Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)
Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...
Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)
Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.
How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?
Perhaps it wasn’t all intentional. Bias was unavoidable to a degree. Woven into human nature as certain at times as our hair color or eye color. We built our opinions from scraps of known information, shaped by learned behavior and the neat little patterns our brains insisted on seeing. It was biology to use that information in order to protect oneself from harm. And it certainly didn’t help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herself…
“I need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few months—”
“I think I’m prepared to handle the job’s tasks,” she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.
“Oh, it’s nothing to do with your skills,” Sue assured, though her pause lingered a fraction too long. Ever the diplomat, she weighed each word with care, as if balancing her professionalism against the instincts of an older sister.
“Johnny is…” Sue’s eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. “A handful.” The warning hung in the air, far heavier than the casual delivery suggested. A handful could mean many things. Immature. Demanding. Reckless. Charming in that dangerous sort of way. And yet, no amount of quiet bracing could have prepared her for the moment he actually walked in.
The door swung open like it had been waiting for his entrance, and if his sister’s comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone who’d never been told no. A confidence in his step that made it feel like he knew the entire world stopped and stared at him alone. “Hey, Sue—” his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her.
Sue gestured between them. “Johnny, this is—”
“The temporary assistant,” he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.
“I hope it was all relevant to the job,” she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness she’d use in a boardroom. Her tone wasn’t cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.
Johnny tilted his head, studying her. “Guess we’ll find out.”
She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. “If there’s anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, I’ll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be talking plenty,” he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didn’t.
“As much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.” Her nod was crisp, professional.
“Please, call me Johnny.”
“I prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,” she said evenly. “It helps maintain clarity.”
“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work for me,” he said, grin leaning more boyish at that moment.
Sue stayed quiet, her expression unreadable. As if deliberately letting the moment stand. It was both proof of the warning she’d given moments ago and a silent test to see how her new assistant would handle the man in question. Luckily, the charms of the Human Torch seemingly missed. Without missing a beat she replied, “Then we’ll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.”
Johnny’s eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. “Well,” he said, leaning back just enough to suggest he’d conceded without actually conceding, “guess I’ll just have to earn the downgrade to ‘Johnny.’”
“Highly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jones’s maternity leave,” she replied, tone even. “However, I can’t dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.”
“A challenge.” His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. “I like that.”
“Okay, Johnny,” Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. “That’s enough harassing the poor girl.”
“I reject that. I’m not harassing.” He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug.
“Go.” Sue’s tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.
“Leaving.” He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. “Pleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. I’ll see you around.” And with that, he’d left as casually as he’d arrived, like the interruption had been nothing more than a warm-up act.
Thus began a steady procession of small, unavoidable run-ins with the man. The first came during her opening week on the job. Sue suggested a short trip back across town to the Baxter Building. Something small to act as a private celebration before Tabitha’s send-off to bed rest ahead of her little one’s arrival. Just the three of them, some bakery pastries, and coffee spread across the couch in the quiet living area.
The peace lasted all of ten minutes.
“Alright,” came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. “I return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.” A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. “Oh, speaking of sugar…”
Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddler’s little sneakers bounced against Johnny’s side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure they’d just had. Judging by the spark in Johnny’s eyes, he himself was in a similar state.
“Johnny,” Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.
“What?” He grinned, all innocence that didn’t fool anyone. “I gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.”
“How’s my favorite non robotic assistant?” he’s eyes darted to Sue’s regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. “No offense Tabby,” He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Storm,” Sue’s newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time they’d met.
Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. “Y’know, most people would’ve cracked by now. You’re starting to make me nervous.” When she didn’t respond to his comment he continued. “Guess I’ll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.”
At the sound of his name, Franklin beamed at her and held out a tiny hand. She reached forward and shook it gently, the faintest smile touching her lips. “See that? He likes you already,” Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. “And the kid’s got great instincts.” Sue made a quiet, knowing sound from her corner of the couch, and Tabitha sipped her coffee to hide a grin.
The assistant straightened, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Instincts aside, I’m sure Franklin’s affections are much easier to earn than mine.”
Johnny’s brows were lifted in a mock challenge. “We’ll see about that.”
Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. “Johnny…”
“What? I’m just talking,” Johnny said innocently, bouncing Franklin on his hip with practiced ease. The toddler let out another gleeful squeal, arms flailing in delight. Johnny's eyes, however, lingered on the young woman next to him on the sofa. That ever-present smirk playing at his lips never wavering. “We’ve got months, Sweetheart,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. “I’m a patient guy.”
His gaze flicked toward the coffee table. Years of living with Sue had trained him not to ask before grabbing what he assumed was fair game. Especially with a toddler in the mix. In the Baxter Building, "what's mine is yours" was practically law between the Storm siblings. So, without a second thought, he reached out and snagged the to-go cup resting beside a stack of picture books and spare pacifiers. He popped the lid, took a confident sip... and immediately regretted it.
Instead of the lightly sweetened, milky, vanilla thing Sue usually drank, he was hit with a full blast of unadulterated espresso: jet black, no sugar, extra strong. He paused mid-sip, visibly tensing like someone who’d just been punched in the taste buds.
Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. “Johnny—”
He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. “Who drinks this willingly?” he rasped, eyes watering. “This isn’t coffee, it’s punishment in a cup.”
Setting the drink down with exaggerated caution, he glanced back at the woman, her amusement clearly growing behind her smirk. Something ignited in his stomach watching as her less than rigid act came at his displeasure. The first time she’d let down the professional act even for a moment.
Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. “You know,” he said, voice smooth now, “a girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.” He let the words hang, just long enough to be felt before flashing her the kind of grin that usually came with a warning label. “Lucky for you, I’m happy to provide...”
“Out.” Sue’s voice cut through the air, firm and unforgiving as she extended her arms toward Franklin. Her expression left no room for argument, just the steady authority of an older sister who’d long since run out of patience for Johnny’s antics. Johnny raised his hands in surrender, already backing toward the door, mischief practically radiating off him. But as he stepped away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes locking onto the woman again.
With a wink and that signature smirk, he added, “Rain check on the Sweetness. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. I’ll wear you down eventually.”
He hadn’t been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasn’t long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.
Three days. That’s all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Storm’s professional life, and she was already debating whether or not she should fake her own death and vanish into the mountains. Tabitha had officially left for maternity leave and the mess left behind had fallen squarely into her lap. She was doing her best not to buckle under the pressure, holed up in the adjoining office, a fortress of to-do lists, unanswered messages, and too many events to cram into someone else’s schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis.
A vinyl record spinning low in the corner, some vintage jazz number meant to soothe her fraying nerves. It almost worked. Until the faint murmur of voices in the hallway reached her. It was barely noticeable over the gentle crackle of the record, but enough to prick her ears. Then: a knock. Polite. A beat too casual. Followed by the door opening anyway. She didn’t look up, figuring it was Sue, back early from her meeting. But the footsteps were too light, too familiar in their rhythm. Then a voice.
“Man, you look tense, Doll.”
She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like he’d just stumbled upon something far more interesting than whatever his day had originally held. Her glasses were crooked. Hair a mess from her anxious fingers running through it all morning. She knew she looked a wreck. Not the kind of way anyone wants to be caught in, and especially not in front of him. But then again, he was just her boss’s younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.
“Way to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,” she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. “I’m—”
But he laughed. A real, unpolished sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It hit the walls of the office and filled the space entirely, as it worked to clear out the tension just a little. “No, no, you’re right,” he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. “I mean, I’ve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,” he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. “Gotta say, I like it.”
“Not much in here that lets me know more about you,” he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. “I thought I’d come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.” He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words might’ve been too much.
She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadn’t been teasing. Just… genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. “There’s not much to know,” she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richard’s impossibly packed schedule.”
In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didn’t push. Instead, he sat something onto the desk beside her keyboard with a quiet thunk. A to-go cup.
Her eyes flicked to it, then to him. He nodded to it without a word, his eyes effectively saying for you. She’d been expecting, instinctively, something saccharine and ridiculous. A caramel swirl monstrosity with six sugars and whipped cream, and enough milk to supply a whole maternity ward. A callback to his over-sweetened preferences, that time he’d drank from her cup when he’d assumed it Sue’s.
But the cup was plain. The aroma sharp. She lifted it slowly, cautious and took a sip. Dark. Strong. Bitter. Exactly the way she drank it. Her brows lifted, just slightly, and for once, words didn’t come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just… pleased. “Didn’t think I’d get it right?” he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadn’t shifted.
She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. “Honestly?” she said, glancing back at him. “No.”
“Well,” Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
And damn him, he was. His words tugged at something in her chest. Something small and inconvenient and far too easily stirred. She hated that it caught her off guard, hated more that he didn’t seem to notice the ripple his presence left behind. His gaze had already shifted, roaming over the cluttered corners of her office again with idle interest, like he was seeing it for the first time.
“You know,” he added casually, “you should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.”
She huffed a small breath through her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. “Anyway. I’m off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.”
She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. “Thank you,” she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. “For the coffee, Mr. Storm.”
He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. “One of these days,” he tossed over his shoulder, “it better be just Johnny.” And with that, he disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasn’t sure she was thrilled to notice.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Saturdays were sacred. Or at least they were supposed to be. A quiet little corner carved out of her week, untouched by phones ringing or emergency scheduling changes. No Sue, no international crisis, no chaos in superhero suits. Just her and the worn spines of old books, the scent of paper and dust, the ritual comfort of a place that didn’t expect her to perform.
The shop was tucked away. Not the sleek chain store down the block, but a tiny, tucked-in independent with uneven floors and the kind of silence that invited exhale. She came here often enough that the owner, a soft-spoken man with thick glasses and a deep love for Victorian ghost stories, knew her name. She was halfway down the second-floor fiction aisle, a stack of paperbacks already under one arm, when a voice spoke from just behind her. “Didn’t peg you for a poetry girl.”
She froze. Turned. And there he was. Johnny Storm, of all people, standing a few feet away, sunglasses pushed into his hair making it look disheveled, a to-go coffee cup in hand, and the most unbothered expression she’d ever seen him wear. He was in jeans. A white shirt. Some kind of casual jacket. Not the polished charm of his media persona, not the gleam of a man trying to impress. Just… a guy. In a bookstore. On a Saturday morning before most of the city bothered to be awake.
She blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”
“What, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. “Give me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.”
“I bet you pretended to read them. Or got some girl in your class to give you the bullet points ahead of class with that charming smile.”
He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. “Guilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?” he nodded at the book in her hand. “You into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?”
“I’m into the classics,” she said, slipping it into her stack.
