing down the sudden dryness in my throat.
She's not looking at me now. Her attention is on the screen, her eyes fixed on the characters as they wade through their messy, complicated love. The plot isn't anything new — two people falling in and out of love, a lot of misunderstanding, a lot of heartache, the typical trope. But I'm not really watching the movie anymore.
I'm watching her.
The way the soft glow of the screen catches her face. It highlights the curve of her jaw, the delicate arch of her cheekbones. The shadows across her features make her look... different, like she's someone else, someone new, even though I've known her for years. I watch the way the light bounces off her skin, making it glow in a way that's almost otherworldly. Everything about her feels softer in this moment, more real than anything I've ever seen in a film.
I notice her lips — how they part ever so slightly when she smiles at a line from the movie. It's a small, almost invisible shift, just a curl of the corners of her mouth, but it's enough to stop me in my tracks. I've seen that smile a thousand times, but tonight it feels like the first time.
Her eyes flicker toward me, and I realize I've been staring for too long. I look away quickly, clearing my throat, trying to focus back on the movie, but I can't shake the feeling that something has shifted. Something between us.
I laugh at the next line from the movie — something witty, something meant to be funny, but I'm aware of how shallow it sounds in the silence that hangs between us. Yuna doesn't even notice my laugh, or maybe she does, but she doesn't acknowledge it.
I catch her glance, though. Her eyes flicker to my face, briefly landing on my lips as they curve in amusement. And for a second, I wonder if she notices how close we are now — how our breaths are almost in sync, how my hand is barely an inch from hers. I wonder if she feels it too — that something in the air, that almost-connection that we've been dancing around for so long.
I can't help it. I want to ask her. I want to know if she's thinking the same thing I am.
But before I can say anything, the movie shifts into one of those cliché scenes — the one where the couple, under the stars, shares a vulnerable confession of love.
It's supposed to be one of those grand, sweeping moments in the story, the kind you see in every romance. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, it hits. The words the characters exchange feel too real, too close to what I've been thinking for weeks, for months.
I glance at Yuna. She leans back, her arms stretched behind her, resting on the blanket. Her eyes are trained on the screen, but I see the soft furrow in her brow, the way her lips tighten as she watches the couple on the screen.
"Things like that only happen in movies," she murmurs under her breath, half-joking, but I can hear the sadness, the weight that lingers beneath her words. The longing, too — the part of her that still believes love, the real kind, only exists in fiction.
I feel it. The ache behind her voice. And I hate it.
It's as if she's resigned herself to the idea that this — the kind of connection we've had for years, the kind that feels effortless, natural, like it could be something — could never be more than something that only happens in the movies.
I freeze. The words I've been holding back rise up in my chest, and before I can stop myself, they slip out.
"Do they have to?" I whisper, and it feels like I've shattered something in the space between us. I don't even realize how heavy the question is until I see her reaction.
She freezes too. For the briefest of moments, her hand hovers in the air, the popcorn suspended just above her lap, like she's forgotten how to move. Her eyes snap to mine, and there's a flicker of surprise — no, more than surprise. Shock.
It's so quick, but it's there — in the way she freezes, in the way her breath hitches.
I hold her gaze, not looking away. I don't want to. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest, each beat growing louder, faster, as the seconds stretch between us.
Her lips part, but she doesn't speak at first. It's like she's collecting herself, like the weight of the moment is too much to say something casual, too much to just laugh it off like she's always done.
"I—" She begins, but the word hangs there, unfinished. Like she doesn't know how to continue. It's not uncertainty, though. It's more like... too many things have built up, too many unspoken words between us, too many years of waiting, of pretending that we were just friends.
Her eyes flicker away from mine, back to the screen, but the look in them doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens. It's sharper now, like she's searching for something — or maybe she's trying to hide something from me. But I don't think she can. Not anymore.
I don't know what to do. I don't know how to close the distance between us — not physically, but emotionally. It's too much to carry, this feeling that's swelling inside of me, this thing between us that neither of us has acknowledged out loud. It's always been there, buried beneath our jokes and shared moments, but tonight, it feels like it's on the edge of spilling over.
I wish I could wrap my arm around her. Pull her close, make it easier. But it feels too soon. Too soon, and yet, I'm not sure how much longer I can wait.
For a long moment, we sit there, side by side. The city hums below, the movie flickers, and time feels like it's both moving and standing still. We don't speak. We don't need to.
But something has changed. I can feel it. The tension in the air is almost tangible now, and it's not going anywhere.
And when her voice finally breaks the silence again, it's softer this time, almost like she's saying it to herself. "I guess... things don't have
.
The air feels cool now, the kind of cool that always settles in after the heat of the day has faded away. It's the kind of chill that brushes your skin like a soft caress, inviting you to savor the quiet moments before the night truly takes hold. The breeze carries the scent of something distant, like the faint smell of grilled meat wafting from one of the late-night food trucks nearby, but it's so soft that it's almost imperceptible. There's something comforting about the city at this hour — the streets are still lit but far fewer people are out, and it's as if the whole city is slowing down, taking a collective breath before the rush of the next day.
We walk side by side, our footsteps in sync, but tonight it feels like we're walking through a dream — slow, deliberate, but with a sense of unease, like something's on the edge of being realized. My thoughts are tangled, restless. I can feel the weight of them in my chest. I glance over at Yuna, and the way the lamplight spills over her hair, casting it in a soft, golden glow, makes my heart skip a beat. It's funny how something as ordinary as the light can make her seem so... ethereal. The waves of her hair catch the light in this way that makes her look almost untouchable. Her expression is peaceful, but there's something deeper, something I can't quite read. It's like she's somewhere between here and another place, lost in thoughts she hasn't shared yet.
We've walked down these same streets before. Countless times, in fact. But tonight, every step feels like we're on unfamiliar ground, even though the path is so well-worn. The rhythm of our shoes hitting the pavement feels different — heavier, as if the weight of our words, unspoken, is beginning to pull on us.
And the silence. It's not the kind of silence that's awkward or uncomfortable — not anymore. It's the kind of silence that carries meaning. It's the silence of things that have always been there, sitting beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rise. And maybe tonight, the right moment is finally here. But it's not easy. Not for me, at least.
"Yuna," I say, my voice coming out rougher than usual. It's not just the cool air that makes my breath feel thicker — it's everything. All of the things I've never said, the things I've kept locked away because I've been too scared to speak them out loud. But they're spilling out now, whether I'm ready or not.
She turns her head toward me, her eyes soft, as if she's already sensing that something's about to change. Her gaze is expectant, but it doesn't pressure me. It's the way she always is with me — patient, understanding, like she knows I need time to find the right words, even if it takes longer than I want it to.
"I've never said this," I continue, my throat tight with the weight of what I'm about to reveal. "But there's... there's so much I haven't told you."
She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face, but she doesn't interrupt. Instead, she stops walking, just enough to make me slow down too. Her eyes stay on mine, steady and calm, like she's waiting for me to let the words come as they need to.
I try to breathe in the cool night air, steady myself. "I've written you birthday cards," I say, and even as I say it, I realize it's been something I've thought about for years. "Do you remember those birthday cards I always get for you? The ones that always seem to fall short of what I really want to say?"
She nods, the soft smile she's wearing doesn't quite reach her eyes, though I can see the tenderness in the way she's listening to me. I can feel her presence so keenly, like I'm standing at the edge of something, and I'm afraid to take the leap.
"I've written them — God, I've written them at least ten times," I continue, the words coming faster now, almost like a confession. "Ten different versions of what I wanted to say to you. But each time I stopped. I couldn't finish them. It never felt like the right thing, the right words. It was as if no matter how hard I tried, nothing could ever fully capture what I felt."
I chuckle softly, but it's not a happy sound. It's a bitter one, filled with the weight of all the things I never allowed myself to say. "Maybe that's why I kept hoping you'd open the door and just know. I kept hoping that somehow, you'd sense it. That what I felt would be enough, even though I never said it."
I pause, swallowing, trying to fight the lump in my throat. My chest feels tight as if I've been holding my breath for years, waiting for this one moment, for her to hear me.
"But it never was," I add quietly, the regret slipping out before I can hide it. "It was never enough."
I look at her, waiting for some sort of response, but she's silent. She doesn't speak. She just looks at me with those deep, dark eyes, studying me in a way that makes me feel like she's peeling back every layer of my thoughts. It's like she can see straight through me. I feel so exposed, so vulnerable, but for some reason, I can't look away.
The stillness between us feels heavy now. The city around us continues its quiet hum, but it's as though we've stepped out of it. All of it — the noise, the world, the distractions — fades, and there's just us. And in that silence, I wonder if she can hear my heart beating in my chest, wild and erratic, unsure.
"Seokmin..." Her voice breaks through the tension, soft and tentative. She says my name like it's a question, like she's unsure of how to respond, or maybe she's unsure of me.
I stop walking, and she does the same. We're standing under a streetlamp now, and the glow from it makes her look even more surreal. Like something out of a dream. The light catches the edges of her face, accentuating the delicate features, the sharpness in her eyes, the way her mouth trembles just a little when she speaks.
I take a step closer to her, but not too close. I want to respect the space between us, but it feels like I can't stand the distance any longer. The air around us is electric now, thick with everything we haven't said.
"I always thought love had to be loud," she says, her voice quiet, barely a whisper against the city's distant murmur. But I hear every word. "I thought it had to be dramatic. A big confession. Fireworks. All of that." She gestures with her hands, almost as if she's brushing away the idea of it. The image of love she's held for so long.
I feel a pang in my chest. I understand. I've always understood. I don't want that either. I want something real. Something subtle. Something that doesn't require grand gestures, just presence. But the words are stuck in my throat, heavy, pressing down.
"Yeah," I say, barely above a murmur, "I thought that too." My words are too simple. But it's the only thing I can offer right now.
She doesn't say anything right away. Instead, her gaze softens, and her breath hitches as she meets my eyes again. There's something different in her expression now — it's not the casual detachment I've often seen from her, but something else. Something that feels more like awareness. Like we've crossed a line we can't uncross.
"But you..." she says, her voice lowering, the words like a quiet confession. She steps forward, ever so slightly, and the shift in her presence makes my breath catch in my throat. "You've been the quietest, clearest thing in my life. You're the one who's always been there, even when I didn't want to see it. The one who showed up, who understood." Her words spill out, tentative but sure, like she's finally letting go of something she's been holding for a long time. "And I think that's what I was waiting for. For someone like you."
The world shifts around me, and I feel like everything has finally clicked into place. A weight lifts from my chest, and a warmth settles in its place. My pulse quickens, and for a moment, I'm at a loss for words. How do I tell her that I've been waiting for the same thing? That I've always known there was something about her that called to me, something that didn't need to be loud or grand — it just needed to be real?
But I can't say it. Not yet. Not like this.
"I..." I start, but the words stick. I want to say it, want to say everything I've been feeling, but it's too much, too soon. So instead, I take a step closer, closing the space between us. Her eyes are still locked on mine, like she's searching for something in me — for the truth, maybe. Or for something I haven't found the courage to say.
And in that moment, I know. I know she's waiting for me to make the first move, but I can't rush it. I can't force it. So I just take a deep breath and say, quietly, "I don't want loud, dramatic love either."
She doesn't pull away. She doesn't laugh it off or look at me with uncertainty. She just watches me, the silence thick between us, until I finally reach out and brush my hand against hers. This time, she doesn't hesitate. Her fingers curl into mine, the warmth of her hand slipping into mine like it was always meant to be.
The city hums around us, but in this moment, I don't need the noise. All I need is this quiet connection, the unspoken understanding between us. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's all we need.
.
The first drop of rain hits the back of my neck, sharp and cold, a sudden contrast against the warmth of the night air. Then another, and another, until the sky releases the weight it's been carrying. The drizzle starts as a gentle whisper, but it soon grows into a soft, persistent rain, falling over us like a secret, quietly shared between the two of us and the world. The rain isn't heavy or loud — it doesn't demand attention — instead, it settles around us like a delicate curtain, wrapping us in a cocoon of intimacy. There's something fragile about it, almost as if this moment, this connection, could be swept away at any second.
I barely notice the shift in the air, but the moment the first raindrops hit, I feel a shift inside myself. There's a certain comfort in it, as though nature itself is signaling that this, right here, is exactly where we're meant to be. Not a moment too soon or too late. Just this soft rainfall, like it's giving us permission to be here with each other, in this quiet, stolen space where time seems to slow.
Under the streetlamp, the rain catches in the light, sparkling in the golden glow. It doesn't feel like the city anymore. The world beyond the pool of light is lost to us, blurred into shadows. The mist from the rain floats in the air like a veil, softening everything, blurring the harsh edges of the world we're leaving behind. All that exists is the light, the rain, and us. The city's noise is just a hum, distant and faint. It's as if the world has quieted for us, given us this brief, perfect moment, where nothing else matters but the two of us standing here in the rain.
I look at her — really look at her this time, taking in every detail that's always been there but has never felt so real. Her hair, damp and darkened by the rain, clings to her face in wet strands, glistening as the light from the streetlamp catches the droplets. Some of them collect at the tips of her lashes, and when she blinks, I see the water shimmer against her dark eyes, making them deeper, almost bottomless. Her face, half in shadow, half in light, looks different in the rain. Softer, more delicate, more there. Like she's been revealed to me in a way I never understood, even though we've known each other for so long.
I've seen her laugh, seen her smile, seen her angry, but this — this is different. The quiet of the night seems to have drawn something out of her, something that isn't obvious, something that isn't spoken. There's a stillness in the way she's looking at me, a soft focus in her eyes that tells me she's no longer unsure. The hesitation, the distance, the things we've both kept hidden — they've melted away with the rain, dissolving into the soft night air.
She's standing close now, close enough that I can feel her breath, warm and steady, mixing with the cool air between us. The way her chest rises and falls, each movement so gentle, so calm, gives me a sense of peace that I didn't know I needed. Her body is warm against mine, but the warmth doesn't come from the heat of the night or the streetlamp. It's something else. A quiet kind of heat that lingers in the air between us, something so familiar that it feels as though we've always been here, standing like this, waiting for this moment.
And then, there's this unspoken shift — a pull, subtle but undeniable. Everything slows down, like the rain itself has decided to freeze time for us. I can't say who moves first — is it me? Is it her? Maybe it's both of us, slowly leaning in, drawn together by something far deeper than the simple proximity of our bodies. The distance that once felt too wide between us is suddenly gone, erased by the shared space we've carved out in this rain-soaked night. My heart is racing in my chest, a steady thrum, like it's trying to escape, like it knows that this is what it's been waiting for.
And before I can fully register what's happening, her lips are there — soft, tentative, brushing against mine in a way that makes everything feel fragile, like we're both unsure of whether this is real or not. The kiss isn't anything like the ones you see in the movies — no fireworks, no rushing adrenaline. It's quiet, hesitant, almost awkward, like we're both testing the waters, unsure of what we're about to do, but too drawn to each other to stop. Her lips are warm against mine, the moisture of the rain mixing with the warmth of her skin. I feel the faintest tremble from her, and I know it mirrors my own.
For a few seconds, it's unsure. Like we're both learning how to be here, how to be with each other in this new space. Her fingertips brush lightly against my arm, tentative, like she's unsure if she should hold me, touch me, or pull away. It's such a small, delicate thing, but it's exactly what this moment is — small, quiet, delicate, and yet somehow so profoundly right. The rain falls steadily around us, but it's not cold. In this moment, the rain feels like a gentle barrier, like a shield from the rest of the world. It's just us. The rain. And the soft, tentative pressure of her lips against mine.
And then, slowly, it deepens. Not in a rush, not in a frantic, overwhelming way, but in a quiet, deliberate progression. It's as if we both suddenly realize that this is the culmination of everything we've been waiting for, everything we've both held back from saying or doing. The awkwardness fades, and there's a warmth that blooms between us — the kind of warmth that isn't just physical, but something deep and honest. The rain becomes louder, its drops falling harder, but it doesn't matter. We're sheltered in this small moment, wrapped in the quiet rhythm of the world around us, yet we're entirely focused on each other.
I'm not sure how long the kiss lasts, but when we finally pull away, it's not with the rush of breathlessness that you'd expect after something so intimate. Instead, there's a quiet kind of peace that settles over us. My heart is still pounding, but now it's steady, a calm echo of the chaos that came before. I open my eyes slowly, the world around us still a hazy blur, like everything else has faded away. And when I meet her gaze, I see the same softness in her eyes, that same stillness, like she's trying to take in the gravity of what just happened — of what we just shared.
She doesn't say anything right away, and neither do I. There's no need. The silence between us isn't awkward; it's comforting. It's filled with the quiet understanding that we've both crossed some invisible line — that we've arrived at a place where words no longer need to be spoken. Our lips are still warm from the kiss, our bodies still close, but it feels like there's so much more unsaid between us. The rain continues to fall, steady and persistent, but in this moment, it feels like it's part of us, like it's part of the truth we're both realizing.
She reaches up, almost instinctively, her fingers brushing through the damp strands of my hair at my temple. It's a light touch, soft and careful, like she's trying to ground herself, as if to remind herself that this is real, that we're really here. Her hand lingers there, just for a moment, but it's enough. It's enough to make my heart do something strange, something that feels like both relief and anticipation.
And then, she smiles. It's not a big, bright smile — it's softer, a little shy, and yet it feels like everything. In that smile, I see it all. The uncertainty, the hesitation, the quiet hope that's been there all along. Her eyes soften, and I know then that she's here with me. She's with me, in this moment, fully, completely, and without hesitation.