“Well,” he said, with a half-smile, “guess I’ve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.”
She raised a brow, skeptical. “What genre did you have me under?”
He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. “Non-fiction,” he said finally. “Sharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.”
She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like he’d just won a bet with himself. “I try to be professional,” she said, mostly to herself.
“And you’re great at it,” Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. “But I’d like to assume there’s more to you than lists and calendar reminders.”
Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadn’t let herself think about in months. That she’d built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone else’s storm, and somewhere along the way lost a bit of the things she found enjoyable. It was hard to have a life when the majority of your working life revolved around keeping someone else afloat. “Shouldn’t you be at some event?” she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. “Shaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?”
He shrugged. “Needed a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.”
That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. “You have a therapist?”
“Why does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?” he laughed. “I’ve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind I’ll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.”
She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. “Trade you. You recommend a book I’ll pretend I’ll finish, and I’ll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesn’t taste like battery acid in return.”
She eyed the cup with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Straight espresso,” he said, lifting it like a dare. “No sugar, no cream. I’m branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: it’s not. It's still crime in a cup.”
She took it, sniffed, and sipped. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how she took hers. He didn’t joke after that point. Didn’t smirk. Just turned and walked toward the front counter and waited for something better from the tiny espresso machine tucked into the back corner of the store, installed by the owner’s wife in what looked like a quiet rebellion against the chain cafés nearby.
She brought the cup to her lips again, pretending not to notice how easily he left it behind in her hands, like it was second nature to share. Like the fact that his mouth had touched it before hers wasn’t worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. She’d drunk after him once before. This just felt… different.
Her eyes followed him as he drifted toward the shelves, one hand brushing the spines like they might give him the answer to some quiet question. No rush. No bravado. Just a guy wandering a bookstore like the world outside wasn’t made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read.
Johnny Storm didn’t strike her as the kind of man who read often, and certainly not by choice. There was too much velocity in him, too much need for movement and distraction. She imagined him more of a fan of the cinemas than novels. There was strong doubt he sat still long enough to fall into a story unless the pages were filled with action or something lude. And so, she'd never quite assigned him a literary genre in her mind. No tidy label. No easy shelf to place him on.
Something accessible seemed safer, palatable, maybe even charming in its simplicity. So by the time he returned, a faint grin curving his mouth, one hand cradling a new cup of something more suited to his taste, the other tucked coyly behind his back like it contained a secret, she already had a book waiting in her hands.
She wasn’t entirely sure what made her reach for that particular one. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against his reputation. A subconscious test, curious to see how he'd handle a story that offered less escape and more reflection. One with a title that might resemble a mirror. Maybe she simply liked the way it looked, worn and quietly tragic among the glossier titles. Whatever the reason, she held it out between them.
The Beautiful and Damned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This isn’t some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?”
She shook her head, lips twitching. “Not unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.”
Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. “Read Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. I’m sure it’s good. Thanks for the recommendation.” Then, without missing a beat, “Which brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean, your suggestion for me?”
“I’m giving you a book rec. Equal exchange. A little literary diplomacy if you will. We read, we reconvene, we give each other another and so on.” Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasn’t strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not… whatever this was. It wasn’t quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasn’t nothing.
A quiet discomfort flickered at the edge of her thoughts. It was all a little too casual, too familiar. Too easy. She worked for his sister, after all. There were boundaries, weren’t there? Unspoken, maybe, but understood. Sue had never forbidden anything, never drawn a line in the sand. Her only warnings had been gently pragmatic: that Johnny could be a lot. Loud. Reckless. The type who flirted with beautiful women because he didn’t know how not to.
But she’d never said stay away.
Before she could dwell on it too long, Johnny was already extending the book toward her with something like pride glittering in his eyes. The Blazing World, by Margaret Cavendish. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by the choice. A name she didn’t recognize. A curious blend of science fiction, philosophy, poetry and in ambitious prose. Strange and brilliant in ways that rarely showed up on casual reading lists, and even fell through the cracks of scholarly work.
She took it slowly, fingers brushing his as they passed the slim volume between them. His skin was warm, unsurprisingly, given he carried the sun’s power in his body. She let her thumb skim the edge of the pages, not yet opening it. Her voice came quiet, more contemplative than she'd expected. “You’ve read this?”
“I’ve attempted to read it,” he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something you’d appreciate more than I could.” The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it was…observant. It showed his understanding of her tastes, given the little information he had on her, and provided a thoughtful recommendation. It almost made her feel sheepish, given she’d picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where he’d put in more effort.
She glanced up at him, studying the way he leaned back slightly, letting her set the tone. No teasing. No firework smile. Just him, standing there, strangely sincere beneath all that practiced bravado. “It seems weird,” she said finally, thumbing the cover. “But brilliant. The kind of thing I’d stumble upon.”
He grinned again. “Sounds like I provided a better suggestion,.”
She tried not to laugh but didn’t quite succeed, and he looked far too pleased with himself. They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the space between them a breath too close, books cradled like offerings in their hands. Then, casually he said, “So. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?”
She blinked. “You’re seriously going to read it?”
He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. “I said I’d try. Besides…” He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. “Feels like the kind of deal you don’t back out of.”
She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. “Same time,” she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her boss’s brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing she’d scold herself for… later.
He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didn’t bother her after passing a few bills to the owner. Didn't even turn back around. She could hear the bell above the door jangling as he stepped out into the late afternoon light. She watched him go, unsure what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But with the book still clutched in her hands, she tried not to dwell. And when she finally cracked open the cover, she found herself smiling.
Not because of the words on the page. But because, against every reasonable assumption, Johnny Storm had just surprised her.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The office lights were too bright when she came back in. The kind of artificial white that bleached out time and made everything feel faintly unreal. Her meeting had run over, leaving her with a dull headache and the vague sense that she’d forgotten something important, though she couldn't name what. She set her folder down with a muted thud, shrugging off her coat before freezing mid-motion.
There was something on her desk. Not just something. A book. She recognized it immediately. The worn, wine-colored cover. The familiar weight of it in her memory. The Beautiful and Damned. Only, this copy wasn’t hers. Hers had never been dog-eared like that, the spine a little more cracked now than before, the corners softened as if handled too often in too short a time. She stared at it, unmoving. A note might’ve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you I’d finish it in his cocky handwriting would’ve fit the narrative she’d built for him in her head. But there was no note. Just the book, left deliberately.
Slowly, she pulled out her chair and sat down. The silence of the office folded around her. When she opened the cover, her breath caught. The margins were full of ink. Not dense, frantic scribbles or anything that suggested pretense. Just... notes. Small, blocky handwriting in black pen. He hadn’t annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. He’d written where it seemed to strike his fancy.
She flipped to a random page.
“This guy's self-pity could power the city grid.”
“Does Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?”
“This part… hits harder than I wanted it to.”
She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, there’d be another brief line in the margins. Some funny. Some startlingly intelligent. Some… vulnerable in a way that made her heart trip a little in her chest. Not because they were bold confessions, but because they weren’t. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. He’d read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And he’d thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines.
She wasn't sure what she had expected from him on Saturday. Maybe a careless toss of the book back into her hands, some joke about the slow downfall of rich people, a sarcastic rating. But not this. Not a thoughtful connection with the literature. Not ink on paper. Not something left behind, with no need for acknowledgement or using it as an excuse to harass her at work. Just a quiet answer to a question she hadn’t realized she’d been asking.
There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on.
Her eyes drifted back to the desk. Nothing else was left with it. But there was something in the way the book had been placed deliberately there without spectacle. Like he wanted her to find it. Like he wanted her to notice. But he didn’t want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasn’t fully confident with the situation after all.
She leaned back in her chair, the book still open in her lap. The office buzzed faintly around her, but she didn’t hear it. Instead, she felt the weight of those pages, of everything between the lines. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The bookstore was quieter than usual. No light filtered through the front windows, not with the snow falling outside. And the cold shift in weather seemingly kept everyone away. A coffee grinder rumbled briefly before dying into stillness. The smell of cinnamon and old pages curled in the air. She was already in the same aisle when he found her, pretending to browse, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a book she wasn’t reading.
“Hey,” came his voice, softer than usual.
She looked up. Johnny stood a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, coffee in one hand, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t look like someone who set things on fire for a living. Here, he just looked... a little uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful. He nodded toward her, then toward the shelves. “So. Did you finish it?”
It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. “I did.”
A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. “And?”
She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. “It was strange,” she said finally. “Dense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.”
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So... you loved it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She rolled her eyes, but softly. “What made you pick it?”
He shrugged. “I remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like it’d match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.”
That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. “You think I have dramatic energy?”
“I think you build your own world,” he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Or, you know. Something like that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... charged. She watched the way he sipped his coffee, how his fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed something sure to ground himself in the moment. “I liked the annotations,” she said after a moment. “You are actually funny when you aren’t trying too hard.”
“I can’t say I get that a lot,” he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didn’t feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadn’t named yet and something he wasn’t forcing her to.
He gestured toward a nearby display. “Okay. Your turn.”
“For what?”
“New picks,” he said. “I’m clearly on a streak. I’ll try not to ruin it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is this becoming a regular thing now?”
He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. “Only if you want it to be.”
The words hung in the space between them, casual on the surface, but landing somewhere far less casual inside her. He said it with the same ease he said most things, like nothing mattered too much, like no moment was ever heavy enough to be held too tightly. But now, with him standing just behind her, following her lead as she turned down a quieter aisle, she couldn’t quite ignore the way her thoughts tangled around the simplicity of it.
Only if you want it to be.
What did she want it to be?
She let her fingers trail the shelves, touching covers she didn’t read, spines she didn’t care about. Searching. A book for him, that was the task. Another title. Another exchange. Something witty or unexpected. Something that said I see more in you without actually saying anything at all.
And yet her mind refused to focus. Because now, the game felt different. Slightly altered in its stakes. It had been harmless, hadn’t it? Originally just a test to see what he was made of. Now it could be a flirtation wrapped in pages and margins, passed between them like a secret handshake. Now it felt like she was making choices with weight. Choosing a book meant choosing how much to show. What version of herself she wanted him to hold in his hands. How much of her growing appreciation for him she’d let on.
Behind her, she could hear the subtle shift of his footsteps as he paused somewhere down the aisle. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just… waiting. As if he knew better than to fill the silence too soon. She pulled a title from the shelf, turned it over, and put it back. Too grim. Another. Too ridiculous. Another. Too transparent.
How did you find the perfect book for someone who was suddenly no longer a passing curiosity? What does he see when he looks at me? The question slipped in before she could stop it. It wasn’t that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm she’d been warned about. No charming remarks. No obvious lines. Just these brief, disarming glances. Like he was trying to understand her.