The rain still falls around us, but it's no longer just rain. It's part of this. Part of the quiet acceptance between us. The world beyond the streetlamp's glow is a blur, distant and irrelevant. There's only this space, this small bubble where nothing else matters. Not the passing time, not the world, not the things left unsaid. Only the way her hand rests on mine now, the way her fingers fit so naturally against my own.
I step back a little, just enough to catch my breath, but I don't let go of her. I reach for her hand, and this time, she doesn't pull away. Her fingers slip into mine, and it feels so simple, so natural, like we've always been doing this, always been here. We don't need to speak. We don't need to rush. We just stand there, together, letting the rain fall around us, letting the world continue as it will, while we remain still, in this perfect, quiet space.
It's not flashy. It's not dramatic. But in this rain, in this moment, it feels perfect. It's familiar. It's home.
.
As we stand there, rain gently falling around us, the quiet of the moment wrapping itself around us like a soft blanket, I realize something. It didn't look like a movie scene. There were no grand gestures, no sweeping music or dramatic confessions. It wasn't flashy or perfect in the way love is often portrayed on screen. But as I look at her — really look at her — I know that's what makes it so much more meaningful. It looked like us. Two people who have always been there, in the quiet, the subtle, the real. And maybe that's even better.
I hope you liked the story if you have any thoughts i'd love to see them!
I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.
If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.
A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.
If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.
Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.
With deep gratitude,
@nadinfamily
Hey! If anyone can help them please do so. It'll save at least one person or more. Thanks to anyone who is helping with the situation 🤍
Please Help Me Feed My Children in Gaza – We Are Starving
Dear kind soul,
I never thought I would have to write a message like this. I am a father of five children, living in Gaza — and we are starving.
We have no food. No clean water. No safety. My children cry from hunger every day, and as their father, my heart breaks because I cannot feed them. I have injuries from Israeli airstrikes, and my health is getting worse, but the worst pain I feel is watching my children suffer without being able to help them.
This is not a famine. This is forced starvation. We are being deprived of food and aid. We are dying slowly, silently.
Please, I am begging you — if you can donate anything, even the smallest amount, it can mean a meal for my children. If you cannot donate, please share my plea with others. Your voice could reach someone who can help.
Your compassion can save lives. Your help could mean that tonight, my children go to bed with something in their stomachs.
Please don’t ignore this.
Please Donate now:👇
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Hi , I sincerely apologise I can't donate but I'll try to spread awareness on your situation. If anyone can donate even the smallest amount of money , it will mean a lot to everyone 💖
hii. I know I just asked you to write a Verkwan fiction, which was amazing BTW, but I also love Jeongcheol. If it's not too much work and not a bother, would you write a fluffy fic of Jeongcheol on an off day. Only if you feel like it, of course. I haven't been able to find a good Jeongcheol fic based off both being in seventeen and I really love how you write. Thank you one way or the other!
Thank you!! sorry if I'm a little late i'm so tired from my studies hehe. So here's the jeongcheol fic i hope it's what you wanted idk if i did it in the right way. ENJOY!!!
Theme: lovers during an off day
Pairing: Jeongcheol
w/c: 3,8k
DAY OFF
It was one of the rarest mornings you could count on one hand, and if you were lucky, maybe two. An unclaimed morning where no meetings, alarms, or calendar notifications are clamoring for your attention. There was none of the normal buzz of urgency that permeated the atmosphere during the week. Rather, a golden pause between the end of one hectic week and the start of the next was marked by silence. It was the sort of morning that seemed to be a secret, one that you could only hear from the sun and the city's gentle sigh.
Slivers of sunlight streamed through the partially drawn curtains, creating soft stripes on the tangled sheets and hardwood floor. Seoul was just starting to awaken outside, with a muffled but distinct soundscape. A distant bus hissed to a halt, a friendly shout came from the other side of the street, and a soft tune wafted in from a nearby café that was starting the day. Inside, however, the world was still silent. Only a dozen layers of blankets and the heat from each other's bodies could make the room warm. Like a lullaby, that specific type of warmth—heavy and human—kept Jeonghan and Seungcheol entangled in its embrace while they slept.
The first to stir, albeit subtly, was Jeonghan. As though waking up peacefully were a sacred gift that should not be taken for granted, his eyes blinked open languidly and adjusted to the gentle light with a sort of reverence. For a short while, he lay motionless, listening to the soft cadence of Seungcheol's breathing and the sporadic twitch of a dream passing through him. Under the covers, his legs were a tangle of tangles, his arm was tucked possessively around Jeonghan's waist, and his face was buried somewhere close to Jeonghan's collarbone.
Jeonghan wasn't particularly interested in moving. Not when the air outside the bed promised to be at least five degrees colder and Seungcheol's body radiated warmth like a second blanket. However, just before he was completely awake, an idea had crept into his mind, and it was now firmly established there. It was mischievous, unyielding, and stubborn in a way that only Jeonghan could be at seven in the morning on a Saturday.
He slowly turned in Seungcheol's arms, being cautious not to wake him up just yet. He prodded Seungcheol's cheek with just enough pressure to irritate him but not enough to completely awaken him, and his lips formed a smile.
"Cheol," he said in a light, sing-song voice.
The only response, muffled against skin, was a low grunt.
"Cheolie~" Jeonghan repeated her song, but this time she was overly sweet, and just for good measure, she gave him another cheek poke.
Seungcheol protested with a groan, but his eyes stayed tightly closed. Rather than respond, he drew Jeonghan closer, his arm flexing with natural strength, tucking him back into position like a body pillow he would not let go of.
"Five more minutes," Seungcheol murmured against his neck, his voice honeyed by warmth and heavy with sleep. It sent a chill down Jeonghan's spine that was unrelated to the cold; it vibrated more than it spoke.
“But I want cookies,” Jeonghan said, pouting even though he knew Seungcheol couldn’t see it. His tone was deliberate — the exaggerated whine of someone who already had a plan and needed only minimal resistance to enact it.
“Order some,” Seungcheol replied, as if that solved the problem entirely. His voice was mostly autopilot at this point — the lazy solution of someone still halfway in a dream.
Jeonghan gasped — theatrically, of course. He pulled back just enough to look at Seungcheol properly, a hand pressed to his chest as if the suggestion had physically wounded him.
“Fresh cookies, Cheol. From scratch. Handmade, homemade... love-made.”
One of Seungcheol’s eyes finally cracked open at that, blinking blearily at the absurdity. He stared at Jeonghan like the other man had grown a second head — or at least like he was deeply regretting his life choices.
“You can’t even cook instant ramen without setting off the smoke alarm,” he deadpanned.
“That happened once,” Jeonghan said with faux indignation. “Maybe twice.”
Seungcheol simply closed his eye again, unbothered. “Three times.”
Jeonghan beamed unrepentantly. “That’s why you’ll help me.”
There was a beat of silence where Seungcheol seriously considered faking a coma. But Jeonghan was already wriggling out of his arms with alarming enthusiasm, diving out from under the blankets with the grace of a cat possessed by purpose. The cold air hit him like a slap, but he didn’t even flinch — too focused, too determined.
Seungcheol groaned into the pillow. “This is gonna kill me.”
Still, ten minutes later — after much internal debate, a dramatic sigh, and one last desperate burrow under the covers — he found himself shuffling out of the bedroom. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes were only half open as he followed the sound of crashing bowls and off-key humming.
What greeted him in the kitchen was both chaotic and endearing.
Jeonghan stood in front of the counter in fuzzy pastel socks, wearing the most ridiculous apron Seungcheol had ever seen. It was neon pink, covered in glittery lettering that proudly declared Chaos Chef, and somehow, Jeonghan wore it like it was haute couture. His hair was pulled back into a tiny bun, and he was flipping through a recipe book with the intense concentration of a military commander reviewing battlefield tactics.
Seungcheol rubbed at his eyes. “Jeonghan… that’s a level five recipe.”
“What does that even mean?” Jeonghan replied brightly, already pulling out measuring cups.
“It means it’s complicated,” Seungcheol muttered, pointing at the ingredient list. “You need, like, three types of sugar. Who needs three types of sugar for one cookie?”
“People who care about flavor,” Jeonghan answered, opening cabinets like he knew where things were. Spoiler: he didn’t.
“You can barely boil water.”
“Exactly,” Jeonghan said. “That’s why I need your support. This is a bonding activity.”
Seungcheol eyed the growing mess of flour and optimism, then made a last-ditch attempt at sanity. “Let’s just buy premade dough.”
Jeonghan gasped again — louder this time. He pressed a hand to his chest, staggering back as though struck. “How dare you, Choi Seungcheol. This isn’t just about cookies. This is about the experience. The art! The romance!”
Seungcheol stared at him.
Jeonghan stared back — eyes wide, sincere, and just a little ridiculous.
“…Fine, Picasso,” Seungcheol said at last, his tone resigned but fond.
Fifteen minutes into what Jeonghan dramatically called their “culinary masterpiece session,” they hit a wall.
It started innocently enough — Jeonghan humming off-key to a song playing from his phone speaker, standing on tiptoe to survey the depths of their small pantry like he was inspecting a sacred vault. His fingers trailed over half-empty bags of flour, rogue spice jars without labels, and a suspiciously old bottle of maple syrup. He pulled back with a squint.
Then came the hum — low, contemplative, and vaguely disappointed. The kind of hum that preceded either a sudden stroke of brilliance or absolute chaos. With Jeonghan, there was rarely an in-between.
“We’re missing half of this stuff,” he declared finally, turning toward Seungcheol with a dramatic flourish of his wooden spoon.
Seungcheol, who had been trying to make sense of the recipe with bleary eyes and very little caffeine, didn’t even glance up.
“Should’ve bought the dough,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Jeonghan shot him a look but otherwise ignored him with the grace of a man too committed to back down. He spun on his heel, already fishing his wallet out from a drawer.
“Emergency grocery mission!” he proclaimed with the energy of someone announcing a royal decree.
Seungcheol groaned, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for the hoodie slung over the back of a kitchen chair. “At least let me get coffee first,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.
“Time waits for no baker,” Jeonghan chirped, grabbing his keys and marching toward the door like a man on a mission.
The grocery store was unusually peaceful for midmorning on a weekday — no screaming children, no long lines, just a gentle murmur of people going about their errands in quiet companionship. The automatic doors whooshed open, letting in a wave of cool, air-conditioned air that smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and fresh produce.
They walked in together, grabbing a cart and setting off at a lazy pace down the first aisle. Seungcheol pushed while Jeonghan stood beside him with the grocery list pulled up on his phone, already squinting at it like it was written in ancient code.
The first disagreement happened five minutes in.
“Get the unsalted butter,” Jeonghan said, pointing to the neatly stacked golden bricks in the fridge section.
Seungcheol reached for the regular kind without even looking. “Salted tastes better.”
“That’s not the point, Cheol,” Jeonghan said, smacking his hand away like he was swatting a fly. “We’re baking. Salted butter messes with the flavor balance.”
Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, turning toward him. “You set off the smoke alarm trying to boil water last week. What flavor balance?”
“That was a fluke,” Jeonghan said primly. “And I’ve done my research.”
Despite Jeonghan’s insistence, Seungcheol reached back and grabbed the salted butter with all the defiance of a child daring a parent to stop him. He tossed it into the cart with a flourish.
Jeonghan gave him a long, narrow-eyed look.
“You’re going to sabotage this.”
“You’re going to sabotage this,” Seungcheol echoed, smug.
And the truth was — they both would, somehow. That was just their way.
They moved through the store in their usual rhythm: bickering lightheartedly over brand choices, debating the need for brown versus granulated sugar (“We need both, Jeonghan, it literally says so right here”) and getting distracted every five minutes by snacks they absolutely didn’t need but definitely wanted.
The baking aisle was the true battleground.
While Seungcheol carefully studied a bag of flour, Jeonghan tried to sneak two oversized bags of candy into the cart.
Seungcheol, ever the vigilant grocery partner, spotted him immediately.
“That’s not for cookies,” he said flatly, catching the bags mid-air before they landed.
“They’re for morale,” Jeonghan said solemnly, puffing his chest out with exaggerated dignity. “Every great endeavor requires sustenance.”
Seungcheol huffed a laugh, giving him a look that was half disbelief, half adoration. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Jeonghan grinned and took advantage of the distraction to drop the candy in anyway. And Seungcheol, predictably, let it slide.
They rounded the next corner and almost collided with an elderly woman pushing her own cart of neatly arranged vegetables and household goods. She looked up, saw them bickering about cookie sheets, and smiled. It was a fond, knowing smile — the kind that wrapped around her eyes like a warm hug.
To her, they must’ve looked like every other young couple — playfully arguing in a quiet grocery store on a lazy morning. There was something about the way Jeonghan leaned into Seungcheol when pointing at a bag of chocolate chips, or how Seungcheol automatically reached out to straighten Jeonghan’s crooked collar, that made it look natural. Intimate. Easy.
Seungcheol caught the look. He leaned over to nudge Jeonghan with his elbow. “She thinks we’re domestic gods.”
Jeonghan snorted under his breath. “If only she knew we’re about to turn our kitchen into a war zone.”
He tossed a bag of marshmallows into the cart for good measure — “for texture,” he claimed, though Seungcheol was starting to think he just wanted to make their kitchen resemble a candy shop.
Back at the dorm, Jeonghan wasted no time reclaiming the chaotic energy they’d briefly paused for their grocery detour.
The moment they stepped inside, he dumped the bags on the counter and grabbed his phone. With one decisive tap, he connected to their Bluetooth speaker and cranked up the volume. An upbeat SEVENTEEN track blared through the dorm, the bass vibrating faintly against the floor.
“Irony is the spice of life!” Jeonghan shouted over the music, tying his apron around himself again — slightly crooked, as always.
Seungcheol laughed from the kitchen doorway, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jeonghan ignored him, already dancing his way through the kitchen like a sugar-high toddler at a birthday party. His socks were mismatched — one neon green, one blue with tiny avocados — and his hair was a beautiful mess of bedhead curls, barely held back by a headband he definitely stole from one of the other members.
He twirled with a bag of flour in his arms, spun dramatically in front of the fridge, and tossed a bag of chocolate chips into the air like it was a bouquet. It landed with a loud clatter on the floor, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Seungcheol, for his part, stood by the counter with a mixing bowl in hand, watching it all unfold with a mixture of exasperation and affection.
There was a moment — quiet, fleeting — where he didn’t move at all. He just watched Jeonghan. The sunlight through the kitchen window caught the edges of his face, casting soft shadows along his jaw. His grin was too wide, his dancing objectively terrible, but he was glowing. Pure mischief and joy, like he had bottled the feeling of a good dream and decided to live inside it.
And somehow, to Seungcheol, he had never looked more beautiful.
It hit him in the quiet way that most important things do. No fireworks. No thunder. Just that warm, grounding realization that there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than standing barefoot in a slightly messy dorm kitchen, watching Jeonghan do a very bad body roll while holding a bag of flour.
He didn’t even realize he was staring until Jeonghan caught him.
Pausing mid-spin, Jeonghan turned, catching the look on Seungcheol’s face. His eyes sparkled — not with mischief this time, but with something softer, quieter. A knowing gleam.
He cocked his head to the side and grinned. “You like what you see, chef-nim?”
Seungcheol chuckled, cheeks going warm as he ducked his head, hiding his grin behind the mixing bowl. “Unfortunately,” he muttered, but the fondness in his voice betrayed the truth.
He was already in too deep. And honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.
It all started with the flour.
Jeonghan stood at the counter, the playlist still going in the background — some upbeat pop song that had faded into background noise by now, replaced in importance by the task at hand. He squinted down at the recipe book with the seriousness of a surgeon preparing for heart surgery, his eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed, measuring cup in hand.
“One cup of flour,” he read aloud, as though repeating it made the task less perilous. “Easy.”
He dipped the measuring cup into the large bag of flour, but it was clear from the start that this wasn’t going to end well. For one thing, Jeonghan was left-handed and clumsy in the mornings. For another, he was also distracted — swaying his hips slightly to the beat of the music, still running on sugar and spite from their earlier grocery adventure.
The bag tipped. Slightly at first.
And then, as if in slow motion, gravity took over.
A white, fluffy cloud burst from the top of the bag like a tiny snowstorm erupting in their kitchen. It billowed over the mixing bowl, over the counter, and most unfortunately, right into Seungcheol’s face.
“Yah!” Seungcheol sputtered, staggering back as he waved a hand in front of him. “What are you doing?!”
Jeonghan blinked innocently, though his face was already dusted like a powdered mochi. He was smiling — that unbothered, slightly unhinged grin that signaled mischief of the highest level.
“It’s called seasoning,” he declared, brushing a streak of flour from his apron like he’d just won an award for innovation.
Seungcheol narrowed his eyes, coughing a little as he wiped his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“That’s not how baking works.”
Jeonghan shrugged. “Sure it is. A little chaos in every bite.”
Before Seungcheol could properly begin his lecture on proper baking technique — probably including a rant about gluten development or precision ratios — Jeonghan dipped his finger into the barely mixed dough and flicked a glob straight at Seungcheol.
It landed with a perfect, soft splatt on his cheek.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Seungcheol stared at Jeonghan. Then, slowly, with absolute precision, wiped the dough off his face using two fingers. His eyes gleamed with mock-danger — the kind that said you’ve done it now.
“You’re dead,” he said.
Jeonghan squeaked. An actual, high-pitched squeak that broke into a half-laugh, half-gasp as he bolted around the kitchen island.
The chase was immediate.
Seungcheol lunged with the speed of someone far more awake than he’d been twenty minutes ago. Jeonghan let out a strangled shriek, dodging just in time, knocking over a stool with his hip as he ducked behind the counter. A flurry of flour followed — Seungcheol scooping up a handful and flinging it like snow at his fleeing partner.
It hit squarely in the middle of Jeonghan’s back, leaving a perfect, ghostly-white handprint on the black fabric of his T-shirt.
Jeonghan twisted around, breathless and laughing, already scooping up a clump of cookie dough with gleeful intent.
“Don’t you dare—!” Seungcheol shouted, one hand raised in warning.
Too late.
Plop.
The dough hit Seungcheol right between the eyebrows.
Jeonghan doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach, nearly collapsing onto the floor. “You look like a failed mochi,” he wheezed between gasps.
Seungcheol slowly wiped the dough off his face with theatrical slowness, then fixed Jeonghan with a look that promised absolute retribution.
“Come here.”
Jeonghan’s laughter immediately shifted into panic. “No no no no—!”
He turned on his heel to run, but the floor was slick with flour. His socks skidded out from under him, and he barely caught himself on the counter’s edge.
Seungcheol didn’t waste the opportunity. He pounced.
Arms wrapped around Jeonghan’s waist, catching him mid-escape. There was a startled yelp, and then Seungcheol spun them both around once, just for the hell of it, before pinning Jeonghan gently against the counter. Not hard — not serious. But enough to trap him.
They were both breathless, their chests heaving from the exertion and the laughter. Jeonghan’s hair stuck up in wild directions, coated in a thin layer of flour. Seungcheol wasn’t faring any better — there was a glob of dough still stuck in his hoodie, and his face was streaked with white powder like some chaotic war paint.
But then… the world stilled.
The air was thick with the scent of vanilla extract, brown sugar, and adrenaline. Their faces were inches apart — so close that Seungcheol could see the way Jeonghan’s lashes fluttered as he caught his breath. His hands rested lightly on Seungcheol’s chest, not pushing away, just… holding. Steadying.
Seungcheol’s hands had settled on Jeonghan’s back, fingers unconsciously tracing small circles into the fabric of his shirt.
Time slowed.
There was something in Jeonghan’s eyes now — no longer mischief, but a softness. A quiet affection that flickered under his gaze like a secret. It made Seungcheol’s heart stutter, made his grip tighten just a little.
He didn’t even realize he was leaning in until Jeonghan’s grin returned — sharp and playful.
“Not so easy, chef-nim,” he said, ducking out of Seungcheol’s arms and skipping away with a triumphant laugh.
Seungcheol groaned loudly and pressed his flour-covered forehead against the counter. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“I already did!” Jeonghan called cheerfully, spinning in place like a sugar-high ballerina, arms outstretched, carefree.
The first batch of cookies was an undeniable tragedy.
Somewhere in the whirlwind of flour fights and dramatic chases, the dough had been overmixed. Instead of the soft, chewy texture promised by the recipe book, they ended up with a sticky, weirdly elastic mass that oozed more than it held shape.
Still, neither of them was willing to admit defeat.
Jeonghan rolled lumpy balls of dough onto the baking tray with the same confidence he applied to everything in life — as if chaos was a valid culinary method. Seungcheol followed behind him, rearranging them silently, muttering about spacing and airflow like a man clinging to the last threads of control.
Once the tray was in the oven, Seungcheol slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, absolutely spent. His hoodie was half unzipped, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair stuck out at wild angles. He looked like he’d just survived a food fight and an emotional rollercoaster — which, in fairness, he had.
“I feel like we fought a war,” he muttered.
“And lost,” Jeonghan agreed brightly, kicking off his socks and flopping dramatically onto the floor.
They laughed — real, unfiltered laughter that echoed off the kitchen tiles.
Jeonghan’s playlist shifted into a slower, funkier beat. Something groovy with a retro bounce, and he immediately stood back up and started dancing — if it could be called that. He strutted in exaggerated movements, hips popping out dramatically, fingers snapping out of sync. His hands ran through his flour-covered hair like he was modeling for a wildly inappropriate shampoo commercial.
Seungcheol watched him with growing amusement and a losing battle with his own face. He tried not to smile. He failed miserably.
Jeonghan pointed directly at him and struck a pose like he was on stage.
“You’re the worst,” Seungcheol called hoarsely, resting his chin in his hand.
“And yet,” Jeonghan said, spinning into a bow, “you love me.”
Seungcheol opened his mouth to argue — but then he smelled it.
Something sharp. Acrid.
They both froze mid-laugh.
“Do you smell that?” Jeonghan asked, nose wrinkling.
Seungcheol shot up like someone had lit a fire under him. “The cookies!”
He sprinted to the oven, nearly tripping over a bag of sugar. The second he opened the door, a puff of smoke whooshed out, making him cough as he yanked the tray from the rack.
The cookies were blackened around the edges, deflated in the middle, and smelled more like burnt toast than dessert.
Jeonghan stood behind him, doubled over in laughter, one hand slapping the counter as he gasped for air.
“You’re a menace,” Seungcheol groaned, waving a kitchen towel in front of the smoke detector.
“And you’re weak,” Jeonghan laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. “You got distracted!”
Seungcheol turned to look at him — this messy, chaotic, ridiculous human who was still swaying on his feet, flour on his cheeks and sparkles in his eyes.
genre: idol, fluff, romance, Slice of Life / Idolverse AU, Light Humor,
requested by: @as133p
summary: After a grueling concert, Seungkwan stumbles into the dorm like a man defeated—until Vernon offers him a massage… in exchange for a private serenade. What begins as dramatic banter turns into soft touches, sleepy ballads, and tangled limbs under a shared blanket. Somewhere between aching muscles and whispered “I love you”s, they find comfort in each other—and maybe, just maybe, a little peace.
I'd love to know your thoughts about this story knowing it's my first time writing a mxm if you have any reaquests they're open if you liked the story reblog it so other people can also enjoy it :)
The dorm door swung open with a theatrical creak that echoed down the hallway like the opening note of a grand overture. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It was, in every sense, dramatic.
And that was exactly how Seungkwan intended it.
He stood in the doorway like a soldier returning from war—though, to be fair, the war in question was a three-hour concert followed by two hours of meet-and-greets, a triple encore, and a final group photo where he’d been told to “smile more” despite his spine feeling like it had folded into a paper crane.
His shoes barely made it past the entryway before he launched them off his feet with a groan so profound it might’ve summoned rain. One shoe bounced off the wall and landed lopsided in the corner like a defeated knight; the other rolled merrily into the living room and disappeared under the coffee table.
“I have been through hell,” he declared, arms stretched heavenward like he was offering his pain to the gods. “My shoulder blades? Pulverized. My soul? Gone. Evaporated. Turned to dust and scattered into the Seoul skyline.”
His voice rang out through the dimly lit dorm, which smelled faintly of fabric softener, takeout ramen, and the uniquely comforting scent of home. The only response to his monologue was a dull, wet scrape-scrape—the sound of plastic meeting the bottom of a yogurt cup.
Vernon, lounging on the couch with the languid grace of someone who hadn’t moved in an hour, didn’t even lift his head. His legs were propped up on the coffee table, one sock slipping off slightly. His hoodie was two sizes too big, the sleeves bunched halfway up his forearms. He gave the impression of someone who had not known stress in decades.
He finally glanced over, eyebrows raised in an unbothered arch. “You look like a penguin trying to moonwalk.”
Seungkwan froze mid-limp, turning his glare toward the couch with the fire of a thousand suns. “Excuse you?”
Vernon shrugged, spoon still in his mouth. “Just calling it like I see it.”
“How dare you insult a man in agony?” Seungkwan stomped—well, shuffled dramatically—into the living room, arms flailing slightly for balance. “I gave my entire being to the stage tonight. I hit a D5 while spinning, and smiled through a leg cramp the size of Jeju Island. I deserve respect, Vernon. Sympathy.”
“You’re getting judgment instead,” Vernon said, licking his spoon with zero remorse.
Seungkwan threw himself onto the couch cushions with a groan that could’ve curdled milk. The couch made a whumph noise as it absorbed the weight of his exhaustion. He twisted and squirmed, shifting until he found a position that didn’t make him want to cry.
Vernon raised the now-empty yogurt cup. “You want this? It’s peach.”
Seungkwan gave him a withering look. “Does peach yogurt look like it could fix my spine?”
“No, but you could use the sugar.”
“You’re impossible,” Seungkwan muttered, flipping onto his stomach and burying his face into the nearest pillow.
The dorm fell into a momentary silence, the soft buzz of the old refrigerator in the kitchenette the only sound filling the space. It was late—past 1 AM—but the city outside the windows still hummed with distant traffic and glowing neon.
Vernon tilted his head. “You sounded really good tonight, by the way.”
Seungkwan peeked up from the pillow, suspicious. “Is this a trap?”
“No trap,” Vernon said, smiling lazily. “You killed it. That ad-lib in the bridge? Unreal. Gave me chills.”
Seungkwan squinted at him. “Are you buttering me up because you want something?”
“Maybe,” Vernon said. Then he patted the empty space beside him on the couch cushion. “Come here. One-time offer.”
Seungkwan didn’t move. “Define ‘offer.’”
“I fix your back. You sing me the sad ballad I like. The one with the long falsetto at the end.”
Seungkwan recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What? That’s the catch? You want me to serenade you while you jam your fridge-strength thumbs into my shoulder blades?”
Vernon shrugged, unapologetic. “Take it or leave it.”
Seungkwan grabbed a cushion and hurled it. It smacked Vernon in the chest with a muffled thud. Vernon didn’t even flinch.
“You’re a menace,” Seungkwan huffed. “A manipulative little gremlin.”
“Say that again,” Vernon said, leaning forward, eyes twinkling, “but slower.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes so hard it was medically concerning. “I’m breaking up with you.”
“Lies,” Vernon said. “You love me too much.”
“I hate how true that is.”
Another beat of quiet passed. Seungkwan groaned into the pillow, then peeked up with a reluctant expression. “Your massages do help.”
“I know.”
“And my back does feel like it’s made of splinters.”
“Exactly.”
Seungkwan groaned again, dragging himself into a seated position like a man preparing to meet his fate. “If I do this, you better actually fix me. None of that poking and running your thumb down my spine like you’re tuning a cello.”
Vernon held up a hand. “Massage fairy’s honor.”
“Massage fairy?” Seungkwan repeated, offended. “What fairy needs blackmail to get a performance?”
“A special kind,” Vernon said smugly.
“I swear—”
“Floor,” Vernon said, patting the carpet in front of the couch again. “Come on, diva.”
Seungkwan stared at him like he was debating launching another cushion. Then, with a long, tortured sigh, he got up and shuffled to the indicated spot.
He dropped down with all the grace of a collapsing building. “I’m a broken man,” he muttered. “Be gentle. I have the bones of a grandma.”
Vernon chuckled, adjusting his seat so his legs framed Seungkwan’s sides. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see what I’m working with.”
He rested his hands on Seungkwan’s shoulders, thumbs brushing lightly along the muscle there.
Seungkwan flinched. “No sudden moves. I will sue.”
“Relax,” Vernon said, voice dropping just a little. His tone smoothed out like warm butter—calm, steady, familiar.
The first press of Vernon’s thumbs was gentle, exploratory. He worked slowly, kneading along the tension-knotted muscles with practiced care. It was clear this wasn’t his first time untangling Seungkwan’s post-performance aches.
“Wow,” Vernon muttered after a moment. “Your shoulders are made of literal bricks.”
“It’s from carrying the vocal line. And the stage. And the team’s sense of humor.”
Vernon snorted. “Sure it’s not from how tightly you clench during rehearsals?”
“It’s called being prepared,” Seungkwan snapped, but the bite was gone from his voice. He was already beginning to melt beneath Vernon’s touch.
The couch cushion shifted slightly as Vernon leaned in closer, thumbs pressing just a bit deeper, drawing small gasps and groans from Seungkwan.
It wasn’t long before Vernon began to hum.
Soft, low, and familiar.
Seungkwan stilled. He knew that tune. He could sing it in his sleep.
“You’re really gonna make me do this?” he said, lifting his head an inch.
Vernon smiled against the back of his neck. “You agreed to the terms. I am the massage fairy. I have rules.”
Seungkwan sighed, but this time, it was a quieter sound—less dramatic, more resigned.
He took a breath.
And then he began to sing.
His voice, even worn thin by hours of performance, floated gently into the dim room. It was softer than usual—more fragile, more intimate—like the song wasn’t meant for a crowd this time but just for the boy behind him, hands coaxing tension from his tired muscles. The first verse flowed like a whisper, every note tinged with that post-show rasp that made it feel even more real.
Vernon didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease. He just listened.
And massaged.
His thumbs moved in slow, steady circles along Seungkwan’s shoulder blades, drifting outward to the tight muscles of his upper back. Each motion was practiced, familiar. The warmth of his hands seeped through the thin fabric of Seungkwan’s loose shirt, a grounding pressure that made it easier to let go of the day. He used the heel of his palm along the base of Seungkwan’s neck, then shifted to knead along the spine with his fingertips. There was a rhythm to it—press, release, smooth, repeat—that matched the lilt of the song.
“You’ve got a knot the size of Busan right here,” Vernon murmured, fingers digging just slightly into Seungkwan’s left shoulder.
“That one’s from the encore spin,” Seungkwan mumbled mid-verse. “My body gave up halfway through but I kept smiling. For the fans.”
“Martyr,” Vernon said, voice fond.
“Saint,” Seungkwan corrected. “Put it on my grave. Saint Seungkwan of the Stage.”
The teasing faded as he reached the chorus, notes rising gently in the stillness. His breath hitched slightly when Vernon found another knot and worked it loose, but he sang through it—just a tiny break in the sound, almost like a sigh.
Vernon leaned forward, a little closer now, his breath brushing the nape of Seungkwan’s neck as he hummed along under his breath. Not loud enough to compete—just enough to join in. To support. His hands shifted to the tops of Seungkwan’s arms, thumbs running up the curve of his shoulders and then back down with the care of someone sculpting clay.
“Relax,” he whispered, when he felt Seungkwan tense again. “You don’t have to impress anyone right now.”
Seungkwan didn’t answer, but he did let his shoulders drop a little. His voice, somehow, grew softer still—tender and hushed. He stumbled over one line, breath catching, and paused.
Vernon’s hands never stopped moving. “You’re doing perfect,” he said.
Another breath. Then Seungkwan sang on.
The ballad unfolded like a slow unraveling, each lyric tugging another knot loose—not just in his body, but somewhere deeper. The city noise outside had faded, the world reduced to the warmth of Vernon’s hands and the pulse of his voice threading through the stillness.
Somewhere around the bridge, Vernon’s fingers slowed.
The motion lost its rhythm—became softer, lazier. Seungkwan didn’t notice at first, too caught in the emotion of the melody. But by the time he reached the falsetto, Vernon’s touch had turned to nothing more than a gentle resting of palms against his back.
Seungkwan blinked, glancing over his shoulder.
Vernon was leaning forward, eyes closed, his forehead now pressed lightly between Seungkwan’s shoulder blades. His head dipped slightly with each breath, soft and even. His hands still touched Seungkwan’s back, but they’d gone slack, no longer massaging—just there, warm and heavy.
“...Seriously?” Seungkwan whispered.
No response.
The softest snore.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips curved despite himself. “You snored through my live solo,” he muttered. “I should sue.”
Vernon didn’t move. His hair was brushing against the back of Seungkwan’s neck now, tickling slightly. The weight of him was comforting in a way that made Seungkwan’s chest ache. Somehow, even like this—half-slumped and utterly unconscious—he still felt like home.
So Seungkwan stayed where he was, spine straight, shoulders slouched forward, letting Vernon rest against him.
And he kept singing.
Softer now, the words barely more than breath. The lyrics wrapped around them both, a private melody just for this moment. His voice didn’t soar anymore—it floated. Quiet and still and sure.
He sang to the end.
And when the final note faded into silence, he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move.
He just closed his eyes, let Vernon breathe against his back, and sat in the stillness that followed.
Eventually, the lamp clicked softly as it dimmed itself to sleep mode.
The night wrapped around them like a blanket.
And Seungkwan, his bones aching but his heart strangely full, leaned back just a little—enough to rest his head against Vernon’s shoulder. Vernon stirred slightly in his sleep but didn’t wake.
Seungkwan smiled.
“Stupid massage fairy,” he whispered. “Guess I really do love you too much.”
It was hard to tell when the massage had ended and the cuddling began.
At some point, Seungkwan had shifted to lean sideways, carefully guiding Vernon’s sleep-heavy body down with him. The cushions from the couch had been pulled off and rearranged into a haphazard but functional nest, and a fleece throw blanket—light gray with tiny faded stars—had been yanked from the back of the sofa and tossed over them like a finishing touch.
Now, under the soft weight of the blanket, they lay on their sides, facing each other in the lazy sprawl of people who had no immediate reason to move. The lamp in the corner cast a warm pool of light across the room, turning everything golden at the edges. The shadows were soft. The silence, softer.
Seungkwan blinked slowly, gaze fixed on the boy in front of him.
Vernon’s lashes twitched.
Then—slowly—his eyes fluttered open.
He looked around in a daze for a second, brows knitting slightly as he registered the weight of the blanket, the faint echo of a ballad still in the room, and the warmth of Seungkwan’s legs tangled with his.
“Did I fall asleep?” he croaked, voice rough with sleep.
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “You snored through my live solo.”
Vernon groaned, burying his face into the pillow with a muffled, “Noooo.”
“Yes,” Seungkwan confirmed, voice deadly calm. “You, Hansol Vernon Chwe, fell asleep. On me. During my emotional falsetto.”
“I was too relaxed,” Vernon whined. “That’s on you. You sang like an angel. My body shut down in self-defense.”