And now here she was, stalling in front of the fiction section. Like what she picked for him could open or close a door she hadn’t even decided she wanted to walk through. She glanced sideways, found him leaning lightly against the end of the shelf, idly flipping through something he hadn’t really chosen. He looked relaxed. At ease. He was watching her, eyes lifting from the pages every so often to her, then back down. Not like he was even particularly curious about the outcome. Just... present. There. Noticing. She turned back to the shelves, pulse ticking louder than it should’ve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadn’t thought about since. She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve.
Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. “From the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?”
She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “Sue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.”
That pulled a faint smile from him, the crooked and boyish kind, but something flickered behind it. He leaned into the shelf beside him, posture casual but gaze a little more focused now, the book still resting open in his hand. “Asking my sister about me,” he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. “Now that’s unexpectedly personal.”
“I wasn’t asking about you,” she replied, too quickly, too defensively. “She mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.” Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like she’d said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.
But he didn’t tease her for it. Didn’t grin or throw out some easy line the way she expected. He just watched her. Not with judgment, but with something far more subtle. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding. She couldn't tell. He flipped the book closed with one hand, the soft sound of the pages coming together. “Well,” he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, “it’s a good pick. You’re not wrong, by the way. About space.”
She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. “I used to memorize the constellations,” he continued, more to the book than to her. “Could name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.”
That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched the way he shifted his weight, his free hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, like maybe he regretted the truth of it.
“You don’t think that anymore?” she asked, carefully.
“I think,” he said, glancing up again, “that the older you get, the harder it is to look up. So much happening around you, all the responsibility of being an adult, it leaves little room for those daydreams of distant stars.” He said it like it wasn’t profound. Like it didn’t carry a weight that caught her off guard.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to fidget, to ground herself in something tangible. Instead, she said, “That’s why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.”
That made him smile again. “I’ll read it,” he said, voice low. “Promise.” She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasn’t just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. “Alright,” he said, tucking the book under his arm. “I owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?”
She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. “Dealer’s choice.”
“Dangerous words,” he said with a wink, stepping away from the shelf and back toward the café corner of the shop. “Alright, emotion roulette it is.” She followed a few steps behind, bookless, hands tucked into her sleeves. But the space between them wasn’t awkward. It was almost familiar; comfortable in a way that snuck up on her.
“Okay,” he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. “I’ll confess, I did some research before today. So this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I might’ve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. Just pressed the book gently into her hands before she could protest. She looked down.
John Clare.
A collected volume. Thick, matte-bound, the kind of edition usually found in academic libraries or quietly aging on secondhand shelves. It wasn’t a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone else’s hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the author’s voice had been filtered through other intentions.
But this time, she didn’t move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasn’t flashy, and certainly was off the beaten path, and had still chosen it anyway. She traced a thumb lightly along the edge of the pages. The spine cracked faintly under her grip, and she could already feel the density of it. The weight of someone’s entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.
“You called ahead,” she repeated softly, not quite a question.
He shrugged, half-apologetic. “Didn’t want to wing it. Figured if I was gonna bring you poetry, it should be something thought out a bit more than your Frosts of the world."
That answer surprised her more than the book itself. She opened to the first page, letting the weight of it settle in her hands. The paper was thinner than she liked. The font, a little too small. But there was something in it that made her pause. A sort of stillness she hadn’t expected. “Clare’s not one of the poets I’m largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible than most,” she said.
“Yea,” he agreed. “I read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didn’t sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just… it made sense in a way I didn’t expect.”
She blinked. That wasn’t the kind of reaction she expected him to admit. Especially not about a 19th-century poet who wrote about hedgerows and abandonment in the same breath. “So you picked this for me,” she said slowly, “because… it got under your skin?”
“I picked it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “because it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe you’d like that. I thought breaking up the rich academics with a man who spent time in an asylum or living amongst paupers would have a genuine nature you’d enjoy. You don’t seem to like flashy things.”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clare’s name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadn’t noticed was locked. Normally, she would’ve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But he’d gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didn’t say thank you. Not because she wasn’t grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what he’d just handed her. Not the book itself, but the thought behind it. So instead, she just held it. And that seemed to be enough for him.
Johnny didn’t press. He didn’t wait for a reaction like he needed validation. He just gave a small nod, "There's a table open near the back," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the café corner, where a window seat sat mostly in shadow, partially hidden by a crooked row of nonfiction titles and a wilting potted plant. “If you’re not in a rush.”
She hesitated, then followed. Neither of them said anything as they settled into the space. He placed his drink down, she set the book beside hers, and for a while, the only sounds were the low murmur of voices across the store and the soft shuffle of pages turning somewhere nearby. She watched him over the rim of her cup. He’d leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didn’t want to name. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the wood, quiet and patient.
Finally, she reached for the book again. Her thumb flipped through the first few pages. The introduction. The publication note. The timeline of Clare’s life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.
She landed on a random poem.
“I am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.”
Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didn’t require understanding. It simply existed with profound truth. Like someone had written down a thought that had once lived, wordless, at the back of her own mind. And now here it was, plain and devastating and true. She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he must’ve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.
“That one stayed with me, too.”
Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didn’t smile. Didn’t try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasn’t the intensity that got to her, it was the ease. The way he let silence exist between them without rushing to fill it. He was simply present.
She closed the book carefully, ran a finger once along the edge of the pages, and asked, suddenly needing to know, “Why are you doing this?” Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. “This,” she said again, motioning vaguely between them. “The books. The effort. Poetry, for God’s sake. I know you’re not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. I’m sure you could find much better company for that.”
There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet curiosity, laced with something more hesitant underneath. A softness mixing with caution. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled once through his nose, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Honestly?” he said. “I’m not totally sure.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. “But when I’m around you,” he continued, slower now, “it’s like I don’t have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I don’t have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.”
His eyes lifted to hers again. “You don’t look at me like I’m supposed to prove something. That’s… rare.”
She didn’t speak, but she didn’t look away either. “And I think there’s something about you,” he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. “Something still. Like, there’s this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I don’t exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.”
That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didn’t apologize for saying it. “I guess I just like being around that,” he said. “It feels safe. Real. I don’t know. Maybe that sounds selfish.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, almost before he finished.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not about impressing you. If it was, I’d be doing a way worse job, trust me. I’ve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the ‘charming’ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just… want to know what it’s like to be seen by someone who doesn’t already have an idea of me in their head.”
She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadn’t made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sue’s warning. From the articles she tried to avoid. Small giggled conversations on her walk home from young women calling the billboard of him half exposed dreamy. The only contradiction to those being from the sparse moments he’d shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.
This version of him — stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone — felt startlingly close to something she hadn’t realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didn’t ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. “Well,” she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, “you’ve shown me a few sides I didn’t expect to experience, Mr. Storm.”
The use of his name was deliberately formal, but not cold. More playful than professional now. A tease, laced with familiarity. The kind of formality that invited contradiction. He caught it immediately. His grin flickered to life. “Careful,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. “It’s already in there.”
She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadn’t lifted entirely. It lingered beneath their words, steady and quiet, but this, the soft return to banter, felt like exhale. Like an acknowledgment that they could hold both things at once: the intimacy, and the distance. The honesty, and the pretense. Johnny took another sip of his coffee which had long since gone cold, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze drifted back to the book in her hands, then to her. For a moment, something uncertain passed through his expression. Almost as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again.
He looked away, toward the front windows of the shop. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. What had started earlier as a quiet flurry had built slowly into something more committed. The light from the streetlamps cast soft halos through the drifting flakes, and the sidewalks were turning from gray slush to something closer to white. “Huh,” Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. “Coming down harder now.”
She followed his gaze. People passed by in heavy coats, shoulders hunched, breath visible in short bursts of steam. The kind of cold that made your bones feel thinner. “I could walk you home,” he offered, lightly.
The words were casual. He tried to make them sound that way, at least. But there was a quiet earnestness underneath. She looked at him for a second too long. Long enough that his confidence wavered just slightly, a flicker behind his eyes. “Are you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?” she asked, deadpan.
He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. “Fine,” she said, slipping her coat on. “But if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, I’m leaving you.”
“Noted,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “Subtle heroism only. Got it.”
They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldn’t get damp. Then they stepped out into the street together. The snow greeted them in silence. Clinging to their hair and eyelashes as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. The city felt smaller in the snow. The world reduced to a few feet ahead of them, the hush of their footsteps, and the occasional flicker of streetlight through the white.
They were halfway down the block when the wind came slicing between the buildings, sharp and sudden. It cut through the wool of her coat like it wasn’t even there. She flinched at the cold and instinctively curled in on herself, shoulders tucking tighter, hands disappearing deeper into her pockets. A shiver worked its way through her before she could stop it.
Johnny noticed. He glanced sideways at her, brow lifting just slightly, like he was trying to decide how much trouble he'd be in for what he was about to do. Then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and tugged her gently into his side. One arm slung easily over her shoulders, like it had happened a thousand times before. Effortless. “Pretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,” he said, casually. Light on the surface.
But his arm stayed where it was. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. Her steps faltered for a half-second. Less from the physical shift and more from the fact that it felt... Natural. Not like something he was doing to be charming. Not to get a reaction. Just a kind gesture to keep her warm.
She glanced up at him, lips parted slightly like she might object on principle. But he was staring ahead, focused on the snow, pretending like he hadn’t just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. “You really think Sue would care that much?” she asked, tone deliberately flat.
“Oh, she’d absolutely care,” he said. “She really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.”
She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didn’t move away. His warmth radiated through the fabric of her coat. The snow was still falling, heavier now, and the sidewalks were turning slick with a fine sheen of frost, but beside him, tucked neatly into his side, she didn’t feel quite as brittle in the cold. They kept walking like that. No big moment. No shift in the world around them. Just his arm around her shoulders. And her letting it stay there. Which, for both of them, felt quietly remarkable.
They rounded the final corner before her building, the familiar stoop materializing out of the haze. She slowed her steps, and so did he. “This is me,” she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.
He stopped with her, but didn’t pull away just yet. His arm stayed where it was for a second longer than necessary before he let it drop. The absence of it made the cold return too quickly. He looked at the building, then at her. Snow clung to the edges of her coat, melted on the curve of her collar. She didn’t meet his eyes right away.
“You warm enough now?” he asked, tone light.
She nodded. “More or less.”
He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, “Didn’t want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.”
She huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close. “How noble of you.”
“I have my moments.”
She glanced up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. Snow was caught in his lashes, and melted into the blond fringe over his forehead. There was nothing performative in his face now. No smug smile, no raised brow. Just a softness she didn’t quite know how to answer.