Seungkwan glared. But not really. “Unbelievable. The disrespect.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“Don’t try to weasel your way out of this with sweet words and puppy eyes—”
“You do have magic hands, though,” Vernon added, reaching forward to poke Seungkwan in the ribs. “That voice? It’s illegal to combine that with a back massage. Too powerful. I had no choice.”
Seungkwan scoffed, but the edges of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Vernon grinned sleepily, eyes half-lidded. “You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s always true,” Seungkwan muttered, and then—more quietly—“Also, you’re annoying.”
“I know,” Vernon said. Then, softer still: “You always kill it. Even when you don’t think you do.”
The room stilled for a moment. Seungkwan blinked slowly, lips parting like he was about to argue—instinct, maybe. He always did. But nothing came out.
Instead, he exhaled.
And nudged Vernon in the shoulder with his knuckles. “Shut up.”
Vernon smirked. “Never.”
But Seungkwan was looking at him now—really looking—eyes softer, expression suddenly stripped of all the performance and teasing. And before he could second-guess it, before his mouth could do the overthinking his brain usually demanded, he let the words fall out.
“I love you, you know?”
Vernon’s smirk didn’t fade—but it curved into something gentler. Something real. He reached out and laced their fingers together between them, thumb brushing lightly across Seungkwan’s knuckles.
“I love you more,” he whispered.
Seungkwan made a face like he was about to throw up. “Gross.”
“Admit it, you’re swooning.”
“I will physically fight you for this.”
“Or you could kiss me instead.”
Seungkwan stared at him.
Then, slowly—like gravity had finally won—he leaned in.
Their lips met in the quietest of kisses, soft and sure. There was no urgency, no grand music swelling in the background—just the hush of their breathing, the warmth of the blanket around them, and the steady thrum of two hearts in sync.
The kiss deepened slightly, but never lost its gentleness. It was familiar. Sweet. Like coming home after a long day.
Halfway through, Seungkwan cracked one eye open. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You still taste like yogurt.”
Vernon grinned into the next kiss. “You taste like drama.”
Seungkwan laughed against his mouth, the sound muffled and bright. Vernon kissed him again—once, twice, and then again, as if he couldn’t help it. Each kiss punctuated with quiet laughter, their noses bumping clumsily between smiles.
They broke apart eventually, breath mingling in the small space between them. Vernon rested his forehead against Seungkwan’s, both of them still smiling, still so tangled in each other it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
The lamp’s light flickered slightly, casting golden streaks over the curve of Seungkwan’s cheek, the slope of Vernon’s nose. Their hands remained linked, thumbs brushing idle patterns across skin.
A quiet settled between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just... still.
The kind of stillness that spoke volumes.
Seungkwan’s voice came again, softer than ever. “You scared me a little, earlier.”
Vernon blinked. “What?”
“When you stopped moving. I thought maybe you were messing with me. But then I felt your forehead on my back and—” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It was dumb. But I didn’t want to move.”
Vernon squeezed his hand gently. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” Seungkwan looked down at their hands, then back up. “I think I liked singing to you like that. Even if you were unconscious.”
“I heard some of it,” Vernon said. “I think. Dream-Seungkwan sang with you a little.”
Seungkwan snorted. “Bet he was pitchy.”
Vernon grinned. “A little.”
They lay there like that for a while—limbs tangled under the blanket, laughter echoing quietly into the corners of the room. The glow of the lamp made their skin look soft, golden. The dorm was still quiet, the hum of the refrigerator like a distant lullaby.
Eventually, Seungkwan sighed. Not a dramatic one this time—just soft. Content.
“We should sleep.”
“We should,” Vernon agreed, making no move to untangle himself.
Instead, he shifted closer, tucking his chin gently against Seungkwan’s shoulder. Seungkwan pulled the blanket tighter around them, their legs finding the familiar rhythm of curling close.
The silence stretched long and comfortable.
And just before sleep claimed them both, Seungkwan whispered, “You’re still a menace.”
Vernon smiled, already half-asleep. “And you still love me.”
“I really, really hate how true that is.”
Vernon’s answer was a soft kiss against his temple.
Then sleep.
And the dorm, wrapped in the last threads of their laughter and love, finally settled into peace.
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child
Hi, I'm also seventeen obsessed and S.coups is my ult bias. My roman empire ship is verkwan and was wondering if you would write a fluffy one shot of them after a concert or something?
Heyy! Yes sure I'd love to try to write something like that as soon as possible
💎Who: Jeon Wonwoo (Seventeen) x female reader
💎What: Mafia/gang au. Dark themes (check warnings). Angst. Fluff. Humour. Strangers to friends to lovers. Suggestive (18+).
💎Word count: 17.7k for part one. 31.8k total
💎Warnings: Kidnapping. Violence. Injury and blood. Morally grey characters. Joke about drugs. Alcohol consumption (nobody gets drunk at all). Suggestive dialogue. Wonwoo is a handful of years older than reader.
💎Summary:
“To be honest, you’re surprised it’s taken this long to happen. Truly, you thought you would’ve been kidnapped years ago, so you’re not surprised when it happens.
What does surprise you, however, is the reason why, and what happens when you meet that reason.”
Minors do NOT interact, which means reblogging and/or commenting on this story. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.
Masterlist
Part Two
A/N- Part two will be available April 24th.
Thank you to @lovetaroandtaemin for beta reading and helping me out with the warnings! I appreciate you endlessly, my love 💗
It’s typical, really; the one time you actually have cash on you to give to the homeless man you’ve befriended, who always waits around for you to finish work, you don’t get the chance to give it to him.
Just like every night when you’re done closing up the restaurant, you see Sangmin waiting on the other side of the road, sitting patiently on the bench there, ready to walk you home.
You wave at him as you near the edge of the path, one hand carefully holding the takeout container of a freshly made double serving of his favourite meal that you cook at the restaurant. Sangmin gets up from the bench with a bright smile, always so happy to see you, and waves, making you smile just as brightly, even if you’re exhausted from the long hours cooking away in the kitchen. But Sangmin always cheers you up.
He’s such an upbeat guy despite his unfavourable circumstances, and you genuinely enjoy these walks home listening to him tell you about his day and telling him about yours in return. You can’t wait to hear if he made a new friend at the dog park today, where he likes to hang around and offer to play with the dogs of the elderly folk who can’t run or throw balls and sticks for their pets. Sometimes, the owners even give him some cash in return or buy him a coffee or ice cream from the stands, weather permitting. It’s a reminder that there is still good in this shitty world.
Just as you’re about to cross the street, a couple of cars get close enough that you remain in place to let them pass and intend to cross after they’re gone, when it’s safe.
The chance doesn’t come as both cars suddenly swerve to pull up in front of you, making you take a few steps back as you stare at the vehicles suspiciously. The engines don’t turn off, and the doors on the side closest to you open to allow masked, suited men to get out.
“Shit,” you curse under your breath and hold your free hand up as they approach. “Wait, wait, wait!” You exclaim, kicking out as they reach out to you with clearly every intention of stealing you away. “I said wait!” You glance over to Sangmin as you hear him yelling your name, voice getting closer. “Stay there, Sangmin!” You warn loudly. “Stay out of this!” You crouch, still with your free hand up so that you can put the container on the floor. “Okay, I’ll go with you, just leave him alone,” you inform and let out a breath of relief when the bulky man directly in front of you stops trying to reach towards you and signals his men to wait. “Give me a sec, seriously, I’ll go,” you promise and shuffle aside to peer around to where Sangmin is being held back by a couple of the men. “It’ll be okay, Sangmin. Enjoy your dinner, okay. I’ll see you soon.”
Sangmin murmurs your name brokenly, clearly not trusting these men to bring you safely back, and honestly, neither do you. But he stops struggling to get to you and stumbles back when the men let him go with a little shove to create more space. “Be safe,” he pleads as you follow the men to get into the closest car.
“You too.” You give him a soft smile before you’re in the car between two burly men and the door is shut. You want to watch Sangmin as the car pulls away, want to see him pick up his meal so you know he will eat well, at least tonight, but you can’t. Just as you turn your head to watch through the rear window, something sharp jabs into your leg. You yelp, turning to look down at the culprit and find a needle stuck in your leg. “You asshole,” you mutter.
Moments later, you’re unconscious.
Something about this woman is familiar to you, but you really can’t tell what it is. It doesn’t help that her cronies have given you one swollen eye, and the other eye’s vision is blurred with blood that trickles down from your split eyebrow.
Whoever this woman is, though, she clearly doesn’t want to get her own hands dirty, even if she looks very pleased with the bruised and bleeding state of you.
“Okay, okay,” you groan once you’ve caught your breath from the round of beating you’ve just received. “I give. Who the fuck are you?” You question, peering at her.
Despite not being able to see her clearly, you can see the way her whole posture changes; from smug to dumb, offended shock. “Who am I?”
“Yes; who are you?” You repeat, almost rolling your eyes.
“How dare you?!” She stalks over and one of her men grabs a fistful of your hair from where he stands behind you, to make you look up at her as she leers over you. “I am the most powerful woman in this whole city!”
“Pretty sure I’d know who you are if that’s true,” you retort and choke out a laugh when she finally hits you herself; an open-handed slap that drags the multiple rings on her fingers across your already bruised cheek, drawing shallow gouges in your skin.
“How dare-!” She starts to screech, yet the door opening behind her cuts her off as she looks over.
Curiously, you look over too, and the tall man who enters looks vaguely familiar to you too. At least, the leather jacket and glasses he’s wearing do because he’s too far away for you to make out clearly.
“What the fuck is going on here?” He demands.
Ah, you recognise his deep voice and suddenly understand why he’s familiar to you. He’s a regular at the restaurant and favours the same dish as Sangmin, though this guy worked his way through the entire menu before settling on that particular one.
You’ve only talked to him a few times, when it’s late enough that the wait staff have already been sent home, but the owners always stay open for this guy; meaning, if they’re busy, you have to deliver his meal to him. He always compliments your cooking and thanks you genuinely, but other than that, you’ve never said much to one another. Other than last Christmas when he asked if you would consider making him something special off menu and gave you a wad of cash to sweeten you up.
Even before the suspicious stack of cash was handed to you, you just knew in your gut that this guy is in shady dealings and seeing him walk into this room and not even flinch at the battered condition of you, it only confirms it.
“Teaching your little whore a lesson,” the woman sneers and turns back to you. “She needs to learn that she can’t get away with touching what’s mine.”
“I still don’t know who the fuck you are,” you point out.
Just as her hand is about to come down to connect with your cheek again, the newcomer grabs her wrist. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns. “She’s not done shit wrong. I’ve told you before that I’ve never fucking cheated on you. She’s just a fucking cook.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jeon Wonwoo,” she hisses.
“Don’t be fucking delusional, Ahn Yerim,” he retorts and looks at the man behind you. “Untie her.”
“Sir, Miss Ahn said-” the thug starts, yet shuts up and releases his grip on your hair when Wonwoo glares. The man behind you quickly moves to untie your arms and legs from the chair.
“You don’t listen to him! You listen to me! You both work for me!” Yerim exclaims.
“We work for your father, not you, sweetheart,” Wonwoo reminds and lets her go to approach you and carefully help you up. “Come on,” he encourages as he puts his arm around your waist to support you.
“I am your wife! Treat me with the respect I deserve!”
“I treat you with more than you deserve,” Wonwoo grumbles as he pretty much half carries you out of the room. You’re trying to walk, but they had tied your ankles to the chair legs so tightly that your feet are sparkling painfully with every dragging step as the blood rushes back in. “Did they break your legs?” He wonders concernedly as he stops and adjusts his left arm behind your back as you grip onto his shoulders for stability.
“No, extreme pins and needles.” He makes a noise of understanding and sweeps you up into his arms, hooking his right arm under your thighs to carry you.
“Do me a favour and shut your eyes; you shouldn’t see where we are.”
“Can’t see the gang HQ?” You muse, and snigger when he glances at you with a flat look. “Alright, whatever, Mr Jeon Wonwoo.” Obligingly, you shut your eyes and decide to lean your head against his broad shoulder and rest a little.
“What’s your name?” He wonders.
“Don’t even know the name of the woman your wife accused you of cheating with?” He sighs, making you snigger again before you tell him your name, which he only hums at. “Your wife is a real fucking bitch, you know?”
The sigh he lets out sounds like he more than knows how true those words are.
Instead of taking you home, or back to the restaurant, or a hospital, or a random fucking street corner to leave you to figure out your way from there, Wonwoo drives to the outskirts of the city; to a building site that you know got abandoned after only one block of fancy apartments were built. The company, who still owns the land, had a lot of issues with permits and tried to sell the project on, yet no-one wanted to take over from their immense fuck up, so it’s been abandoned for at least a year now.
At least, you thought it was, but perhaps Wonwoo likes to take advantage of the lack of witnesses at the edge of the city and bury his victims here. It’d be a smart move. There doesn’t seem to be any security around; even the road leading to the site is far enough out of the way that there are no traffic cameras along the stretch.
“I hope you don’t like burying your victims alive,” you murmur as you eye the abandoned building materials still piled up along the partially finished, dust covered road you’re travelling down.
“What?” Wonwoo glances over at you but you’re staring out of the window with a displeased pout. “I’m not going to fucking bury you alive.”
“Ah, good, I’m in the firm belief I would not enjoy that at all.”
“You… No, I don’t think you would. I don’t think anyone would.”
“I dunno, some people are into some shit, Wonwoo. You’d be surprised.” You look over at him and notice a strange expression cross his features. It’s one you’re familiar with from other people and know it means they’re suddenly questioning their decision to be in close proximity to you.
After shaking his head slightly and letting out a strong exhale as he looks back to where he’s driving, Wonwoo speaks again. “Look, I didn’t bring you here to kill you, but to protect you.”
“What?”
“My wife is a fucking psycho. You saw that, and I know she’ll have people looking for you to steal you away again. So, I’m putting you in one of my safe houses so she can’t do that. Understand?”
“She doesn’t know about this safe house?”
Wonwoo scoffs and shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t know about any of them. Nobody does; just me. You’ll be safe here, trust me.”
“I really don’t think trust comes into this, more like I don’t have a fucking choice.”
“That too,” he confirms simply.
There’s nothing more that can be said on the topic, so you both remain silent for the last short section of the drive. Even when Wonwoo parks up in the underground parking of the only complete building, then leads you into the lift up to an apartment on the sixth floor, neither of you say a word.
That changes when you step into the apartment and look at the sparse décor for the modern apartment. “Wow, a true minimalist, aren’t you?” You muse, glancing at the sofa you can see from the entrance hall, then over to the kitchen perfectly within view due to the open layout of the bottom floor of the apartment. There’s a glass staircase on the other side of the living area, with a short hallway behind it, but other than that, there truly is not much to look at.
“It’s just a safe house; it’s supposed to be functional, nothing more.”
“How can you function in such a lifeless place?”
Wonwoo sighs and nudges you from behind, so you’ll move out of the way and let him pad across the expensive marble-look flooring in his socks to the kitchen. “Just take your shoes off and get your ass over here.”
After putting his shoes neatly aside and putting your own next to them, you shuffle over to the kitchen and perch yourself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, where he’s rummaging through an extensive medical kit, which you hadn’t even seen him procure.
“Got the good stuff?” You joke, leaning over to peer into the bag. “Wait, is that morphine?” You gasp, reaching for the packet of pills, but he slaps your hand away.
“You don’t need morphine.”
“I’m in pain, Wonwoo,” you try, pouting at him, but he gives you a disbelieving look. “Ow.”
“You can have ibuprofen or paracetamol.”
“What kind of a gang member won’t give the good stuff?” You huff and turn away to peer at the kitchen. Honestly, you don’t even want morphine. You just wanted to see if he would give it to you, but you have your answer now and have no reason to push it.
“Are you an addict?”
“No, just bored.”
“So, you want drugs?”
“No. Just seeing how you’d react.”
“You’re very fucking weird, you know?”
“Yes,” you confirm and look at him before pointing to the fridge. “I’m guessing that’s empty?”
“Yeah, there’s long life stuff in the cupboards though, some military rations and instant ramen.”
“Good ol’ instant ramen.”
He just hums, then finally has everything he wants from the kit set up on the counter. “Alright, face me; let me get a look at the damage.” Obediently, you turn on the stool to face him as he moves closer while removing his jacket to toss onto the counter, leaving him a simple black t-shirt and jeans.
“How come you’re not in a suit like those assholes?”
“I’m off the clock.”
“Then why did you turn up?”
“My wife sent me a video of them beating you,” he informs, gently turning your head from side to side with one hand on your jaw delicately, to not aggravate the bruises on your skin. “Couldn’t let her do that to an innocent person.”
“Aw, how noble of you, Mr. Thug.”
“Not a thug.”
“Mm, sure.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve seen your bruised knuckles when you’ve come into the restaurant, Wonwoo, the split lips and bruised cheeks. Even seen the outline of your weapon under your clothes. By that, I mean your gun.”
“What else could you mean?” You just giggle, and he sighs, understanding the euphemism, though he doesn’t grace you with a further reaction, not wanting to focus on that subject at all. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”
“No promises.”
Despite his stern expression and stiff posture, Wonwoo is gentle as he tends to your wounds attentively; talking as softly in his low voice as he can to warn you when he’s about to do something that might sting or asking you to move in various ways to give him better access.
“Alright, all done,” he declares sometime later when he straightens up and steps back from you, eyes still darting over your seated form for any wounds he’s missed.
“Thanks.”
“Mm, my fault anyway.”
“It is,” you agree, earning an unimpressed look from the man before he turns to start tidying up. “Is there anything to drink?”
“The tap water is safe,” he informs before opening one of the cupboards to pull out two glasses, which he fills from the cold tap then puts one on the counter in front of you. “I’ll get groceries in tomorrow. Write a list of whatever you want or need for the next week.”