“Well,” she said, adjusting the book under her arm. “Thanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.”
He gave a slow nod, as if there were words he wanted to say but chose to hold back. Then, with a small, familiar tilt of his head, he said, “Anytime.” Stepping back from the stoop, he added, “I’ll see you Monday.”
The reminder settled between them. Sue’s schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. They’d see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.
“Goodnight, Mr. Storm,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didn’t look back, but her fingers curled tighter around the book she carried. Eager to lose herself in its pages. In something that made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
She didn’t see him on Monday. Not because he’d flaked. Johnny was many things — sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time — but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family.
She didn’t see him because she never made it to work at all.
Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasn’t cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldn’t clear, muscles aching in a dull, persistent throb. The flu had claimed her completely. She spent the day wrapped in blankets, while she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the world moved on, but inside her house, everything felt still. Except the steady, frustrating pulse of illness.
Sue had told her to stay home. The call had gone through that morning. Franklin crying in the background, muffled sounds of bickering between Ben and Johnny over cereal and Sue’s gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. “You need to rest. You’re not permitted in the office until you feel better. That’s an order.”
She had reluctantly agreed, lips pressed tight, even as guilt settled heavy in her chest. Missing work felt like failure. Like letting Sue down. Letting Johnny down, especially since the foundation was in memory of their parents, stung especially hard given their recent… breakthrough. But the fever that had clawed its way into her bones didn’t care about guilt. It demanded surrender. And so she surrendered, curling deeper into tangled sheets, the weight of the blankets somehow both comforting and suffocating.
The hours passed in a strange blur. Outside, daylight faded from pale to gray, then sank into the muted shadows of early evening. The city’s usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow. She’d never put much effort into updating the place. Where most clung to sleek, modern trends, she preferred the warmth of older things: a four-poster bed, a worn chestnut wardrobe, faded floral wallpaper, candle holders still half-used. It had a quiet kind of charm. A lived-in elegance, even if she rarely spent time there. Her fever-glossed eyes drifted over the room. Past the quilted blanket draped over the plush chair in the corner, the wooden record player and vinyl stack beside it, the shelf overflowing with books, titles spilling onto the floor like fallen soldiers.
And there, on the nightstand, lay the book Johnny had given her. Still unopened.
She closed her eyes again. The television murmured in the background, turned low, more ambient noise than entertainment. The stillness was a comfort.
Until it wasn’t. A knock. Hesitant. Unexpected. She froze. The room seemed to shrink around her. Another knock came, firmer this time, breaking the fragile calm. Her pulse fluttered. Who could it be? Friends? She didn’t have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didn’t come again, she sighed and sank back into the pillows. Probably someone at the wrong door. A delivery. A mix-up. She was too sick to care.
But then, light. Not the flicker of the television, but something warmer. Like a fireplace glow. That’s nice, she thought hazily. Fireplaces are nice. A small, delirious smile tugged at her lips as she buried herself deeper under the covers.
Another knock. Not from the front door this time. From her bedroom window. She sat up, breath catching, sheets clinging to her overheated skin. Panic lanced through her, briefly, until she registered the source of the flickering light outside the glass. She stumbled toward the window, ignoring the fever-sweat clinging to her back, the weakness in her knees. Fumbling with the latch, her fingers finally managed to pry it open. A blast of cold winter air rushed in, stealing the breath from her lungs and chasing heat from her cheeks.
And there he was. Hovering just above the fire escape, flames curling lazily around his shoulders and hands, casting flickering light across the snow-dusted ledge behind him. Johnny Storm. “I thought I had the wrong window for a second,” he said, grinning, though his voice held something gentler than his usual swagger. A thread of concern tugged behind the humor.
She blinked, dazed, gripping the windowsill like it might keep her upright. “You’re here?”
“Uh... yes? Is that a question?” he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.
“Just... fever,” she mumbled, her gaze drifting past him, toward the soft mess of her room. The nest of blankets, the tissues, the half-empty mug of cold tea on her nightstand. “Wasn’t sure I was hallucinating.”
He didn’t laugh. Not really. Instead, he stepped closer, the flames fading from his skin until only the natural warmth of him remained, haloed in faint light. Then, before she could even process it, his hand reached forward. Back of his dexterous fingers, cool and gentle against her forehead. “Oh, doll… you’re burning up,” he murmured, brow furrowing.
She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. “Bit ironic coming from the Human Torch.” That led to a chuckle, short-lived though it was, as it dissolved into a sudden coughing fit. She braced herself against the window frame, chest heaving, head spinning.
Johnny’s hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. “Easy. I’m not worth laughing to death over, yeah?”
She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. “Do you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?”
Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. “What? And ruin the moment? I’m Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.”
Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. “Just don’t fall, Hotshot.”
“Oh, I never fall,” he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. “I fly.” With practiced ease, he climbed inside, landing softly on the hardwood floor beside her bed. The moment he was in, she noticed the bag slung over one shoulder. Navy blue backpack, slightly beat-up, and obviously full.
Her brows furrowed. “What’s in the bag?”
“Supplies,” he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. “Soup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, don’t ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.”
“You really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?”
He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. “Sue said you were sick, and when you didn’t show up today, I figured I’d do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I entered with style,” he corrected, “Huge difference.”
She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. “You’re ridiculous.”
Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. “And yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.” She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasn’t weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her boss’s brother, Jonathan Storm himself, was standing in her room with a bag and concern written all over his face. Like taking care of her was just something he did now.
Almost as if he could sense the direction her thoughts had drifted, Johnny’s gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. Not even close. He lived among glass walls and touchscreens, floors that practically cleaned themselves, and a fridge that probably told you the weather and your mood. Her apartment, in comparison, felt like it belonged in another century. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture passed down, not bought.
Framed photos lined her dresser. A school portrait from second grade with pigtails. A blurry snapshot of her with a chocolate-covered mouth at a birthday party. Trinkets from forgotten vacations. A chipped ceramic dish that held earrings and loose change. The floral wallpaper had peeled in places, but she hadn’t bothered to fix it.
And then… the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. “Whoa.” Her eyes followed his. Three narrow shelves were mounted unevenly, packed end to end with novels. Classics, sci-fi, romance, history. Some stacked sideways, others crammed on top of one another like a game of bookish Tetris. And that wasn’t counting the ones on the floor. Piles of them leaned against the wall, curling at the corners, some clearly re-read until the spines cracked.
“You… uh,” Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. “You ever think about getting an actual bookcase?”
She blinked. “The shelves work fine.”
“They’re working overtime,” he replied, stepping closer. “You’re one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “They’ve survived this long.”
“I think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,” he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.
“That’s only about a third of it,” she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. “I’ve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to books…”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making you talk this much. You sound like you’ve been gargling gravel.” He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. “Bathroom?” he asked, nodding toward it.
She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didn’t close behind him, her curiosity rising, until she heard the faucet turn on.
The sound of running water filled the room, followed by the creak of a cabinet and the soft clatter of what she guessed was a soap dish. He emerged a moment later, brushing his hands together. “Alright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.”
She blinked at him. “You drew me a bath?”
He shrugged, casual. “Better you try it while someone’s here to make sure you don’t drown or fall and hurt yourself.”
She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. That’s… unexpected.”
“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart.” He turned, walking back toward the window like he might be heading out. But then he stopped and looked back at her with a more serious expression. “I’ll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?” His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something unsure beneath it. His eyes dropped to his sock-covered feet, as if she might suddenly ask him to grab his sneakers, climb back out the window, and forget this ever happened.
For a moment, she said nothing, just watched him, feeling the warmth behind her ribs outweigh the fever in her skin. “You can stay,” she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. “But,” she added, clearing her throat, “no making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. I’m too fevered to fight back right now.”
He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. “Scout’s honor. I’ll be on my best behavior. And I’d never mock… Mr. Bear,” he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed.
She rose unsteadily from the bed, and for a second, he instinctively stepped forward, attempting to steady her but she waved him off gently, managing her way to the bathroom door. Just before disappearing inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.
“Hey Jonathan?”
“Yeah?” Hearing his full name, not the one he went by, was a step in the right direction, but still felt entirely too formal for his liking. Still, he fought the grin threatening to take over his face at the small concession she’d offered.
“Thank you,”
His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. “Anytime, Doll.”
She lingered just a moment more after the door clicked shut, listening faintly as his socked footsteps padded away from her bedroom. A second later, the soft creak of the floorboards in the hall told her he was far enough to respect her privacy. She exhaled slowly and turned toward the bathroom. Warm steam curled gently around the frame as she stepped inside. The tub was already filling, the water swirling with just enough heat to soothe without scalding. But what stopped her wasn’t the bath. It was the candles.
Three of them. Set along the edge of the sink and the corner of the tub, flickering softly. Matchbook she kept in the drawer absent. He’d lit them. So she wouldn’t have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didn’t dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didn’t erase the ache in her bones, but it helped. The low flicker of candlelight danced across the tile. Johnny Storm. Lighting candles. Drawing baths. She smiled faintly to herself.
Ten minutes. That was all she could manage before the fatigue started tugging her under. She climbed out carefully, dried off, slipped into fresh clothes. Sweats, thick socks, and the hoodie she usually reserved for laundry days. It smelled like clean cotton and fabric softener. Damp but brushed hair soaking through the material, she padded down the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance.
Her apartment hummed. Soft record on the turnstyle, Elvis it sounded like, and the occasional soft clink of metal against ceramic. When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw him. Johnny was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup with focused intensity. He’d found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl. He hadn’t noticed her yet.
She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. “Didn’t burn the place down, did you?” she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.
Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. “There she is,” he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. “Looking a little more alive.”
She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. “I’d say it smells good, but I currently can’t smell much,” she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.
“I didn’t screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,” Johnny said.
She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. “Thank you,” she said simply.
He set the mug down in front of her, along with a spoon, then sat across from her, forearms resting on the table. For a moment, there was only the sound of the spoon clinking against ceramic as she stirred the soup, letting the steam warm her face. She felt the weight of his gaze but didn’t look up. “You didn’t have to stay,” she said eventually.
“I know,” he replied. “Didn’t really feel like leaving.”
She glanced up at him then. His hair was still tousled from the wind, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looked almost out of place in her old kitchen, like a snapshot from someone else’s life. “You could’ve just dropped the stuff off,” she said.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.”
She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. “This is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sister’s overglorified secretary.”
Johnny smiled faintly. “I stopped seeing you as just ‘Sue’s assistant.’ a long time ago.”
She went still at that. He didn’t push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. “This is good,” she said after a beat, voice low.
“Not much of a cook, but I’m good at heating things up,” he said. “It’s kind of my thing.” That got a small smile from her, the first real one since she sat down.
Johnny stood slowly, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. For a second, she thought he might walk off, give her space again. But instead, he circled the table and lowered himself into the chair beside her. She turned slightly, eyes following him, uncertain. He didn’t speak, just reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her forehead. His palm was cool, fingers steady. She leaned into it without thinking.
Still too warm. His brow twitched. His touch moved gently, sliding from her forehead to the side of her face, then drifting into the damp strands of her hair. He paused there, fingers tangled loosely in it. “You’re soaked,” he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to keep you sick.”
Her breath caught, at the quiet concern in his voice, at how close he was now, at the way his fingers held more tenderness than she was used to. Before she could say anything, he pulled back slightly. Palm smooth over her head, and then: Warmth.
Not fever-warm, but something softer. A slow, radiating heat that started at the base of her skull and traveled through the heavy strands of her hair. She could feel it shift, lifting dampness, drying gently. It was careful, completely in control, and absent of the heat she knew him capable of. She closed her eyes. When it faded, her hair was dry. Still tousled and messy, sure, but no longer soaking through her sweater. No longer clinging to her skin.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Johnny’s hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didn’t meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line. She didn’t say anything. Just reached for the spoon again, when she noticed his other hand resting near it. She brushed their fingers together intentionally. His head turned toward her at that. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thanks.”
He only nodded. But he didn’t move away. “Our mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,” he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. “She’d lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. Johnny glanced at her again, then down at where her hand was still resting on his. “Sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked first.”
She shook her head. “Johnny, it’s okay.” The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.
“You called me Johnny,” he said, turning more fully toward her now.
“Yes,” she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, “but—”
“No ‘Mr. Storm.’ No ‘Jonathan.’ I admit, I kind of thought you’d take that to your grave.”
She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. “Blame the fever.”
He didn’t smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. “You don’t have to pretend with me right now. You don’t have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.”
Her fingers shifted slightly against his. “You’re my boss’s brother,” she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines she’d drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.
“And you’re not at work,” Johnny replied, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “You’re sick, and alone, and I’m not here because anyone asked me to be. I’m here because I want to be.”
She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. “I don’t… let people see me like this,” she admitted.
“I noticed,” he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. “I mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,” he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didn’t waver.
She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “I guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, you’d stop looking at me like I was…”
“What?” he asked.
“Like you are right now,” she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.
Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.”
The words hung in the space between them. They were irritatingly sincere. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like she was grounding herself. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasn’t sure she had the clarity to unpack just yet. Not tonight. Not like this, bleary-eyed and fever-warm, emotions unguarded and closer to the surface than they usually were.
But what struck her most was that he didn’t push. He didn’t follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didn’t move closer or lean in. He just… gave her room to sit with it. And that, more than anything, made her exhale a quiet, breath of relief. Because the truth was, she didn’t trust herself right now. Not with her head foggy and her heart aching and all these new emotions rising like steam off hot pavement. She couldn’t tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.
“Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. “Moving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If you’re done with that” he nodded to her soup, “I’ll take care of it while you go lay back down.”
She blinked. “I can—”
“Nope,” he cut in. “Your only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. I’ll handle the rest.” She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like he’d done this before. Like taking care of her wasn’t some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. “Also, I put on something actually worth watching. What’s the point of being sick if you’re stuck with the news? You need something comforting.”
She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. “Like what?”
“Like something you enjoy,” he said over his shoulder, rinsing out the mug and tossing the rest of the soup.
She wandered toward the television, feet dragging softly across the floor. She hardly watched anything these days, but her fingers moved on instinct, flipping to the one channel she remembered always airing the reruns that brought her a strange kind of comfort.
By the time he returned and dropped onto the couch beside her, she had already sunk into the cushions, blanket pulled around her shoulders, the black-and-white with intro music drifting through the room. He raised a brow, surprised. “The Twilight Zone?”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, glancing over.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just wouldn’t have guessed you were a Serling girl.”
“It’s my favorite,” she said, voice low but sincere.
Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. “Can I let you in on a secret?” She arched a brow, waiting. “It’s my favorite too.”
A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. “You are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.”
He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. “I’m not. You can ask Susie. I still make her watch them with me, though she claims I just like how dramatic the opening theme is.”
She gave him a sideways look. “That does sound like you.”
He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. “I really like that one with the World War I pilot. Y’know, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.”
Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. “That’s a good one,” she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. “Kind of poetic, actually.”
She tried not to unpack the notions under his favorite episode. The idea he saved lives for a living, and he seemingly understood what standing one’s ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian.
He smiled, oblivious to her internal thoughts, and said nothing else. For a moment, the show filled the room with that strange mix of eerie music and philosophical narration. The light flickered gently on both of their faces, shadows shifting as they sat in silence. Then Johnny glanced over at her and frowned. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.
“You’ve got chills,” he said, already sliding closer. “You should be under like, six blankets right now.”
“I’ve got one,” she pointed out, feebly. He didn’t say anything, just reached for the other end of the blanket she had half-draped over herself and scooted closer until he could pull it around both of them. She went rigid. “Johnny, don’t. I don’t want you to get sick.”
He gave a short, soft laugh. “Sweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sick”
“But still—”
He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Let me take care of you.”
She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didn’t. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the warmth he gave off, literally and otherwise. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending she didn’t want him close. So she nodded, and leaned, just slightly, into the space between them. And Johnny, in his own quiet way, shifted to make room. Pulled her in.
He was warm. But it wasn’t harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her without expecting something in return. Actually, the last time was the night he walked her home. She rested her head against his shoulder, her body finally beginning to settle, her muscles less tense, her breathing slower. “See?” he murmured, voice close to her ear.
She huffed out a faint laugh. “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Unbelievably.”
The episode played on, but she barely registered it, her body finally relaxing into the pull of warmth and fatigue. Every now and then, she felt Johnny’s fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions.
“You really don’t do this much, do you?” he asked after a quiet minute. She didn’t answer right away. “Let people take care of you,” he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.
“I don’t really know how,” she admitted. “I got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.”
Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. “I see that.”
“Being vulnerable,” she added, “it never felt safe. Even when it was.”
There was a beat of quiet between them. “You don’t owe anyone softness,” he said, voice low and even. “But you deserve to have it. When you want it.”
That made her blink. Not because it was overly sweet or romantic, but because it was… kind. Thoughtful. Honest. And completely unexpected coming from someone the world painted as a hotshot. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.
“For what?”
“For being much more than I originally thought you were. You’re, well for a lack of better words, kind.”
Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.
“Noted.” Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didn’t move, just adjusted slightly to let her rest more comfortably, eyes flicking back toward the screen but not really watching. Outside, the city moved on. Cars in the distance, and the hum of nightlife. But in that little pocket of warmth and television static, she was finally still.
And Johnny, for once, was content to be quiet.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
She was back at work. Back to pressed collars and polite emails, back to the soft echo of her heels against the polished floors. Her desk was where she’d left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish “I’m fine, really” before sweeping her into two meetings and asking for three updates. It was easier, in a way: Slipping back into routine. No vulnerability required. No warmth, no weight, just structure and the quiet comfort of being needed.
And yet. Her fingers paused on the keyboard.Her mind drifted back to that night. To the TV flickering in her living room, the glow of black-and-white episodes washing over her walls. To Johnny’s arm around her, steady and warm. He hadn’t stayed. At some point, long after she’d fallen asleep, he’d moved her upstairs to bed. She hadn’t even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:
Didn’t want to wake you. Get some rest, and I’ll check in later. — Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm
She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words weren’t easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didn’t know what name to give it yet.
Not a romance, not exactly. But something more than familiarity. Something quiet. Unrushed. She rubbed her temple absently, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bottom corner of her monitor. A little past three. The week had crawled and sprinted all at once, especially after returning on Tuesday. Her gaze drifted toward the tote bag tucked under her desk. She’d brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out.
John Clare had been a delightful surprise. There was something raw and untamed about his work, brilliant and aching in a way that clung to her long after she’d set the book down. He wasn’t polished like the other Romantics. His verses didn’t care for perfection. They bled loneliness and dirt and madness, and somehow, they still made her feel seen. Clare was a laborer, a man of the earth, not the universities. His longing was not performative, but primal. Honest. It had struck a chord she hadn’t expected.
She still had a day left before Saturday. What had started as a casual coincidence now felt like something... A rhythm. A tether to something outside her routines. It wasn’t grand, or loud, or public. But it was theirs. And she was looking forward to it. More than she wanted to admit. Not just for the books. Not even for the quiet comfort of thumbing through dusty spines in side-by-side silence.
But because she was genuinely eager to hear his thoughts on Verne. His take on the moral gray areas, the invention of impossible machines, the way he always seemed to latch onto the underdog character no one else noticed. She wanted to talk about what she’d read. Wanted to see the way his eyes lit up when he made a point, or how he interrupted himself when he got too excited. She wanted to know what he’d pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him and—
God. Those eyes. That particular shade of crystalline blue that somehow still felt warm. The bashful smile he sometimes slipped into when he was proud of something and didn’t want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret.
She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadn’t meant to click. With a quiet sigh, she closed it. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but the page in front of her looked like static.
Focus? Long gone.
It was as if Johnny Storm — brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm — had shown up with that ridiculous navy blue backpack and cracked something open in her. Not with grand gestures. Not with fire and flair. But with soup. With gentle whispers into her damp hair. With the quiet, unexpected way he’d tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.
And that was the part she couldn’t shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didn’t give him credit for. He was the type to pay attention when no one thought he was looking. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee. Who lit candles so the light wouldn’t hurt your eyes when you were sick.
He was careful with her. Considerate. Like she was something delicate and worth handling gently, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved the opportunity to be if she chose it. That’s what he said. Said she deserved the choice of being soft. And somehow, that made her head pound worse than any flu ever could.
The quiet hum of her thoughts was broken by the subtle ping of the pager clipped to her waistband.
SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.
She sighed, already pushing back her chair, straightening her blouse in the reflection of her black screen. Back to business. Back to the part of her life where everything made sense, where emotion had its place. Boxed and filed neatly beneath efficiency. But as she reached for the doorknob to close the door behind her, something stopped her. Soft yellow and crooked at the corner, a sticky note clung to the wood just above eye level. She stared for a beat before plucking it off.
"Hope your day is fantastic. See what I did there? Fantastic. Anyways, Johnny"
There was a tiny doodle of a winking face next to his name. Also a little doodle of their team's logo next to the word fantastic. Of course there was.