“I’ve got to stay here for a week? I have a job, you know,” you point out before gratefully picking up the glass to gulp down the contents as he finishes cleaning up, his own glass of water barely touched.
“I know. Write a resignation and I’ll post it through the door tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to resign! I like that job!”
“They won’t hold out until you’re back, and I don’t know when that will be yet. We need to wait it out until my wife has given up tormenting you.”
“How long will that be?”
“No fucking clue, she’s been tormenting me for years.”
“I don’t understand why people stay with someone they don’t love anymore.”
Wonwoo doesn’t respond, and you think this is one of those circumstances where it’s really not your place to push, so you drop the topic.
Once Wonwoo is done cleaning up, including both of your drinking glasses, he leads you upstairs to one of the bedrooms. To your surprise, it looks fully furnished, even if there’s not any décor, but it’s more liveable than downstairs.
“Wow, a dresser and TV,” you whistle, eyeing the items as Wonwoo pulls the bedding off of the large bed.
“It came partially furnished,” he explains.
“There’s no TV in the living room.”
“I said partially.”
“Weird they put a TV in the bedroom before the living room.”
“The sockets are all there, they just didn’t get around to it. They were going to get custom TVs made for all the apartment living rooms, but didn’t get the chance before the project got shut down.”
“I didn’t know anyone bought an apartment.”
“Bought is a stretch,” he muses, piling the stale bedding by the door before grabbing another set from a drawer under the bed to sniff at, then shrugs and starts to make the bed.
“Is this technically squatting?”
“No.” He huffs a short laugh. “It’s my apartment, just more of a gift. The whole building is mine.”
“Ooh, check you out, Mr fancy property owner.” You move over to help fix the fitted sheet to the mattress, earning a grateful nod from the man. “What did you do to get this gift?”
“Let the CEO keep his life.”
“And he only gave you a single building in an unfinished building site? The audacity! If he values his life that much, he should’ve given you a lot more.”
“He offered me any building of his I wanted, he owns a lot in the city centre too, but I asked for this; I knew it’s out of the way. He promised to not try hard to get the site up and running again, so I’ll have privacy. Which, to me, is the most valuable thing anyway.”
“Mm, fair,” you concede and work alongside him to finish setting up the bed.
“I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere. The front door is already locked, and you won’t be able to unlock it. You can’t leave, so don’t bother trying,” he warns seriously before turning and leaving the bedroom.
With a sigh, you perch on the edge of the bed and wait, rubbing your feet over the fluffy rug below you, to twist your socks around and around your feet in boredom until he returns.
It’s almost ten minutes before he returns with a pile of fabrics in his arms and a basket of what looks like toiletries, with a toilet roll perched on top.
“You look like a maid,” you comment amusedly.
Wonwoo just sighs then puts the items on the bed. “Here, bathroom stuff. I’ll get you scents you like tomorrow, but you’ll have to use mine for now.” He hands you the basket, so you look at the toiletries curiously, popping the caps to sniff the contents and making pleased sounds.
“I like these.”
“Okay, saves me buying toiletries tomorrow.”
“I need sanitary items.” He looks at you. “My period is due soon.”
“Ah.” He blinks at you a few times dumbly before nodding. “Okay, just write down what you want, and I’ll get it.”
“Sounds like a plan; you know, provided you give me something to do that with.”
“Oh, right.” He chews on his lip thoughtfully before sighing and moving around to sit beside you as he pulls his phone from his pocket to unlock. “You’ll have to write it in a note on my phone, but I can’t let you use my phone blindly, so I’m going to watch.”
“Understandable,” you agree, accepting the device once he has his notes app open on a blank note, so that you can start typing out a list of items for him to buy at the shop tomorrow.
“Write your clothing sizes too. I have limited clothes myself here and just gave you one set to wear to bed. Oh, put detergent down, there isn’t any here. Put the brand if you’re particular about that stuff.”
“Nah, I’m good with whatever smells good and does the job,” you assure, while typing down ‘laundry detergent (nice smelling one)’. “Are there cleaning supplies?”
“I’ll get more,” he promises then motions to the list, so you write it down.
Although it should not be this easy to sit side by side and make a grocery list together, it is. It’s domestic, even, in a very, very, very weird fucking way. The man’s wife is out for your blood, due to her own delusional accusations against the pair of you, yet you’re sitting here making a grocery list together as if you’re actually roommates who regularly do this. Very strange indeed.
“Alright, that’s all I can think of,” you decide, after looking over the surprisingly extensive list one last time, before handing his phone back.
“I’ll go shopping in the morning before work,” he declares as he gets up and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll let you get some sleep now; you must be tired after all this shit.”
“Kinda pretty awake, actually. Does the TV work?”
“Should do, the one in my room works at least. There’s no Wi-Fi here though, so it’s just satellite channels.”
“If this one doesn’t work, we’re swapping rooms.”
“No,” he replies in a firm tone before exiting the room, pulling the door up behind him and leaving you in silence.
“Well, fuck you too,” you mutter and get up to use the bathroom. You change into the sweatpants and t-shirt he left for you before climbing into the slightly dusty smelling bed to turn on the TV.
Although you aren’t tired when you climb into bed, that quickly changes as you curl up under the covers with your eyes on the 90’s rom com playing on the TV, soon lulling you into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, or whatever time it is when you tiredly trudge downstairs, you discover that Wonwoo is a man of his word.
There are various bags of shopping in the kitchen, all full of items from the shopping list. From clothes in the sizes that you wrote down, to perhaps far too many packets of sanitary towels; it seems that either Wonwoo has no idea how periods really work, or he intends to keep you for longer than just this cycle length. Either way, he listened and must’ve really tried hard to get everything on the list, with no regard to his financial state, as every piece of clothing has a brand name attached, not just cheap stuff from a superstore like you had expected him to buy.
Although you genuinely would be okay with the cheap stuff, and never quite see the appeal in such expensive clothing for daily wear, you appreciate it and make a mental note to thank him when you next see him.
A few minutes later, when you’re done perusing the contents of the bags and have moved to the fridge, you finally notice the brand-new magnetic whiteboard on the front with a note scrawled in black ink from Wonwoo.
It’s simple; just him telling you that he will be back in a few days to check on you, while also reminding you to not try to leave the apartment and also keep out of his room. You had no intention of going into Wonwoo's room, but now that he’s told you not to, you kind of want to.
For now, you just focus on making yourself something to eat before taking the shopping bags up to your room to make yourself at home for the foreseeable future.
It’s only been two days since Wonwoo left you all alone and you’re already so bored and restless that the moment you hear the beep of the lock disengaging on the front door, you’re rushing over from the kitchen to greet him like an excitable puppy.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He mutters with a bewildered frown as you crowd close and peer up at him.
“I’m bored, Wonwoo,” you whine, eyes flickering over his tired features. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” You finally back out of his personal space and take the bag from his hands as he works on removing his shoes and leather jacket, suit beneath today. The contents of the bag clinks as you take it, making you peer inside curiously. “Are you planning to mix wine and whiskey?” You wonder.
“No, just didn’t know what you’d prefer.”
“So, you bought wine for me?”
“No, that’s mine. I thought you’d be a whiskey girl, seem like the type to like the burn.”
“Ha,” you snigger. “You got me, but I’ll drink anything.” You take the bag into the kitchen, where you had been starting to make yourself dinner. “Hungry?”
“Fucking starving,” he confirms when he follows you a moment later, unbuttoning his suit jacket to remove and toss onto the dining table carelessly, eyes on the ingredients you have laid out on the kitchen island.
“Pour out,” you say, pointing to the wine bottle on the counter as you focus on getting extra ingredients out to cover Wonwoo’s portion too. He just hums and moves around to get out the wine glasses from the cupboard and corkscrew from the drawer.
As you cook, Wonwoo sits at the breakfast bar, head propped on his left fist and wine glass he’s slowly emptying, in his right. He hasn’t said a word since sitting down, just watches you work, and you’re honestly not even sure he’s entirely present. He looks like he could fall asleep any second, and you don’t think the wine he’s drinking is helping.
“Hey,” you call, tossing the cork, from where it lays on the counter, at him. He jerks back when it hits him on his forehead. He blinks at you dumbly, eyebrows furrowed in displeased surprise while you cackle at his expression. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep upright.”
“I’m fine,” he argues and drinks the last of the contents of his glass before reaching for the bottle to refill his glass, then your own, even if yours is still basically full.
“Bullshit.”
“Just focus on the fucking food.”
“Mm, alright, but if you fall asleep, I’m eating your share too.”
“Do that, and I’ll take you right back to my wife and let her do whatever the fuck she wants with you,” he warns, entirely serious.
“Wow,” you mutter, eyebrows raising as you take in the dangerous tint in his eyes. “You’re serious about your food, huh?”
“Only when it’s your cooking.”
“Damn, you must be sleep deprived to say shit like that.”
He sighs and slumps a little in his seat as he realises that you’re right. “It’s why she thinks I’m fucking you.”
“What?”
“Because I eat your cooking, go out of my way to eat it, and I never eat hers.”
“Ah, yes,” you hum, a sarcastic edge to your voice. “That age old saying; the way to man’s bed is through his stomach.”
Wonwoo lets out a chuckle and leans back on his fist as his eyes tiredly track your movements. “Knowing her dumbass, she actually thinks that’s right.”
“It obviously wasn’t her method.”
“She can’t cook for shit. It’s no wonder I don’t eat it.” His expression turns disgusted. “Even I cook better than her, and I can’t cook shit either.”
“That’s fucked up man; everyone should be able to cook at least two decent meals.”
“Never needed to and don’t exactly have the chance to learn how. She thinks she’s some kind of trophy wife and won’t let me in the kitchen to try.” He sighs and lets go of his glass to free his right hand so that he can rub at his eyes under his glasses. “She knows I’m hiding you, won’t stop fucking bugging me. Can’t get a minute’s fucking peace in that house at the moment.”
“Ah, that’s why you look like you haven’t been sleeping.”
“She doesn’t shut the fuck up when I’m there, so I’ve been avoiding it as much as possible. But at the end of the day, she’s my wife, so I can only avoid her so much.”
“Wild thought right here, but have you considered a divorce?” You muse and point to the plate cupboard, prompting him to get up and reach down two dinner plates to place on the side near you.
Instead of sitting back down, he starts to load up the dishwasher with the dishes, which you’ve been putting in the sink to deal with after dinner once you’ve finished using them. “Not as simple as that,” he mutters.
“Why not?”
“Just isn’t, and it’s none of your fucking business.”
“Thanks to you and your delusional wife, I have no business of my own anymore, so I have to be up in yours.”
“Well, don’t.”
“I’m fucking bored, Wonwoo.”
“Read a fucking book.”
“Nerd.” You don’t even look at him, but you don’t need to in order to know that he’s giving you a very unimpressed look; you can practically feel his gaze burning into the side of your face from over your left shoulder. “Either you give me all the gossip every time you visit, or you get me something to entertain me.”
“Like what?”
For a second, you almost say a sex toy or twelve, but you think he really would stop talking to you then, and he’s your only method of socialisation, so you hum thoughtfully instead. “I guess seeing as there’s no internet, and you wouldn’t trust me with access to the outside world even if there was, a games console with a bunch of games on disc to play will do.”
“You like video games?”
“Not really.” You shrug and finish plating up dinner. “I’ve been intrigued, but I’ve always been more into cooking and baking. That’s just not as fun when I’ve got no-one to share it with. I can game on my own, at least.”
“You like to bake too?” You hum in confirmation. “I didn’t know that.”
You can’t help but laugh shortly as you look at him incredulously. “Why would you know that? We don’t know shit about each other, Wonwoo,” you remind him.
“Ah, right.” He nods and takes the last pan to rinse then put in the dishwasher, while you take your plates to the table to set down. Wonwoo follows moments later with the wine and sits down opposite you. “This looks amazing, thank you.”
“Mm, of course. Not going to let the only person who can entertain me starve, am I?”
“Guess not,” he huffs a quick laugh and picks up his fork. “What kind of games do you want?”
“I don’t really know; a variety, maybe, so I can try different types.”
He makes a noise of understanding. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re the best.” He gives you a raised eyebrow look. “At least the best I can do with no other option.” He scoffs a laugh, lips turning into a more genuinely amused smile as he turns back to his food yet says nothing and eats, so you do the same.
A few days later, Wonwoo is back just in time for dinner with his hands empty, making you squint at him sulkily as he nears where you’re setting the dishes on the table.
Last time when he left, it was the morning, and you were asleep in your room, so he had written another note on the whiteboard telling you when he’d be back; so today, you had made his favourite meal and sides from the restaurant. You had planned the timing for when he said he would be back, and thankfully, he is still a man of his word and arrived perfectly on time.
At least, with this, he is a man of his word, because he had said he’d bring you a games console and games, yet here he is, empty handed.
“What? I’m on time,” he defends as he sits down. He’s not in a suit today, but jeans and a plain black t-shirt. It must be nice to be so unfairly attractive that even such a simple outfit looks effortlessly incredible.
“And empty handed,” you mutter sulkily and drop down into your seat.
“It’s in the car,” he informs, rolling his eyes a little as he grabs his cutlery and immediately scoops a mouthful of food into his mouth.
You watch as he makes strange sounds as he tries to exhale the heat from his mouth while still chewing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” You wonder, prompting him to look at you. “There is literally steam, of course it’s hot.”
“I’m starving,” he replies, only just managing to cover his mouth as he talks, so that you don’t see his partially chewed food. “Barely eaten since last time.”
“What the fuck? Why?” You gawp.
“Told you; she won’t let me in the kitchen, and I refuse to eat her cooking.”
“There are plenty of restaurants, even fucking convenience stores to get a sandwich or instant ramen!”
“Can’t eat that shit after having your cooking.” He shrugs. As if it’s no big deal. As if he hasn’t just essentially admitted he’d rather go hungry than eat food that you haven’t made.
Perhaps to him it’s nothing, but no one has ever sounded so committed to any aspect of you before, even if it’s a byproduct of you, not actually a part of you. But it still hits you right in the chest and makes you unable to do anything but stare at him dumbly as he continues to shove too much food in his mouth before it’s cool enough to be practical.
“I’ll bring it up after dinner,” he declares a few moments later, snapping you back to reality without looking up at you, still too focused on his food.
“What?”
“The shit in the car.”
“Oh, why didn’t you just bring it up with you?” You wonder as you pick up your cutlery to get started on eating your own serving.
“There’s too much shit for one trip, and I wanted to eat.”
“Too much shit?” You give him a questioning look when he glances at you. “How much did you buy, Wonwoo?”
“It’s not that.” He waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll understand later.”
After dinner, once he’s finished cleaning up, and while you sprawl over the still far too big couch in wait, Wonwoo goes down to the car and returns with a hand truck hauling multiple cardboard boxes. He unloads them into the lounge then leaves, after telling you to wait for him to be back. He locks you in the apartment once again before making another trip down to his car and returning without the hand truck, but now he has a suitcase that you recognise and a duffle bag you do not.
“Hold, did you break into my fucking apartment?!” you gawp as you sit up, pointing accusingly at the man.
“No. I have your keys.” He pulls your keys from his jacket pocket then tosses them onto the side console with his own as he removes his shoes.
“What the fuck, how?”
“My wife had them, remember?”
“Oh…” You nod a little in understanding. “I assume you will not be returning my phone to me.”
“No. It’s off and somewhere else. Can’t risk you turning it on and getting tracked,” he answers simply before walking over to start opening the biggest of the boxes, while you pout at his back.
It’s only when he pulls an old, boxy TV from the box, spilling packing foam everywhere, that your interest is pulled away from grieving the, hopefully temporary, loss of your phone.
“The fuck?” you mutter, rolling off of the couch to shuffle across the rug on your knees until you’re peering over his shoulder as he sets the TV up on the unit. “Excuse you, sir, but we are in the modern age.”
“Shut up, the console doesn’t work with our TVs,” he retorts.
“What console did you even buy?”
“I didn’t buy it. It’s one I’ve had since I was a kid, so you better fucking look after it,” he warns, giving you a stern look.
“I can respect other’s property, unlike you.” He gives you a bewildered look. “You broke into my apartment.”
“I had your fucking keys,” he reminds with a roll of his eyes before turning back around to return to setting up the outdated TV before pulling over another box to open.
“I didn’t give you permission to go there; you broke in.”
“I thought you’d want some of your own shit. Last time I try and do something fucking nice for your ungrateful ass.” You stare at him for a moment before shuffling closer to abruptly hug him from behind, making him jolt then tense up. “The fuck are you doing?”
“Being appreciative.”
“Well stop it; it’s fucking weird. Just go back to being an ungrateful shit.”
“No. You smell really nice, what cologne do you use? I want some.”
“I brought your perfume from your apartment, wear your own shit.”
“No, I like yours. Let’s swap.”
“Fuck off.” He shakes you off of him, making you snigger before you move over to open the last box, which looks brand new, to peer inside and notice random items from your apartment inside.
You don’t know why Wonwoo thought you’d want the novelty beer mat, which you stole from a bar, that you kept on your coffee table, but it’s in the box and makes you giggle when you see it. All the other items are much more understandable; your jewellery box, makeup bag, perfume, the blanket from your couch, and the teddy bear that sleeps with you.
“You got a boyfriend you didn’t mention?” He wonders, when he glances over and spots you holding the teddy and brushing your fingers over the soft fur. His eyes land on the love heart pattern of its t-shirt then he turns away.
“No.”
“Caught up on an ex?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just wondering, damn.”
“Oh, so you get to dig into my love life, but I can’t yours?”
“Never fucking mind,” he grunts, all but glaring at the console as he sets it up.
You peer at him and sigh. “Fucking idiot man.” He turns his head to shoot you a warning look over his shoulder. “What? You are!”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“No.” You raise a challenging eyebrow when he turns further towards you; a clear attempt to silently intimidate you. “I know you’re not going to hurt me. If you were willing to let me get hurt, I wouldn’t still be here,” you reason logically.
Wonwoo continues to glare at you for a moment before he turns away with a grunted curse, making you snigger. “Stop being a brat, or I won’t be so nice from here on out.”
“Kinda sounds like a challenge to me, if I’m honest.” Your words make Wonwoo stop what he’s doing to sigh heavily, eyes closing as he takes a moment to gather himself. Deciding to leave Wonwoo alone, lest you actually make him lose his temper with you, you turn and look at the bear in your hands.
A bittersweet little smile lifts your lips as you think about Sangmin. He had gifted you the bear on Valentine’s day; he wasn’t hitting on you and made a big effort to let you know that. He had simply seen the bear and decided to use all the change he had in his pocket to buy it for you, as the most heartfelt thank you and sign of his appreciation for all the meals you make for him.
At this point, Sangmin really is your best friend, perhaps your only friend. You value him so greatly and constantly find yourself wondering and worrying over the man since Wonwoo’s wife kidnapped you a week ago. You’ve been his only source of stable sustenance for months now; you dread to think of how much he’s struggling to feed himself without you handing him a hot meal every night.
“Hey, uhm Wonwoo?” You call, tone quieter and uncertain. It makes Wonwoo stop what he’s doing to look over at you, but you’re still looking at that bear and don’t notice.
Wonwoo stares at you contemplatively for a moment; takes in the concerned furrow of your eyebrows and the tender way you handle the bear. “What is it?” He asks, his own tone softer now, noticing that whatever is on your mind is serious for you. He wasn’t aware you even know how to be genuinely serious like this. Even when you were tied to a chair by thugs getting bruised and battered, you didn’t seem like you were taking the situation all that seriously.
“Will you do me a big favour?”
“Depends.”
You sigh softly and look at him. “There’s a homeless man who I feed every night after work. He meets me outside of the restaurant and walks me home. He’s… I’m the only stable source of food he has. Will you check on him, buy him a meal? And assure him that I’m okay. He was there when those assholes took me.”
“Oh.” He silently watches you for a moment longer, in surprise at your genuine, selfless request, while you keep your sincere gaze glued to him. “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
“He’s my only friend, all I have here. He’s really a good guy; he’s got a giant heart and will always put others first. It’s how he lost everything; ran himself thin and got his kind nature taken advantage of. I need to know that he’s okay and will continue to be until I can go back and look after him.”
“Okay,” he agrees softly with a nod. “I’ll look out for him until it’s safe for you to leave.”
“Thank you.” You relax a little as you give him a grateful smile.
“You’re welcome.”
Although it’s usually a few days before you see Wonwoo, he turns up the day after you ask him to check on Sangmin.
When he enters the apartment, you’re sitting on the floor close to the boxy TV in the lounge, playing one of the games on his childhood game console.
“Oh, didn’t expect you today, would’ve started dinner if I knew you’d be here,” you comment, after flickering your gaze over to him, then focus back on the screen.
“Why does that sound like you won’t eat dinner if I don’t turn up?” he accuses, approaching, sans shoes, to sit on your left, grab the other controller from in front of the console, and immediately jumps into the game with you.
“When I get hungry, I’ll eat. I don’t have any kind of schedule to keep, you do.” Wonwoo makes a noise of understanding in response yet says nothing more.
Until the end of the level, you’re both focused entirely on the game and only talk when Wonwoo gives you tips and guidance. He played this game many times in his youth, so he knows it far better than you, even if it’s been some years since he last played it.
“What’s for dinner then?” Wonwoo prompts, plucking the controller from your hand to place down as the level ends.
“Uhh, fuck knows,” you answer with a shrug before getting up and shuffling to the kitchen. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“In case you forgot; it’s my fucking apartment,” he scoffs, turning off the TV, after saving the game properly. Once the console and TV are both turned off, Wonwoo saunters over to the kitchen to lean on the island at the opposite side to you, with his forearms laid flat on the granite surface and fingers casually laced together.
“You got a thing for cooking, or something?” You wonder upon realising that he’s watching you with the same interest he always does when you’re cooking. Then again, maybe he’s just making sure you don’t slip poison into his portion. It’s only been just over a week since you met, so you wouldn’t blame him for being cautious.
“Just curious. I told you; I can’t cook for shit.”
“Then wash your hands and get around here,” you demand. “No better way to learn than by doing.”
“You serious?” he mumbles as he straightens up. You just hum. Wonwoo stares at you for a moment before moving to roll up his shirt sleeves, wash his hands and then join you for his first ever cooking lesson.
It’s hours after Wonwoo arrives that you find out why he broke what you thought was going to be the schedule for his visits.
Cooking dinner takes almost three times as long as normal with him at your side; for a gang member he’s ridiculously cautious with the kitchen knife you instruct him to use. Then, the two of you get distracted talking about the video games you’ve tried, so eating dinner takes longer than normal too.
So, here you are, four hours after he arrived, returning to the lounge to relax on the couch. You’re both very glad to have a comfortable seat after the past four hours of sitting on the hard floor, standing to cook and clean, and barely cushioned dining chairs.
“Oh, I went to the restaurant while I was in the area today,” he informs, drawing your attention to him, instead of staring at the little spread of video games on the floor by the TV unit as you try to decide what to play next. Wonwoo is already looking at you and when you look at him, he continues talking, knowing that you’re now paying attention. “Met Sangmin.” You straighten up a little, eyes widening slightly in silent question, silent concern for your friend. “He…well, I won’t lie; he looks like shit.”
“How bad?”
“He’s barely eaten or slept since you were taken,” he answers. “He’s been looking for you, asking around where he can and got into some trouble a couple days ago; so, he looked fucked up too.”
“Fuck.”
“Mm.”
“You gotta let me go see him.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Wonwoo scoffs and shuffles to slouch down and let his head rest on the back of the couch as he turns his face skywards, looking at nothing in particular on the ceiling. “My wife is still after you; you’re staying right fucking here.”
“I can’t let him suffer!”
“I know,” he rolls his eyes before tilting his head just enough to peer at you lazily from the edge of his vision. “I told you that I’d look out for him until you can do it, and I’m a man of my word.”
“What did you do?” You ask softly, your worry starting to melt away. Something about Wonwoo really does make you believe him, at least about this; that he’s a man of his word. You trust him about this, as crazy as it is to trust the husband of the woman who fucking kidnapped you and had her minions beat you up because of her delusions.
“Put him up in a motel and gave him some cash for food. It should last him a couple weeks, provided he doesn’t fucking waste it.” He turns his face to the ceiling again, no longer looking at you as he yawns. “I’ll check on him in a few days and keep you updated.”
“Ah.” Your head bobs a little in approval as relief swims through your veins and warms your chest. “Thank you, Wonwoo, seriously.”
“Mm, I’m counting this as it makes us even for my fucking psychotic bitch of a wife kidnapping and beating the shit out of you.”
“She didn’t beat the shit out of me. That would’ve been entertaining. Does she even know how to fight?” Wonwoo’s scoff is answer enough that no, his wife doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. “She would’ve broken her hand trying to break my face or something.”
“Doesn’t do shit with her hands, anyway, wouldn’t make a fucking difference if she broke them.”
“Oh?” You grin slyly at him, even if he isn’t looking at you. “She’s more of a mouth kinda girl, huh?” Now Wonwoo looks at you, utterly unimpressed and borderline glaring, making you giggle. “What?”
“My sex life is none of your fucking business.”
“Never mentioned you,” you muse with a shrug. “A lot of people who accuse others of cheating tend to be projecting their own misdeeds.”
“Know from experience?”
“Mm, yeah, been accused of cheating many times. I guess we’re similar in that regard; loyal to our partners even if they don’t believe it.” You shrug and get up to turn the TV on, then sit in front of the console to eject the cartridge to put away in the correct case.
“Not playing that one anymore?” he murmurs, rolling his head to watch you peruse the selection of games.
“How tired are you? You’ve yawned like three times since sitting down.”
“I can go a few rounds, if you’re asking.” You immediately smirk over your shoulder at him. “Keep it in your fucking pants, pervert.”
“I respect the sanctity of marriage, even if it’s a loveless one,” you assure and turn back to the games, to select one to put into the slot and boot up the console. “I tried to play this earlier, but I kept dying, and it pissed me off. I think it’ll be easier in multiplayer though.”
“Mm, it is,” he confirms and stretches noisily before joining you on the floor, handing you a pillow to sit on while sitting on one himself, and accepts the controller you give him. As the game loads up and the start credits play, Wonwoo explains the basic idea of the game to you in a low voice, adding little tips about the controls and secret moves that will help you survive the beasts and tricks designed to overwhelm single players.
With Wonwoo at your side, the game is so much easier, and you enjoy yourself so much that you don’t realise the time pass, until Wonwoo declares that it’s close to sunrise, and he needs to get at least a couple hours of sleep before work. He leaves you to try some bonus levels that you unlocked together, but it’s not as fun alone, so you give up and go to bed as the sun rises, while silently looking forward to Wonwoo’s next visit.
Even though, most of the time, the apartment is pretty boring alone, you manage to keep yourself busy gaming, cooking, and cleaning every inch of the apartment repeatedly. Sometimes, it feels like time drags, yet it also feels like you merely blink, and it’s been over a month since Wonwoo locked you up here. You can’t tell exactly how long it’s been with your lack of sleeping schedule without the man around, but an educated guess puts it at, roughly, almost five weeks.
At first, every time you see Wonwoo, you ask if his wife has stopped being a psycho yet and if you can go home. You’re never surprised when he says no, to both questions, and tells you that you need to stay a while longer.
Then, the man’s visits change, and it’s not three days between visits; sometimes it is, but sometimes it’s less. Though soon enough, Wonwoo is at the apartment every single day. If not to stay the night in his bed and take advantage of not having to share a bed with his wife, then to simply spend a few hours with you to eat and game.
Though sometimes, he turns up and just lays on the couch to nap for no more than an hour before he leaves without a word. He always looks utterly exhausted on those days. You can’t help but wonder if this apartment is the most practical place for him to crash when he needs a nap during the day. Surely, the man has safe houses closer into the city centre; ones easier to get to and that don’t take as much of his time with travel. But you never bring it up; honestly, you’re just glad for the company, however wordless it is.
For a little while, you stop asking him when you can leave. It clearly annoyed him that you asked every time he visited, but it also frustrated you to never have an actual answer as to when you can go home. There’s only so long you can live in this apartment before you lose a grip on yourself and get reckless.
It’s probably been almost two weeks since you last asked, so you think it’s about time you bring it back up again, even if it’s 3pm and Wonwoo has clearly arrived with the intention of napping.
You’re in the process of making yourself lunch when he enters the apartment, so he’s drawn to the kitchen after removing his shoes and jacket, where he slouches at the island and gratefully starts to eat the sandwich you place in front of him. It was supposed to be yours, but you can make another, he looks like he needs it.
“When can I go home?” You ask bluntly, causing Wonwoo to stop chewing mid bite and look over at you, but you’re focused on your task and don’t notice, until you flick your gaze up at his silence. “Well?”
Wonwoo lets out a heavy breath through his nose and gets back to chewing. Once he’s swallowed, he answers in a way you hadn’t expected. Usually, he always says either ‘not yet’ or a flat ‘no’. Yet today, he finally gives you a more solid answer, “depends.”
It’s just one word, but it makes hope start to flutter in your chest.
“On?” you ask, with your full attention on him, suddenly not all that hungry when faced with the potential sweetness of freedom just around the corner.
“If you’re willing to learn how to use a gun and carry one on you at all times.”
Just like that, the fluttering in your chest ceases and the excitement that had started to warm your veins is sucked away as if it had never known a home in you in the first place. “You’re insane, aren’t you?” you accuse with a scoff and turn back to making your lunch.
“I can’t let you leave if you can’t defend yourself; I’ll end up following you all the fucking time to make sure you’re safe,” he reasons, waving a hand vaguely before taking a bite of his sandwich.
“It’s not really any of your business,” you point out while looking at him. “I appreciate that you protected me in the first place, but you’ve done the noble thing; you don’t have to do anything else.”
Wonwoo looks up at you as if you’re stupid. “I do if I want you to be safe.”
“As long as she’s alive, I won’t be safe, not really.”
“Are you suggesting I kill my wife?” he baulks in disbelief at the potential insinuation within your words.
You shake your head and pull a face as if he’s the stupid one this time. “No…” your expression morphs into something considering as your head tilts slightly, while pondering his words. “Though, it would be a two birds one stone situation.”
Wonwoo’s whole expression furrows. “Fucking hell, all this time locked up with only an asshole like me for company has warped your mind. You’ve gone fucking insane.”
“Always been there.” You shrug casually. “I don’t think a man who goes against his wife to protect another is an asshole, anyway.”
“I’m literally in a gang,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, and?” You give him an unwavering look. “I’ve met much worse people than you in my life, Wonwoo, and I will again. You’re sweet in comparison.”
“I’ve really fucked your head up, haven’t I?”
“Told you, I’ve always been like this”.
“Calling gang members sweet?”
“Once or twice.”
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow as if he isn’t even sure if he heard you correctly. “What?”
“Look, let’s not get off track,” you decide, while waving a hand dismissively. Wonwoo eyes the knife that you wave around vaguely but you don’t pay his borderline concerned expression any attention. “I want to go home. I have people waiting for me, and there’s only so long until they come looking, so, I’d like to go before that happens.”
“You live alone; I’ve seen your apartment, it’s barely big enough for you. And your neighbours definitely wouldn’t notice if you don’t return; they say you’re never home,” he points out.
“Stalker. Maybe your wife did have reason to worry, huh?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start that shit; you know we never had an affair because we had never even fucking met properly until she kidnapped you!”
“Defensive,” you tease.
“You’ve really fucking lost it,” he declares flatly.
“Then let me fucking leave, and you won’t have to deal with me anymore!” you exclaim frustratedly.
“I want to deal with you!” he returns immediately, before you both fall silent and stare at one another. You’re both surprised by the sheer honesty in his words, that they even fell from his lips in the first place.
You gather yourself and manage to speak first, deciding to make a joke to try and break the strange tension that’s appeared in the air between you. “Better not let your wife hear that; she’ll jump to conclusions. Unless you mean the permanent ‘sleep with the fishes’ kind of ‘deal with’, then she’ll probably suck your dick in joy.”
Just as Wonwoo opens his mouth to respond, eyes intense on you, his phone starts to ring in his inside blazer pocket. He sighs heavily before pulling it out and walking down the hall to talk privately in one of the empty rooms.
When he returns, you’re sitting at the table eating your lunch and have packed up the rest of his into a container, already knowing that he’s being called into work.
“We’ll finish that talk later,” he declares as he grabs the container from the island behind you.
You don’t even look over at him as you respond, “pointless circles don’t end, Wonwoo.”
You don’t see him leave, or hear his socked footsteps walk away, but a few moments later, you hear the front door open and close before the lock engages, and you’re left alone wondering just what the fuck your life has come to.
You just hope that he gives you control of your life back soon; before things get even more fucked up.
Never would you have thought Wonwoo to be the type of person to avoid difficult situations or topics; you thought he’s far too straightforward to ever do such a thing. But when he doesn’t turn up the day after your interrupted discussion in the kitchen, you start to wonder if you got him wrong.
Then he doesn’t turn up the next day either, and you really think that’s being a little bitch and avoiding returning so that he doesn’t have to pick up that conversation with you.
Yet, on the third day, you recall that he was the one who had said you’ll finish the talk another day and as he’s proven; Jeon Wonwoo is a man of his word. You believe him, and suddenly, you don’t think he’s avoiding you but has likely grown very busy with work or his psychotic wife.
However, when day four rolls around, you start to get worried that something has happened. Admittedly, you’ve grown fond of Wonwoo over the past weeks; his stupid smug smirk when he beats you at a game, his proud little shy smile when you praise his very gradually improving cooking skills, his soft snoring when he naps on the couch in the middle of the day.
Sometimes, you truly do wonder if this is what Stockholm syndrome is: growing to actually like the person who has locked you up and genuinely wanting to spend time with them. You think others would probably say it is and that you shouldn’t care for the man. But he makes it easy, as much as you don’t want to have this attraction for him. You think that if you had got to know him under different circumstances, you’d probably feel the same way, anyway.
Regardless of if the man is technically holding you hostage or not, he’s married, and you respect that commitment and vow too much to ever want to have feelings for a married man.
Still, you can’t help how you feel, and you worry when it’s past dinner time on the fourth day, yet Wonwoo still hasn’t shown his face.
Now that you’re worried about Wonwoo, you can’t face gaming because it makes you think of him. So, you spend most of the day scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom, until everything that can sparkle, does. You even clean the rooms neither of you use.
You’re in the middle of putting the freshly washed and dried pillow covers back on the couch pillows when the sudden sound of the front door lock disengaging pings through the quiet apartment.
Immediately, you look over, and your eyebrows lift as Wonwoo shuffles into the apartment, covered in blood. He doesn’t notice you at first as he locks the apartment back up one handed. His right hand is shoved into his trouser pocket suspiciously, like he’s trying to not move it, or perhaps not let you see it.
“What the fuck?” You speak, making Wonwoo’s head lift quickly.
Worry floods into his eyes, and he lifts his left hand placatingly towards you, after tossing his blood smeared car keys onto the side unit. “It-” he cuts off when you point firmly at his feet as soon as he takes a step forward, making him fall still in confusion.
“Stay there,” you order before turning and walking off, leaving Wonwoo staring after you puzzled.