Her lips twitched. And then, despite every effort not to, she smiled. It was ridiculous. The handwriting was awful, and the joke barely qualified as a pun. But it was so very him. Playful, charming, and still, somehow, thoughtful. He hadn’t made it into a performance. Just a small note, as if to be respectful of her packed schedule with the lost days this week. Meant for her, and no one else. She pressed it flat between her fingers for a moment, then carefully tucked it into the side pocket of her planner before heading down the hall toward Sue’s office, still smiling.
Saturday needed to hurry up.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Saturday morning came quietly, sunlight sifting through gauzy curtains in pale ribbons. The kind of morning that felt like a breath held just a little longer than usual. She put on music while getting dressed. Something light and old. The kind of record that made the apartment feel like it belonged to a version of her she hadn’t let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But today…Today, she hesitated over her wardrobe.
No T-shirt. A sweater instead: soft blue and warm against her skin. A nicer pair of jeans. The nail lacquer she’d brushed on the night before had dried into a muted burgundy that made her feel quietly elegant. Her makeup was subtle, but thoughtful. Deliberate. She didn’t think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didn’t need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasn’t a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft.
A lightness threaded through her chest as she smoothed down the hem of her sweater. Something weightless and unfamiliar, like the feeling of stepping outside just before a storm breaks and realizing, for once, you don’t mind if it rained.
A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasn’t supposed to meet her at the shop for another thirty minutes. Curious, she jogged down the narrow staircase of her townhouse, feet against the old wood, and pulled open the front door, only to be met with…Wood. A solid wall of it.
She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasn’t a wall. It was furniture. A bookcase. A towering, beautifully worn, dark walnut bookshelf stood on her porch like some kind of offering from the gods of literature themselves. And behind it, peeking over the top, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, was Johnny Storm. “Surprise!”
Her eyes widened. “What in the world—?”
“I know we said bookstore,” he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, “but I figured if I’m going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.”
“My collection,” she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.
“My mistake,” he said solemnly, stepping into full view. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows. He looked infuriatingly handsome. Like he’d just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. “I rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,” he added. “Had to sweet-talk the guy to part with it. Said it belonged to some ex-college professor who chain-smoked and read philosophy aloud to his cats.”
She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. “You… dragged a whole bookcase to my house?”
“I carried it,” he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. “Didn’t trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.”
She stared for another breath. Then, without fully meaning to, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a tight-lipped smile. But a genuine, bubbling laugh that warmed the air between them. Johnny’s grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. “I figured if we’re going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.”
She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse.” But he didn’t step back. Not yet. Just stood in her doorway like he belonged there, looking pleased with himself and, at the same time, strangely... hopeful. She rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bookshelf, fingers grazing the worn wood. It was beautiful. Not new. Not modern. But solid. Thoughtful. Like he’d really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.
“I love it,” she said quietly. And she meant it.
“I saw it and immediately thought of you,” he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. “Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just… it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesn’t fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.”
She nodded once, slow. “It’s perfect.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. Eyes soft, the usual spark of mischief dimmed down to a low, steady glow. She was still in the sweater she’d picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than they’d been in days.
“You feeling better?” he asked finally.
“Getting there,” she said.
“Good.” He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. “Because I was hoping maybe we could still do the bookstore. Unless you want to stay in. I can take down those poor shelves and set up this bad boy. Promise I’ll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.”
She laughed, “I think the bookstore’s still on the table,” she said, then glanced at the shelf again. “But maybe we move this first? I don’t want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.”
Johnny grinned. “You mean how classy and well-read you are?”
“I mean how I’ve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.”
He smirked. “If this is a courtship ritual, I’m definitely doing it wrong. I should’ve brought flowers.”
She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Next time, maybe.”
He arched a brow. “So you’re saying there’ll be a next time?”
She gave him a mock-serious look. “Get the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.” With a dramatic sigh and an over-the-top bow, Johnny lifted the bookshelf again and carried it inside, the wood groaning slightly as he maneuvered it through the narrow entryway. She closed the door behind him, warmth curling at the edges of her stomach as she watched him start up the stairs without being told what to do.
Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that should’ve felt more disarming than it did. She followed behind him. He knocked her bedroom door ajar with his foot and stepped in, mindful of the pair of shoes she’d been planning to wear before he showed up unannounced. Glancing around her tidy room he smiled as he looked at her made bed. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile. “I thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.”
“We did,” he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. “But it was provisional, and frankly, I’m reconsidering the terms.”
She scoffed softly, leaning against the doorframe as he set the bookcase down with care. He was already sizing up the room, scanning for a suitable spot. “Do you happen to have much in the way of tools?”
Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. “Sparse would be generous. I have a sad little drill I found at a pawn shop in Harlem. Missing most of the bits. Pretty sure it gave its dying breath the last time I tried to hang a curtain rod.”
Johnny winced in playful sympathy. “Let me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.”
She raised a brow. “Since when do you fix power tools?”
He glanced over at her, feigning offense. “I do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasn’t just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.”
Her lips twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. “I actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesn’t mean I forgot my mechanics classes.”
She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didn’t come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasn’t loud or performative, it was subtle. Quietly competent. Jonathan Storm was kind. He was loyal in a way that wrapped around the people he cared about without asking for anything in return. And, frustratingly, he was smart. Not just clever, but sharp. Capable.
It was borderline infuriating to watch him revive the half-dead drill with a few taps and a muttered, “Come on, don’t embarrass me now,” and then methodically take apart the sagging old shelves. He moved with a purpose, placing the new bookcase against the wall like he already knew exactly how she’d want it.
She’d meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But she’d ended up sitting there instead, caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, watching him work like he belonged there. And then he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his warmth brushing against her skin. “Something wrong?” he asked, voice soft.
She hesitated, then let out a breath. “Just thinking.”
He nudged her knee gently with his own. “About...?”
“You.”
He turned his head to look at her fully. “What about me?”
She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. “I just… I was wrong about you. In so many ways.”
There was a pause.“How so?” he asked quietly.
She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. “You told me you liked that I didn’t have this idea of you in my head. And maybe it looked that way from the outside. But Sue warned me before I ever took this job what I’d be dealing with. And I don’t live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. You’re a public figure, and people talk.”
He didn’t flinch, just listened. “I didn’t want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isn’t it? You take what you’ve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.”
She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. “But then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didn’t have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. You’ve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.”
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being careful,” he said. “And yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. I’ve done it, too.”
He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. “But when I said I liked that you didn’t have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didn’t treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didn’t flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.”
She blinked, surprised. “I had a wall up.”
He smiled faintly. “Exactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason… that was comforting. Honest. You didn’t pretend to like me.”
“I didn’t know you.”
“And now you do?”
A beat. Her voice dropped. “I’m starting to.”
Johnny’s expression softened, but he didn’t push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. “Well… I guess it’s my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?”
She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted to the bookcase again. The dark wood, worn at the edges, like it had lived another life before finding its way to her room. “Why me?” she asked quietly.
He blinked. “What do you mean? I feel like I just—”
“No, not really,” she cut in gently. “You’ve said pieces. But I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, you’ve ended up… here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sister’s assistant.” He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. “And before you say it, yes, I am Sue’s assistant. That’s how you know me. That’s the reason we’ve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become… familiar? Why keep showing up?”
Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t answer right away. “When I first met you,” he said slowly, “you treated me like I was just another guy getting in the way of your schedule. You barely looked at me. You were busy. Focused. Unimpressed.”
She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.
“And yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,” he admitted. “The Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… refreshing.”
His gaze found hers, steadier now. “You weren’t trying to be liked. You weren’t interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.”
“Like?”
He smiled faintly. “Like how you hum when you’re trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you don’t care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.” Her brows lifted, surprised. “I noticed, because I started caring. And I didn’t mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesn’t let anyone take care of her.”
He paused. “And I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell won’t ask. I can’t wrap my mind around someone who’s so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so he’ll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.”
The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. “You make it hard not to care back, you know.” Johnny’s eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fire—”
“Three steps,” he said automatically, lips quirking.
She shot him a look, but didn’t lose her thread. “And then it just… shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.” She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.”
Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadn’t expected. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who aren’t family. It’s easier to be that version of myself so people don’t go digging.”
She shrugged a little. “You’re not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. You’re so much more.”
The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They weren’t touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. “You don’t have to decide anything today,” he said quietly. “But if you ever wonder why it’s you, it’s because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.”
Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. “I already decided,” she said. That made him still. “I don’t know what it means yet,” she added, voice barely audible, “but I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.”
He grinned wide and disbelieving. “That was your moment?”
She gave a soft, shy smile. “Yeah. That was it.”
A beat. “Can I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?”
She didn’t speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. “It wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said.
And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didn’t. When their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.
She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldn’t believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured.
She laughed under her breath. “You taste like smug satisfaction.”
He grinned, eyes still closed. “Can’t help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."
“That was literally the first thing I ever said to you.”
“Exactly.”
She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. “This is probably a terrible idea.”
He opened his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. Probably.” And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.
A few minutes later, they’d migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.
“Does Sue know you’re here?” she asked, teasing.
Johnny snorted. “She knows I’m with you. Doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but she’s definitely suspicious.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“She is usually right,” he said with a grin.
Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. “Hey Johnny… This... whatever this is between us, it doesn’t have to be some big, dramatic thing.”
He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. “No. It doesn’t. But it’s something. And I’m not going to pretend it’s not.”
She nodded once. “Good. Because I’m done pretending, too.”
There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. “So... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?”
She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. “Please don’t say ‘go steady.’”
He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. “That’s not a no,” he murmured.
She smiled, soft and certain. “It’s a yes. I’d love to let you take me out.”
“Perfect.” He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. “Can we still go to the bookstore?”
She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. They’d done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, they’d be pretending they weren’t quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was looking…
“Yes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
One month later…
If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never would’ve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.
New York’s most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasn’t there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.
But not now. Not with her.
Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely.
Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.
It was strange, really. She hadn’t expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.
Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager “I’m proud of you” after a long day she hadn’t even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.
It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance she’d put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern “don’t-hurt-her” speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.
“She’s good for you,” she’d told Johnny one morning over breakfast. He’d tried to play it cool, said something like, ‘Don’t start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,’ but she could tell how much it meant to him.
And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, “He’s steadier with you around. Not dull. Just… softer.”
That had stayed with her. Softer. Because that’s how he made her feel, too. He didn’t dim things down. He didn’t take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like he’d always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didn’t feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.
With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life she’d been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.
Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's “head” without thinking, just like Johnny always did.