You go to the laundry room to grab the stack of spare, dark grey towels, then go to the kitchen to get the roll of bin bags, before returning to the entrance hall. Thankfully, Wonwoo is still standing where you left him, though he’s removed his shoes now, and they’re haphazardly shoved aside.
“Strip,” you demand, while dropping the towels onto the floor so that you can pull a bag from the roll and shake it open.
“What?” he mumbles.
“You’re covered in blood, and I spent three hours scrubbing these fancy ass floors of yours today; you’re not getting blood on them,” you warn, giving him a stern look.
He scoffs but obediently starts to do as told and moves both of his hands to his belt to start working it open. His right hand is bloodied, but it doesn’t look that much worse than his left hand, so you assume he wasn’t hiding it from you. “May as well be your floors, you’ve lived here more than me,” he mumbles as he works with a tense expression on his face, which tightens every time he moves his right arm even minutely.
“Well then, I’m definitely not letting you fuck up my floors with your blood. Don’t be rude and bleed on my fancy ass floors.”
Once Wonwoo’s belt is open, along with the button and zipper of his trousers, he starts to try and push them down his legs, but the blood oozing from the stab wound on his left thigh is making the material stick to his thighs. Plus, now that he’s moving it more, you can see that there is definitely something wrong with his right arm, as he can barely move it. In fact, he’s only moving the lower part of his arm, but even that is limited.
Realising that you’ll be here all night, if not longer, if you leave Wonwoo to strip himself, you sigh and put the bin bag down to get to your knees in front of him, so that you can peel his trousers down his legs for him. Wonwoo says nothing, but he lets out a relieved little breath, clearly glad for your help, and steps out of his trouser legs in turn as you hold them open. Once they’re entirely off, you make sure the pockets are empty before tossing them, including the belt, into the bin bag.
Silently, you work to remove Wonwoo’s socks, then get up to get him out of his blazer and previously white, now half blood-red shirt; all of the clothing you throw into the bag to throw out and put everything from his pockets on the side unit.
As Wonwoo stands in front of you in his black boxers and previously white vest, you can see the strange shape of his right shoulder. It’s very clear to you what’s wrong with it.
“It’s dislocated, isn’t it?” you question; Wonwoo wordlessly hums and nods in confirmation. “Alright, I’ll cut your vest off,” you decide, knowing that getting Wonwoo to lift his arms up is very impractical. You move over to the side table to grab the knife, which you had removed from a hidden inside pocket in Wonwoo’s blazer, and remove the little leather sheath from the blade, before turning to approach him with the knife.
Wonwoo steps back slightly, holding his left hand up between you with slightly alarmed eyes. “Whoa, what the fuck? You can’t just approach a man with a knife like that.”
You can’t help but scoff at his obvious hesitance and concern about you holding a knife only half an arm’s length away from him. “Don’t be a wimp. You’ve clearly been stabbed already tonight; what’s another flesh wound?”
“You’re more psychotic than my wife,” he deadpans, left arm lowering to his side, deciding that you’re no threat now that the immediate worry has left. You’re right; he’s definitely already faced much bigger threats to his safety than you tonight.
“Careful, sweetheart,” you coo and tap the tip of the knife against the centre of his chest. You can’t help but notice the way he swallows thickly at your action and his eyes darken a little with interest. “Insult me again like that and my hand might slip.” You abruptly lower the knife to the hem of his vest and use it to ping the elastic of his boxers. His eyes darken further, and you smirk amusedly. “That’s an interesting reaction to having a knife aimed at your dick.”
“That’s not my dick,” he murmurs, voice a little lower than usual.
“Huh, right.” You look down as you drag the knife down to touch the tip to where his dick is obviously sitting snug in his boxers, before looking back up at him. “Better?”
He takes a moment before responding, eyeing you intently; you can practically see the thoughts whirling behind his eyes, “you’re not the woman I thought you are, are you?”
You shrug. “Depends who you thought I am.”
“A sweet, innocent cook, who makes the best food I’ve ever tasted.”
“Well, some of that is true,” you giggle before lifting the knife to cut down the centre of his vest. Now that it’s served its purpose, you toss the knife onto the side table and remove the stained and ruined material from his body to put in the bin bag. “Alright, let’s get a look at you,” you say, before walking around him in a slow circle to carefully inspect his injuries, and silently appreciate his well looked after body while you’re at it. “Let’s put your shoulder back in place, get you cleaned up, and then I’ll patch you up,” you announce once you’re back in front of him.
Wonwoo raises a questioning eyebrow. “You know how to do all that?”
“Yep,” you answer simply without a single slither of hesitation. It’s enough that Wonwoo doesn’t question you at all and just nods in agreement.
Honestly, it’s not the first shoulder you’ve put back into place, or joint in general, so even though it’s not the most pleasant sensation in any way, you easily make short work of the task.
While Wonwoo catches his breath back and gathers himself, you lay a towel on the ground in front of him, to minimise the amount of blood that ruins your hours of hard work cleaning the floor.
Once he’s ready, Wonwoo doesn’t have to be prompted to step onto the towels. He does so quietly and then looks at you in wait.
“What?” you ask.
“How the fuck am I supposed to move from here if you don’t move the towels? Unless you want blood on your floors?” he reasons, raising a blood smeared eyebrow at you.
“Oh, honey, there’s only one reason I get on my knees in front of a man, and that’s not gonna happen,” you point out with a scoff. “Shuffle.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Either stand there until you’re entirely dry and won’t get my floors dirty, or you can shuffle.” You shrug carelessly and pick up the rest of the towels to take to the stairs, so that you can lay the material out over the steps protectively.
When you turn around on the stairs, once all of the towels are laid in place, you spot Wonwoo awkwardly shuffling along the floor in a way to keep the towel under his feet. You can’t help but crack up laughing at the sight of this tough, blood covered and injured, high-ranking gang member dragging his feet across the floor; silently obeying your demands to keep the floor clean. And you hadn’t even had to threaten to make him clean any mess he creates with his own toothbrush in the morning; though that definitely would’ve been the next step if he had been a stubborn ass.
Wonwoo hears your laughter and glares over at you shortly before looking back down to focus on his efforts to get to the staircase. It only makes you laugh even harder, hard enough that you have to sit down so you don’t fall down the stairs.
A handful of moments later, when he passes you on the stairs, he flicks your head. You just giggle then get up to follow behind him up the rest of the steps. There’s already a towel waiting on the floor at the top, so Wonwoo, once again, shuffles across the shiny floor on a dark towel to get to his destination.
Even once in his bathroom, Wonwoo remains on the towel and follows you to the shower, which you turn on, on his behalf.
Once you’ve made sure he has everything he needs close to hand and a clean pair of boxers waiting for him on the counter, you turn to look at him with a teasing grin. “Can I trust you to shower on your own, or are you going to pass out from blood loss?”
“I haven’t lost that much blood,” he huffs, rolling his eyes.
You giggle and nod, backing up to the door. “Alright, I’ll wait outside, though.” Wonwoo just nods in understanding, so you step out of the bathroom and pull the door up most of the way just in case he needs you.
Leaving the door open seems to have been a very smart move, because not long later, you hear Wonwoo call your name awkwardly. You can only just hear him over the water, so you know that if the door was shut, there would not have been a chance you’d be able to hear him.
“Yeah?” You ask, sticking your head into the room to find him standing out of the stream of water, with his still bloody back mostly to the door, and his hands holding a small towel in front of his crotch, even if you can’t see anything from this angle regardless of the cover.
“I can’t reach my back well enough with my arm like this,” he admits, making short eye contact with you as he indirectly asks for your help.
Without a word, you enter the room and grab the soapy washcloth he offers, so that you can diligently scrub all of the blood from his back, then notice he’s missed patches on his left upper arm, so you clean there too.
“Alright, inspection time,” you declare before looking over the back of him from head to toe and back again, to thoroughly check for injuries that need to be dealt with and any blood he missed. “Turn,” you demand once satisfied with his backside, and also taking a moment to appreciate his backside.
Obligingly, Wonwoo turns to face you and watches you as your gaze travels over his body from this angle, stepping closer to get a better look at certain injuries or run the cloth over his skin diligently.
When you’re done with all of the exposed skin, your attention moves to the towel he’s clutching over his crotch before you grin amusedly and meet his dark gaze. “What if you’re injured there, Wonwoo?” you tease with a dramatic gasp.
“Don’t,” he warns. “I’m not giving any truth to my wife’s delusions about us, so don’t…don’t say and do stuff like that when I’m in no position to handle it.”
“I’m curious what exactly that means,” you admit.
“Then be curious, I’m not elaborating.”
You stare at him curiously for a moment before nodding. “Finish up and get those on.” You point to the clean boxers on the counter as you head to the door. “I’ll be back with the medical kit.”
It only takes you a few minutes to go to the kitchen and get the very extensive medical kit from the secret compartment hidden in the kitchen island, plus a bottle of water and an apple.
Deciding to be kind to Wonwoo’s currently somewhat limited movements, you clean up the dirty towels from the stairs, putting them all in the bin bag, plus Wonwoo’s shoes, before tying it off and leaving it near the front door for Wonwoo to take out tomorrow.
Figuring that Wonwoo must be in a decent state by now, you wander upstairs with the necessary items and enter the bathroom, to find him leaning against the counter with his boxers on and a small towel in his left hand as he rubs his hair.
He pauses when he notices the bag slung on your left shoulder. “The fuck did you get that?”
“Did you forget where you left it?” You tease, putting the items on the counter beside him.
“I know where I hid that. How the fuck did you find it?”
“I know every inch of this apartment, Wonwoo; I’ve cleaned it enough the past month.” You scoff then take the towel to toss aside so that you can hand him the apple. “Eat that.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t give a fuck; eat that and drink the water,” you demand, already rummaging in the bag to take out everything you need to play doctor.
Wonwoo stares at you for a few seconds, then looks between the items you’re setting up and your at ease yet confident expression, a few times before giving in with a soft sigh and taking a bite of the apple.
The first wound to deal with is the stab wound on his left thigh; there’s still a little blood trickling from it, but it doesn’t run past his knee, so you know he’s clotting well, and there isn’t any worry really. Still, it’s the biggest of his injuries, so you handle it first.
As soon as you get on your knees in front of him, Wonwoo makes a comment, “thought you only get on your knees for one reason?” he teases with a little smirk, which quickly leaves when you slap his leg right beside the wound, making him hiss. “Fuck you.”
You only smile too sweetly at him before getting to work sewing up the wound as quickly yet efficiently as you can. There’s anaesthetic in the medical kit, but Wonwoo insists he can handle getting stitches without it. Still, being repeatedly stabbed with a needle and having the thread pulled through skin is not a nice or pain free sensation for anyone, so you want to get it over with as quickly as possible.
After cleaning up the blood and covering his thigh, you get up to work on disinfecting and covering all of his other wounds. Most of them are small, and many don’t even require plasters, but there’s a cut across his chest; slicing thinly over his left pec with a starting point over his heart, where the wound is slightly deeper. You’re pretty sure that whoever inflicted this wound had tried to stab him in the heart and kill him, but either Wonwoo or someone else stopped them before they could succeed.
You don’t linger on it, but it does hurt your heart to see, far more than the wound on his thigh, despite that one requiring stitches, and this one only some gauze to prevent infection. At least the thigh wound wasn’t an attempt on Wonwoo’s life.
Once all of the open wounds are dealt with, all you have to do is wrap his right shoulder to support the joint as it recovers from being dislocated, and then you’re all done.
“You’re really fucking good at this; are you trained or something?” Wonwoo comments as you wash your hands and he’s eyeing your handiwork impressed.
“Or something,” is your dismissive response.
He scoffs and looks over at you. “Now who’s evading questions.”
“Don’t owe you shit,” you point out and move to dry your hands.
“I saved your life.”
“Because your delusional wife put it in danger in the first place. That’s not on me.”
“Not on me either.”
It’s you who scoffs this time as you think about the tension that keeps appearing between the two of you lately and how he didn’t even try to hide how holding his knife to him earlier had turned him on. It all seems so natural for him; being this way with you. “You can’t expect me to believe she’s accusing you of cheating for no reason.”
He frowns at you offendedly, and you’re not surprised; you’ve kind of had this conversation before. “Yeah, she’s fucking crazy and projecting her own failings on me. I have never been unfaithful to her or anyone. Never will be either.”
For a few tense moments, the pair of you just stare at each other and the whole time, Wonwoo’s expression doesn’t change; the burning sincerity in his eyes doesn’t waver. You think maybe you might trust this man too much, because it makes all of your doubts about his relationship morals leave. “Huh, okay,” you respond simply with a nod and move to zip up the medical bag.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” his voice is a little quieter now, a hint of hurt at your doubt of him showing.
“No, I do, which is why I’m surprised,” you assure and turn to lean against the counter and look at him, so that he can see the honesty in your own eyes. It’s only fair, after all. “Gang member with morals; kinda not the norm.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t see the point in it. If I wanted to fuck other people, I wouldn’t be committed to someone.”
“Even if it’s someone you don’t want to be with in the first place? Obviously, there’s no love lost in you for her, no love in the first place,” you comment.
“That’s not your place,” he reminds firmly.
“Just following the conversation. Your pathetic excuse of a marriage isn’t of any concern of mine.” You shrug and push off of the counter to head towards the door.
“Don’t insult the man in charge of your freedom,” he warns lowly, making you turn to look at him with a scoffed laugh.
“Why? What else are you going to do, Wonwoo? Send me back to her and let her have her fun?”
Wonwoo’s expression softens slightly, and he shakes his head a little. “No. Never that,” he responds without a hint of hesitation or doubt in his tone. It sounds something like a promise.
“Then are you going to keep me and have your own fun?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly.
“I told you not to say things like that,” he rushes, gaze turning intense as he eyes you where you stand in the open doorway. His eyes flicker downwards; a quick drag of attention over your entire form, and his tongue darts out to lick his split lip mindlessly.
You can’t help but laugh. “Look whose mind is in the gutter,” you taunt. “I meant fuck me up yourself, not fuck me.” You back out into the hallway slowly, while giving him a significant look. “Think you need to remind yourself of your loyalty moral, Wonwoo. A lot of people consider looking or thinking bad enough to be cheating. If you don’t want your darling wife to be right, you should get a handle on that.” Your gaze flickers over the bathroom quickly before landing back on him. “Oh, and clean the bathroom before you go to bed; I won’t cook for you tomorrow if I see a single drop or smear of blood in here tomorrow.”
With that, you leave Wonwoo watching you leave him all alone with his mind whirling and a growing ache in his chest that he doesn’t think is entirely from the wound you so tenderly cared for.
The very next day when you wander downstairs, it’s gone midday, and to your surprise, Wonwoo is in the kitchen, serving up take out onto two plates.
“Oh, you’re up, good,” he comments when he hears the rustle of your clothes as you get closer. He glances over at you, gaze flickering over you quickly before focusing back on his task. “I was about to come and wake you.”
“You picked up lunch on your way over?” you mutter confusedly, Wonwoo never brings food when he visits, except groceries after picking up a list from you the day before.
“No, I went and got lunch when I realised you’re not going to come down, and I’m too fucking hungry to wait any more.”
“That sounds like you didn’t go to work today.”
“Called off for a few days to recover,” he informs and takes the plates over to the table. “Sit,” he says while pointing to your seat, before moving to get you both cutlery and drinks.
Not one to refuse free food, you sit down, and thank him when he hands you your cutlery before digging in; he quickly joins in.
“So,” Wonwoo starts after a little while of the usual comfortable quiet that falls between you if neither of you are talking. It’s strange how easy the silences between you have always been; even before you became whatever kind of vague friends you currently are.
“Mm?” you respond with your mouth closed as you chew, looking up at him curiously.
“I was thinking that as I’m going to be off work for a few days, you can give me more cooking lessons.”
You straighten up to look at him in questioning surprise. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, why are you surprised? You know I want to learn.”
“Yeah, but that sounds like you intend on spending your days off here instead of at home.”
“She’s there,” he responds as if it’s the obvious answer, while pulling a displeased face.
You snort an amused laugh at his expression. “Good point. Alright, sure, I’ll teach you, but you gotta call me Chef.”
“What?”
“Chef.”
“You’re fucking ridiculous.”
“Oh, looks like you’re going to forever burn eggs, Wonwoo,” you sing.
“Alright, fine, I’ll fucking call you Chef, but only while we’re cooking, understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He gives you a flat look that makes you giggle. You turn back to your food and ignore the flash of interest in his gaze.
Over the following days, Wonwoo is always up before you and quickly realises that you need to be woken up if he wants something other than takeout or a sandwich for lunch.
A routine of sorts quickly gets established; Wonwoo wakes you before lunch, so that you can cook together, then he cleans up, at his own insistence, while you get the medical kit ready in the lounge to check and redress his wounds once he joins you. The afternoon consists of a mix of chores and gaming. In the evening, it’s time for another cooking session for dinner before he once again cleans up. Then, the two of you sit in the lounge to game or watch the videos on the video player, which he brought back on his first day off; another one of his childhood items he’s had safely stored away.
It all falls into place so seamlessly that it’s like the two of you have always existed like this, even if the seemingly endless personal questions that Wonwoo likes to randomly bring up prove otherwise.
Sometimes, you answer honestly, but others you don’t, and it’s endlessly entertaining watching Wonwoo try to decipher if you’re being honest or just fucking with him.
It starts with the very first question on the very first day he’s off work, when you’re expertly handling his wounds and the medical supplies. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
“What’s it to ya?” you tease.
“Just curious about you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve known you over a month, and I don’t know shit about you, despite you living in my apartment, and that shit’s going to keep up for the foreseeable future. So, it’d be nice to know some shit,” he huffs.