She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didn’t even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadn’t bought. These weren’t big declarations. They weren’t moving boxes or dramatic speeches.
They were small signs that he wasn’t just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just… genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.
Even the cereal.
She hadn’t really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No “so… are we dating now?” moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didn’t. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words “here, take this.” It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn “Franklin” had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into “I’m already outside” calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didn’t intend to let go.
But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. They’d slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. She’d felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.
But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, “Not tonight.” At first, she’d wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.
But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but… respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.
And she couldn’t lie. It made her fall even harder. He could’ve had anyone. That was never the question. But he’d chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldn’t quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t increasingly growing a bit… frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnny’s patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there “Goodnight.”
She wasn’t inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasn’t simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and he’d press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.
She wasn’t sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasn’t like she didn’t want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was… some part of her liked that he didn’t expect it. That he hadn’t made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.
He didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t turn her desire into an obligation. It felt… safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldn’t deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.
And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasn’t doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.
That didn’t make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasn’t around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie he’d left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.
She’d never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where she’d suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. She’d snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.
He’d ruined her. And he didn’t even know it. Or maybe… maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didn’t feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each other’s arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.
The next time it would be her who didn’t allow them to stop.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didn’t work.
"You’re going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "It’s just a press conference."
"It’s not just a press conference," she’d countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "It’s the first time we’ve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesn’t go smoothly, Reed’s going to spiral, and the board’s going to blame you, and you know it."
Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didn’t even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. “You know,” he drawled, “most people go home when the sun goes down.”
She didn’t look up from her screen. “Most people don’t have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.”
“Mm.” He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, most people also don’t look this good in computer lighting, so you’ve already got a head start.”
“Johnny.”
“Just saying.” He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. “Come home.”
She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. “I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not yet. It’s got to be perfect.”
“It’s already perfect.” His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. “You know how I know that? Because you wrote it.”
Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. “Flattery doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” he agreed, lips brushing her temple, “but maybe a little light kidnapping would.”
She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. “Johnny, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.
And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadn’t gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.
She swallowed. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Get close. And then stop. Like we’re both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.”
He didn’t deny it. Just watched her. “You said you wanted slow,” he said softly.
“I said I wanted real,” she replied. “And this, us, it is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. That I don’t want more than just—” She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.
Johnny’s brow creased. “You think I don’t feel that too?”
“You never let it show. You always stop.”
He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. “Because if I don’t stop… I don’t think I’ll be able to.” Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want everything with you. But I didn’t want you to think that’s all I wanted.”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because that was it, wasn’t it? The thing she couldn’t name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadn’t been holding back because he didn’t feel it. He’d been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. “You’re not just some guy I’m passing time with,” she said quietly. “I’m not here for casual.”
He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just… grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. “Neither am I.” The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t pull away.
His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didn’t pull away.
It wasn’t frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didn’t stop her. Didn’t deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered “Not tonight.”
His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just… paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.
“Wait—” he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. “Are we really about to do this in the office?”
She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. “No one’s here,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It’s almost midnight. Everyone’s gone.”
His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasn’t moving. Not yet. “I just—” he exhaled, eyes closed. “I don’t want this to feel like something it’s not. You deserve… more than some desk and low lighting.”
Her voice was soft but firm. “I’m tired of waiting, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. “Do you really think it’s going to mean less because it’s here? Do you think I’ll look back and regret it? Because I won’t. It’s not the location that matters.” Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. “It’s you. Being with you is the part that matters.”
Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a bed with candles or soft music. It didn’t matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.
In fact, the heels were helpful.
Johnny wasn’t absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.
And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. “God, I love these little skirts,” he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. “You have no idea.”
She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.
Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. “You're still—” she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, “—obnoxiously overdressed.”
He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. “You started it. And I could say the same to you,”
“Johnny.”
“Okay, okay.”
But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. “I want this,” she whispered. “I want you.”
He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.
His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand the wait anymore. “You always look so put-together,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. “Drives me crazy.”
His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. “You ruin me. You know that, right?”
She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldn’t hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.”
She rolled her eyes, still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at these pants. They’re a crime against movement.”
He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. “They’re flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.”
“They’re a straightjacket for your legs,” she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. “Seriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?”
Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. “What can I say? I make insanity look sexy.” With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.
He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
She shot him a look. “I’d argue that it is quite hard…”
His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. “They always say it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I wear them because I always hope you’ll end up taking them off.”
She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of taking things off…” he gestured to her tights.
She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly.
"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I won’t lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your office…” came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. “Hmm… that’s an improvement.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. “Do you say that to all the women you undress on desks?”
“Only the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.” His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.
She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. “You always flirt this much when you’re half-naked in someone else’s workplace?” she managed, fingers threading into his hair.
His grin was pure trouble. “Only when I’m with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of me…” Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. “I don’t think I can look at this office the same again,” he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.
She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. “Yeah me either”
“Mind if I try something?” he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more.
Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “I’ve gotta say,” he murmured, voice husky with laughter, “the skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for me…”
She smiled, lips parting around a breath. “Yeah?”
“Oh, definitely.” He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. “Just picture it. You laid out across your desk…” As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. “God,” he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than she’d honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself.
“Yeah much better than just a fantasy,” he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along she’d gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away.
Johnny didn’t ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. “Wow, that’s, are you—”
“Please move,” she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“Yes Ma’am,” and that’s all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly.
“Oh, Johnny,” she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath she’d been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.
“Yeah…” he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.
The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights they’d shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. They’d simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. “Johnny—” her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. “Don’t stop.”
“Not planning on it,” he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.”
She couldn’t answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.
“Johnny—” she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. One more thrust, rough and deep, and—CRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.
She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.
“Well,” Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, “I guess we’re filing this under workplace hazard.”
She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. “You broke my desk!”
He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. “Technically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.”
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. “How am I supposed to explain this to Sue?”
That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. “Okay, please don’t mention my sister while I’m still inside you.”
She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. “Right. Sorry..”
“Thank you.” He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. “Now let’s go back to the part where I was making you see stars.”
She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. “Pretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.”
His grin widened. “Oh? So I am that good.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.”
“I didn’t let you,” she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “You did that all on your own.”
Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. “Excuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.”
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “I did not say ravish.”
“You didn’t have to. I read between the lines,” he said with a wink. “Here I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romantic…”
“And instead, you went full ‘raunchy office scandal,’ like this was some bad porno,” she deadpanned.
He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like he’d just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. “You encouraged it. Don’t go rewriting history now.”
She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. “God, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.”
Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. “I can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then I’ll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.” He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. “The desk was just the… prologue.”
She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. “You better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.”
He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. “No promises.”
“I’m serious,” she warned, a playful glint in her eye. “It’s an antique.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re irresistible,” he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. “Now come on, I wanna do this properly.”
She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos — cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button — told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.
“After you, Miss Desk Slayer.” She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.
And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending there’s nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.
When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come find me tonight.”
He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else.”
She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. “You say that now.”
Johnny’s voice was soft. Softer than she’d ever heard it. “No. I mean it. Wherever you are... that’s where I wanna be.”
Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you,” he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadn’t let herself admit until now.
johnny storm x fem!reader
content warnings: none! all fluff!
summary: on a mission, Johnny gets sprayed with something that makes him way too honest. you try to keep him quiet, but he blurts out all the things he’s been holding back, especially how long he’s been in love with you.
wc: 2k
masterlist.
It was supposed to be a standard sweep.
Alien bunker. Low threat. Weird tech, strange symbols, and enough glowing crystals to make Reed’s voice crack with excitement. Johnny had been bored from the start—hovering in the back of the group, tossing a ball of flame between his fingers while Ben kicked open doors and Sue cleared the path.
“I could be on a beach right now,” Johnny muttered, singeing the edge of a scorched blueprint with his pinky. “I deserve to be on a beach.”
“You got terrible sunburn last time,” Sue reminded him without looking back.
“It was a controlled burn.”
The air in the corridor felt stale, like something hadn’t breathed in there for centuries. They moved cautiously through the underground chamber, scanning for trip wires or pressure plates. Nothing. Just strange writing etched into the walls, humming with quiet energy.
That was the first sign something was off.
The second?
The pod.
It sat in the corner of the room. Dull silver, cracked slightly open, leaking a strange violet mist that curled and floated like it had a mind of its own.
Johnny, naturally, poked it.
“Johnny.” Ben snapped, too late.
The mist shot upward in a perfect puff—like a firework in reverse—right into Johnny’s face.
He blinked. Coughed once. Waved the smoke away.
“What the hell was that?” Sue asked, backing up with her arm half-raised for a shield.
“I’m fine,” Johnny said, squinting. “That was barely a breath. Not even spicy. Smelled kind of like lavender.”
Reed was already scanning him with some handheld monitor, muttering calculations under his breath.
Johnny grinned. “Relax, I’m fine. I feel great, actually.”
Then he looked at Sue and said, completely deadpan:
“By the way, your meatloaf sucks.”
A beat of silence.
“Excuse me?” she said, affronted.
“I’ve been pretending for years. I’m sorry. It’s bad. It’s like sadness in a pan.”
And that was when Reed declared the mission over.
The Baxter Building lobby smelled like smoke.
Not the scary kind. No alarms, no shouting, no flaming holes in the ceiling. Just a lingering warmth in the air, like someone had lit a match and forgot to put it out. You looked up from your notebook as the elevator doors slid open and the Fantastic Four filed in, one by one.
Reed had a sample tube in his hand. Sue was wiping green goo off her shoulder with a sigh. Ben was muttering something about “next time, I swear I’m bringing a flamethrower.”
And Johnny…
Johnny was beaming.
“Hey, guys!” he said way too brightly, his eyes going wide when he spotted you. “Look who it is! It’s the prettiest person in the tri-state area. No, the planet. Actually, the universe. Easy.”
You blinked. “Johnny?”
He marched right up to you with zero hesitation and zero regard for personal space.
“Hi,” he said, grin full blast, cheeks flushed. “You look amazing. I love that shirt on you. And your hair? Perfect. Is that a new lipstick? It’s making me go crazy. In a good way.”
“…Are you okay?”
“Me? Never better,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Got sprayed with a weird puff of alien gas in a tunnel, but I feel fantastic. And also, I’ve been thinking about how your laugh sounds like windchimes, and how it makes my chest all floaty and-”
“Johnny,” Reed interrupted from across the room, brows furrowed behind his glasses. “I need you to sit down.”
“I am sitting down,” Johnny replied.
“You’re standing.”
“Well, emotionally I’m sitting. Emotionally I am in a beanbag chair. Staring at-” he turned back to you, “a literal work of art.”