You hum consideringly as you ponder his words, before answering while continuing to clean and redress his thigh wound. “When I was fifteen, I was out with my sister, and we got caught in the middle of some gang shit. She got hurt bad, really bad, and I couldn’t do anything to help her. I couldn’t save her; I didn’t know how. She bled out in my arms, and I decided then that I wasn’t going to be so useless again. I learned how to handle most wounds with both real medical supplies, and whatever is to hand in case of an emergency.”
“Oh…”
“If I was home, I would’ve put on my latex nurse’s outfit too,” you add as you look up at him and spot the softness around his eyes; the sympathy and understanding pain.
It abruptly leaves at your words, and he lets out a frustrated, disbelieving sound. “You fucking asshole; I actually believed you,” he grunts disapprovingly, and you just snigger, returning back to your task.
Despite knowing that you’re actively messing with him, Wonwoo still insists on asking you personal questions to try and get a clearer image of you and your story. It’s a great source of entertainment for you, personally, so you don’t mind. Plus, he’s always so helpful; offering his assistance and cleaning dishes before you can even think about it, that you think he deserves the chance to poke around a little.
On the fourth day of Wonwoo being off work, you wake when Wonwoo knocks on your bedroom door then lets himself in. You eye him blearily as you shuffle up to sit against the headboard, while he walks further into the room.
“Are you ever going home?” you mumble, while rubbing at your eyes. When you lower your hands, he’s placing a tray, which you somehow didn’t even notice him holding, on the duvet at your side and sitting on the other side. You notice the plate piled with steaming food, two mugs and two sets of cutlery on top “Oh, breakfast in bed?” you tease with a grin as he hands you a set of cutlery and holds the other, while he picks up his usual mug to sip at his steaming coffee.
He rolls his eyes before answering as you start to eat, “don’t say something weird; I just know you won’t come down to eat it. So, unless I want my hard work going to waste, I need to bring it to you. I’ve had enough of you digging your fucking fingers into my wounds when I try to pick you up to move you when you’re being a stubborn asshole.”
You ignore his comments about your stubborn streak and your habit of playing dirty and using his healing injuries against him. “How lucky am I?” you coo, entirely ignoring his warning to not say something weird. Teasing him is just too much fun. “Well, I imagine your wife is luckier. You seem like the type of man to go all out on your lucky lady’s birthday; fancy breakfast in bed, whatever gifts she wants, romantic dinner at her favourite restaurant and a day being spoiled.” Wonwoo doesn’t answer, just keeps his gaze on the tray between you as he works on eating his share of the breakfast that he so carefully cooked for you both. “Well shit, you’ve never done that for her?” you baulk surprised. He truly does seem like the doting, romantic type.
Even this; bringing breakfast to you so that you’ll eat the food he obviously tried very hard to cook, as he hadn’t burned any of it this time, even if it’s pretty bland and under seasoned, just proves that he’s a very doting man when he wants to be. Plus, he waited for you to take a bite first before making any attempt himself. It makes you realise that he always makes sure you go first with everything and quietly goes along with whatever you want; the game you want to play, the food you want to cook, the video you want to watch, he never complains.
It seems crazy to you that Wonwoo has never gone all out for his wife; the woman he promised forever to.
He scoffs. “Why should I? I tried to do nice things at first, but she was always expecting more and bitched.”
“Has she ever done anything for you?”
“Other than be a pain in my ass? No.”
You pull a disgusted yet puzzled face. “Why the fuck did you marry her?”
“Took one for the team,” he answers honestly for the first time, paired with a casual shrug. Before now, every time you’ve asked about his relationship, Wonwoo has always told you it’s not your business or avoided answering by changing the topic or simply stayed silent.
“What does that even mean?” you wonder, giving him a curious look as he lifts his gaze to look at you.
“Means that she’s the oldest kid, but as she’s a woman, she can’t take over the gang when her dad dies; so, it would go to her brother, who is even more fucking useless and entitled than she is.” The repulsed twist of Wonwoo’s expression gives away his clear disdain for his brother-in-law. “He’d fucking destroy the gang and everything we’ve put so much blood into creating. But the boss will give his son-in-law the position if he’s proven himself, and well, I’ve been in the gang since I was fourteen, so I’ve definitely proven myself after 20 fucking years.”
“Well…shit,” you mumble, eyes wide as you absorb his unexpected words; unexpected for more than one reason.
“Mm,” he hums in agreement as he chews on another mouthful.
“I did not realise you’re so old!” you gawp, making him look at you with a miniature version of your shocked expression.
He quickly finishes chewing and swallows the food in his mouth so that he can talk. “Seriously? That’s what you took from that, my fucking age?”
“What?” You shrug defensively. “I thought you’re my age, not eight years older.”
Wonwoo stares at you dumbly for a few long seconds before he mumbles, “you’re 26?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” He licks his lips a little awkwardly. “I didn’t realise.”
“Are you saying I look old?!” you sputter in offense.
He quickly shakes his head and holds up his hands placatingly. “No. Just, I guess I’m more used to women like my wife. All her friends are immature as fuck, all spoiled little princesses. She’s older than me, you know? By three years, yet you’re more mature than her. So, I thought based on that, you’re closer to my age at least,” he reasons. It’s a very understandable thought process and assumption, so your posture relaxes again.
“Huh, okay, I’ll accept that, but don’t disrespect princesses like that,” you warn.
“Should I call them spoiled little daddy’s girls then?” he jokes.
“No.” You pout. “Don’t lump me with them.”
“You’re a daddy’s girl?” he baulks in genuine shock.
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t even know you have family, honestly,” Wonwoo admits, making you look at him as if he’s the dumbest person you’ve ever met.
“Did you think I grew out of the fucking ground?” you deadpan.
“Obviously not; I know how human biology works, brat.” He rolls his eyes. “Just…there’s no sign of family in your apartment; not a single photo or anything that could be deemed a family heirloom.”
You shrug and pick up your mug. “I don’t need those things to remember; I have plenty of reminders on me at all times to remind me of family.”
“Like what? That necklace you wear?” He points to the chain of the necklace you never take off, where it’s just about poking out from the collar of your pyjama t-shirt.
“No, this is just a cheap thing I got to replace another cheap one and so on and so forth because I just hate not wearing a necklace.”
“I don’t see you in any other jewellery.”
“Don’t own any.”
“Really?” he asks surprised, slightly raising his eyebrows curiously. “Not a single thing?”
“No. I used to have earrings, but I lost the back of one, so I stopped wearing them and just never got around to replacing them.”
“Then what do you mean you have reminders on you all the time, if not jewellery?” he sounds genuinely confused and very curious as his attention remains solely on you.
You motion to the plate as you lean back towards it yourself, dismissing the topic with a simple, slightly firm, “breakfast is getting cold.”
Wonwoo gets the hint and doesn’t try to push you anymore, just leans in and gets back to eating.
The very next morning after Wonwoo brings you breakfast in bed, he doesn’t wake you with another tray, nor does he wake you to make lunch with him. You get up feeling very off kilter at waking naturally without him being the first thing you see once the sleep leaves your eyes.
It only gets worse when you go downstairs, and he’s nowhere to be found.
Bewilderedly, you waddle to the fridge to get the juice and notice a new note on the whiteboard from Wonwoo. It’s a short note, like always, and says that he’s gone back to work and won’t be back tonight, so don’t worry about cooking dinner for him.
All day, you move around the apartment feeling oddly lost.
Wonwoo was only home for four days, yet it already feels so strange not having him following you around to ask questions as you complete chores together or peering over your shoulder to learn how to cook or playfully shoving you when you’re playing against each other in a game instead of as a team. You don’t really know what to do without him.
When it comes to dinner, you don’t think before cooking and only realise that you’ve naturally made enough for Wonwoo too when you’re putting a plate in his usual seat and remember that he won’t be here to eat it.
It feels pathetic to sit staring at an empty seat with a full plate on the placemat in front of it opposite you, as you eat your dinner, but there’s something in you that refuses to let you take his plate away, even knowing his note says he won’t be home tonight.
Only when you can’t handle being in the lounge as it feels so empty without him, do you remove his covered plate from the dining table to box up the leftovers to put in the fridge and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
It’s only 9pm when you crawl into bed freshly showered and turn on your TV to watch something, hoping to distract yourself from the hollow feeling in your chest.
Although you were in bed early last night, you didn’t manage to fall asleep until your usual time, so you’re up after midday again.
Today when you wander downstairs, you don’t expect to see Wonwoo, as his note said he’ll be back this evening, but clearly, he had already returned and left again. When you enter the kitchen, you spot a little gift bag on the island.
Curiously, you approach and inspect the bag, trying to find a logo on the packaging, but there isn’t one, though you do find your name on the tag in Wonwoo’s surprisingly pretty handwriting. He doesn’t usually write so neatly; it seems as if he focused on writing your name in a visibly appealing way, instead of the usual scrawls he puts on the whiteboard.
Now that you know that it’s for you, you open the bag, and after moving aside the neatly packed dark blue tissue paper, you spot a black jewellery box. You hesitate before reaching out to pick out the box and open it.
Immediately, your breath catches, and your heart skips a beat.
Within the jewellery box, seated neatly on a cushioned display covered in dark silk, is a truly stunning necklace and earring set. They sparkle in the light; silver chain and clear jewels polished to perfection as they stare up at you tauntingly. You know they’re diamonds; you just know with everything in you that Wonwoo had purposely gone out and bought you an expensive, extremely high-quality necklace and earrings set to replace your own. And it hurts.
There is no way that this is nothing; that Wonwoo would go out of his way to pick such a beautifully crafted set for any other friend. You’re pretty positive that he wouldn’t even pick such a nice set for his wife. It feels like he’s putting you higher than her, ranking you as more important, more meaningful to him than the woman he is lawfully devoted to, and that hurts.
It's all too much. You close the box and place it back in the bag, cover it with the tissue paper and leave it there.
As you reheat the leftovers from last night for your lunch, your gaze keeps returning to the gift. Even with your back to the island as you sit at the table to eat, your mind keeps reminding you that it’s there; keeps shouting at you to pay attention to it.
Unable to handle it, as soon as you’ve cleaned up after lunch, you go up to your room to spend the rest of the say sitting on your bed watching TV and pretending that Wonwoo hasn’t royally fucked with your head and implied far too much without saying a word.
When Wonwoo returns, you’re still sitting on your bed watching TV, or at least pretending to. You’ve been restless for the past half an hour, knowing that he’ll be home at any moment and there will have to be a conversation to be had; about the necklace, about him, about you.
Only a handful of minutes after hearing Wonwoo enter the apartment, he wanders into your room through the open door, holding the gift bag in one hand with a genuine frown on his features. He looks both confused and a little upset. “Haven’t you been in the kitchen today?”
“Of course I have, you think I like starving myself? I enjoy food too much,” you answer without looking away from the TV, even if your full attention has been on him since before he entered the room, before he even entered the apartment.
“Okay, then why aren’t you wearing this?” He lifts the bag slightly.
You hesitate before letting out a defeated sigh and looking at him. “Why did you buy that for me, Wonwoo?”
“Because you never replaced your earrings and wear a cheap necklace that will break easily and make you buy another. This one will last a long time and has a lifetime guarantee, so you can get it replaced if it does break, but it shouldn’t.” It all sounds so logical, so reasonable, but you know it isn’t. Wonwoo is far too smart of a man to be that dense.
“Take it back,” you order.
“You don’t like it? Tell me what you like and I’ll-”
“You’re a married man, Wonwoo; you can’t buy another woman jewellery.”
“It’s just jewellery,” he mutters, a hint of defensiveness to his tone.
“No, it’s not, and you know it.”
He stares at the bag for a few moments then nods slowly in agreement; admittance to knowing exactly what you’re saying, what he said by buying the jewellery in the first place. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” You relax a little, relieved that he’s agreed to return the gift.
“I didn’t mean to overstep or make things uncomfortable between us; I just wanted to do something nice for you,” he says, talking softer than you’ve heard him before. It makes it hurt even more; the honesty in his voice, the truth to the depths of his care for you. It needs to stop before it burrows deeper in either of you.
“Well, you shouldn’t. I’m just your hostage. We’re not friends, Wonwoo,” you say, in reminder, even if it hurts you as much to say it as it clearly hurts him to hear it. You can see it in his eyes. But you have to say it; to remind the both of you of the boundaries and moral obligations in place. The reasons why you can’t be anything more than how this all started.
“Right, yeah, just my hostage,” he scoffs and looks at you, eyes harsh and jaw tense. “Maybe I should treat you that way, huh? It’d make things easier.”
“I think this is way past the point that you could treat me that badly, Wonwoo,” you point out. “You bought me diamonds; that clearly isn’t the type of thing a man capable of doing bad things to me would do.”
“Would if I’m trying to get my way with you. Buy you pretty things to sweeten you up and make you crawl willingly into my bed,” he reasons and lets his gaze drag over you as if he’s making his point that it’s a very real possibility. Even if you both know that Wonwoo is not that kind of man, despite his status and how easy it would be to get his way with whatever woman he wants if he was cruel in that way.
“You could buy me all the pretty things in the world, and I wouldn’t do that,” you inform firmly.
“Don’t act like you haven’t checked me out; you’ve even said I’m attractive,” he reminds, letting his intense eyes lock with yours.
“And married; I’m not a homewrecker, Wonwoo,” you scoff. “If she wasn’t an issue, I think we both know things would be very different right now.”
“Would you be wearing the necklace?”
You hesitate before answering, not wanting to lie but knowing what you’re clearly admitting to otherwise and knowing that it’s not something you ever thought you’d say to a married man. Still, you do. You can’t help but be honest with Wonwoo about this; about the two of you. “Yeah, and not much else.”
Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖
Genre: Pure fluff! (Everyone gets a bit emotional)
Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, childbirth. The setting is in a hospital. Reader has just given birth.
Summary: Wonwoo holds his newborn baby boy for the first time.
A/N : This is also based off a request after I posted the S.Coups ver. Hope you enjoy it :) My requests are open, please feel free to ask away 🫶🏾
Masterlist
The room is dim, quiet, and cradled in that golden hour calm where everything slows down. You’re asleep, finally, curled on your side, face slack with exhaustion, one hand still loosely clutching the edge of the hospital blanket. And in the chair pulled close to your bed, Wonwoo holds your newborn son for the very first time.
He can’t stop staring. At the tiny rise and fall of the baby’s chest. The faint little creases in his eyelids. The way his lips pout slightly, like he’s already deep in baby dreams.
Wonwoo’s heart feels like it might just split in two. From joy, from awe, from overwhelming love. His fingers gently trace along the baby’s tiny arm, and he breathes out, voice barely audible as he begins to hum.
It’s quiet at first - hesitant, like he’s not sure he remembers the melody right. But then it melts into something soft and sure. A lullaby. One his mom used to hum to him when he was little.
It sounds different now. Sweeter. Full of weight.
The baby doesn’t wake, but his tiny fingers curl instinctively around the edge of Wonwoo’s shirt.
Wonwoo swallows thickly and chuckles under his breath, voice low as he shifts him closer. He glances toward you. You’re still sleeping. Peaceful. Safe. And then he looks back down at his son.
“Do you know how loved you are?” he asks softly, as if the baby could understand. “Even before you were born, you were everything.” He pauses, brushing his thumb over the baby’s cheek.
"Your mother," he says, voice catching a little, “is the bravest person I know. She gave everything to bring you into the world. Every heartbeat, every breath, every ounce of strength she had-all for you.” He’s quiet for a moment, rocking ever so slightly.
“She’s not just your mom,” he says. “She’s my whole world too.”
Then, almost like he feels your eyes flutter open behind him, he turns- and there you are. Awake. Sleepy-eyed and drowsy, but watching him. Watching them. Wonwoo stills, heart lurching, and when your gaze meets his, he can’t help it, the tears rise instantly.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice hoarse and soft.
He shifts so you can see the baby more clearly in his arms, but his eyes are locked on you.
“Hi Baby,” he whispers back, voice thick. “You okay?”
You nod slowly, and then your gaze drops to the baby. “He’s perfect.”
“He is,” Wonwoo says, then looks back at you. His jaw works like he’s trying to keep himself together- but the moment cracks open.
“You did that,” he breathes, emotion pouring from every word. “You brought him here. You survived for him. For us.” You blink rapidly, your lips parting.
But he keeps going, voice soft and raw. “I watched you fight through everything and still somehow smile at me when you were barely holding on. You gave him life. And you gave me a family.” He leans forward, hand reaching out to take yours, grounding himself in you.
“I’m so in love with you,” he whispers. “More than I ever thought possible. And I’m so thankful for you. For this. For everything.”
You bite your lip, tears spilling freely now. Wonwoo squeezes your hand gently.
“I promise,” he says, looking between you and the baby with so much love it aches, “I’m going to take care of both of you. Every day. For the rest of my life.”
And as the baby stirs lightly in his arms, Wonwoo bends his head, humming the lullaby again, this time with you watching, your heart bursting.
You lean your head onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed again. And between his humming, the warmth of your hand in his, and the weight of your baby boy asleep against his chest — Wonwoo knows he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life.
Hey! Let me introduce myself, I'm Rina! I’m absolutely obsessed with SEVENTEEN. DK is my ult bias (I love him so much), but honestly, I adore all the members equally. They're everything to me. I'm also the biggest Seoksoo shipper ever they're literally my Roman Empire, I think about them constantly. I love writing short one-shots and coming up with story plots it’s honestly one of my favorite things to do (and definitely one of my biggest obsessions TT).
slide in my inbox anytime!! i promise i’ll match your energy unhinged seventeen brainrot is always welcome here 🫶