Sue groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Reed, tell me he didn’t breathe that stuff in.”
“He did,” Reed said grimly. “And based on his current behavior, I’m hypothesizing a psychochemical compound similar to a truth serum. But stronger. Less filtered. More impulsive.”
“Sweet,” Ben said. “So he’s just gonna be running his mouth until it wears off?”
“Correct.”
“Oh, this is gonna be good.”
You turned back to Johnny, whose attention hadn’t wavered once. He looked like a golden retriever that had just discovered affection. His smile was stupid. His eyes were shining. His hair was a little windblown and he had a small scratch on his cheek, but he looked annoyingly good.
“I am so sorry,” you whispered, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You probably don’t feel like yourself right now.”
“I feel great,” he replied. “Your hand is soft. Did you know that? Have I told you that before?”
“Johnny-”
“And I love that perfume. It’s not too much. It’s, like, subtle but deadly. I would let it kill me.”
“Okay-”
“I’m in love with you, by the way.”
Silence.
Your mouth dropped open.
Sue choked on her coffee.
Ben muttered, “Aw, hell.”
Johnny blinked. “Oh. Should I not have said that?”
The words just…hung there.
Like a balloon popped in the middle of a silent room. Time slowed. You felt your ears go hot, your heart skip. Johnny stood there, blinking at you like he didn’t just say that, like he hadn’t just detonated the emotional equivalent of a nuclear bomb in the middle of the Baxter Building.
“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “Okay. So you’re, uh. You’re drugged. That’s cool. That’s fine. Everything’s cool-”
“I’m not drugged,” Johnny said proudly. “I’m just finally free.”
Sue set down her coffee with a loud clunk. “Johnny, shut up.”
“I won’t!” he declared, like he was giving a toast. “I have been in love with her for, like, six months- maybe more, who’s counting, not me, except that I definitely wrote it in my notebook at one poin=t”
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“And I didn’t say anything because I thought, hey, you’re normal, right? And I’m me. Human torch. Fire boy. Disaster man. I figured if I told you, you’d run for the hills or laugh or worse. But I think about you all the time.”
“Johnny-”
“Like, all the time. Like, embarrassing amounts. Like I have quotes you’ve said stuck in my head like song lyrics.”
"Johnny can you-"
“I memorized the way you say my name,” Johnny added, eyes wide, honest to God sincere. “You say it different than everyone else. It’s like…softer. Like you’re letting me be someone else when you say it.”
You wanted to disappear.
No. You wanted to melt into the floor.
Or maybe fly into the sun.
But instead you stood there, frozen, while Johnny kept going, still not done.
“One time I flew over your apartment window to make sure you got home okay after that dinner with that guy you didn’t like. And I pretended it was a patrol run, but really I just wanted to make sure your lights turned on. And I saw them. And I smiled for, like, an hour.”
“Oh my God,” Sue muttered into her hands.
“Also!” he added brightly. “I have a collection of vinyls in a box labelled ‘If She Ever Lets Me Kiss Her’ and I will be playing it in full if that moment ever comes."
Ben was red in the face now, shaking with laughter. Reed just looked concerned.
You finally grabbed Johnny’s arm and pulled him into the hallway with a rushed, “I just need to talk to him, excuse us.."
Once the door clicked shut behind you, Johnny looked up at you with a dreamy smile.
“You’re holding my arm,” he said, like it was the best part of his whole day.
You stared at him. “Johnny.”
“Yes?”
“You are not in your right mind.”
“I’m in love.”
“No, you’re chemically compromised.”
He grinned wider. “Wow. That’s my favorite way someone’s ever said that.”
You ran a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. Trying not to feel the way your heart was pounding.
“You can’t just…say all that to me,” you whispered. “You can’t say things like that and not mean them.”
Johnny paused.
The smile softened. For the first time all afternoon, he looked a little serious. A little still.
“I do mean them,” he said quietly. “Every single word.”
You stared.
He wasn’t grinning now. He wasn’t performing. He was just looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room. No sparks. No flash.
Honest.
Open.
Yours, if you wanted.
“But,” he added, blinking slow. “If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I can…walk that back. Just, like, tell me, and I’ll make myself forget. Or I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll do whatever you want. Just…don’t stop being in my life. I need you. Even if I don’t get to have you.”
You didn’t realize you’d moved until your hand was on his face, fingers cradling his jaw, thumb brushing the side of his cheek.
He leaned into it instantly, heat curling off his skin like instinct.
“You didn’t even ask if I feel the same,” you said softly.
“Do you?”
You nodded. Barely.
He didn’t say anything.
He just kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fiery.
It was warm. Solid. Real.
He tasted like cinnamon gum and something a little electric. He sighed into it like it was the one thing he’d been holding his breath for all this time.
When you pulled back, he looked dazed.
“You taste like strawberry chapstick,” he whispered. “I knew it.”
You laughed, breathless, forehead pressed to his.
“What happens when the serum wears off?”
“I panic. Sue makes fun of me. Reed writes a report. I pretend I don’t remember any of this.”
“And then?”
He looked at you again.
“Then I kiss you again,” he said. “But on purpose this time.”
By the time Johnny woke up the next morning, the serum had long worn off, and the crippling realization of everything he’d said had kicked in.
He lay on his back in his bed, arm over his face, replaying it all in horror:
“I think about kissing you, like, constantly.”
“I flew past your window to make sure you were safe.”
He groaned. Out loud. Into the void. Into his pillow.
“Oh my god.”
There was a knock at the door.
He flinched. “Go away.”
The door opened anyway.
“Morning, lover boy,” Ben said, way too cheerfully.
“I said go away.”
“Too bad. I brought company.”
Sue followed behind, sipping her coffee. “How’s our little truth bomb?”
Johnny rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. “Dead. Gone. I’m quitting the team.”
“Aw, come on,” Ben said. “You were adorable. Real rom-com material.”
“Kill me.”
“I didn’t know your middle name was ‘romance’” Sue added.
“I swear to God-”
“And Reed says he’s almost done charting your ‘emotional spike timeline,’” Ben said. “Apparently you got more honest every time she smiled at you.”
“I will burn this entire building down.”
A soft knock interrupted his growing spiral of despair.
You stepped into the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. One of them had little flame doodles on the side. Johnny peeked over his pillow, eyes wide like a scared cat.
You gave him a slow smile. “You, uh…remember yesterday?”
He groaned. Again. “Please say it was all a dream.”
“Nope.”
You walked over and handed him the flame mug.
“But it was a very good dream for me.”
His ears turned red. Bright red. Like the serum had activated all over again.
You sat gently beside him on the edge of the bed.
“I liked hearing the things you said,” you added. “Even if they were…sudden. And chaotic. And a little concerning.”
“So…you’re not never speaking to me again?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t hate me?”
“Definitely not.”
You leaned in, brushed your hand across his cheek, and kissed the corner of his mouth, warm and quick and real.
“I kind of want to hear more of the truth,” you murmured. “This time without the alien chemicals.”
His eyes widened. “You do?”
“Only if you promise to show me that collection of records.”
Johnny grinned, wide and stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“I’ll even throw in choreography,” he said. “But I’m warning you—it’s a lot of finger guns and dramatic pointing.”
“Perfect.”
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, Johnny Storm thought:
“I accidentally sent you a playlist of love songs”
Paring ⤑ ( Jisung x Reader)
Word Count: 660
It all started with a Spotify notification.
Y/N blinked at her phone as the banner popped up at the top of her screen.
“Jisung shared a playlist with you: ‘Y/N’”
She tapped it out of curiosity. The cover image was soft pink with a blurry candid of her—one he’d taken a few weeks ago when she wasn’t paying attention, laughing at something dumb he’d said.
Heart fluttering, she opened the playlist.
And froze.
Track 1: Crush
Track 2: Can’t Take My Eyes Off You
Track 3: Talk You Down
Track 4: I Like Me Better
Track 5: Falling for You
There were twenty-eight songs total. Every single one was about falling, longing, confessing. Some were soft and slow, others upbeat and giddy. But every lyric—every single lyric—read like a love letter.
To her.
She stared at the screen, heat rising to her cheeks. Was this a joke?
But before she could even begin to make sense of it, her phone buzzed again.
[Jisung: 7:06PM]
DO NOT OPEN THAT PLAYLIST I SENT YOU BY ACCIDENT I BEG U
[Jisung: 7:06PM]
I MEANT TO SEND THAT TO A FRIEND FOR ADVICE NOT YOU I’M PANICKING
[Jisung: 7:07PM]
I MEAN NOT LIKE THAT I MEAN YES LIKE THAT BUT NOT ON PURPOSE I’M GOING TO DELETE MY LIFE
She tried not to laugh, but a snort escaped. She bit her lip and messaged back.
[You: 7:08PM]
So… you have a playlist about me?
[Jisung: 7:08PM]
It’s not ABOUT you I mean yes it IS about you but I didn’t mean for you to see it
[Jisung: 7:08PM]
Can I offer you a song in this trying time???
[ You: 7:09PM]
You already did. 28 of them, actually.
There was a pause. A long one. And then—
[Jisung: 7:11PM]
…Did you like it?
[Jisung: 7:11PM]
I mean if we’re past the point of me pretending it’s not a big deal. Which clearly we are.
Y/N bit her lip, then slowly typed.
[You: 7:13PM]
I’ve already played it twice. Favorite one is #12. I didn’t know you liked that kind of soft stuff.
[Jisung: 7:13PM]
I only do when I think about you.
That one hit her in the chest.
Another ping.
[Jisung: 7:14PM]
If I officially asked you out, would you say yes? Or would I need to make a sad playlist next?
[You: 7:15PM]
You’d better make a happy one. You’re taking me out.
Three dots blinked.
[Jisung: 7:16PM]
Okay but now I have to make ANOTHER playlist titled “My Girlfriend Y/N” and it’s going to be 100 songs minimum. You brought this upon yourself.
[You: 7:16PM]
I expect nothing less. You dramatic little sap.
That night, Jisung sent her a new playlist.
Title: “My Girlfriend Y/N ”
Cover: A selfie of the two of them from earlier that day, her head resting on his shoulder.
synopsis: you don’t know him anymore. but minho knows you, every laugh, every tear, every promise. and he’s not giving up.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, memory loss, emotional manipulation, mentions of family rejection.
wc: 11,879
[part 1]
He had been alone in his thoughts for too long.
Minho sat in the dim corner of the hospital corridor where the light flickered just a little too much, that familiar, sterile hum filling his ears. His hoodie was damp from where he’d wiped his face. His eyes ached. His heart ached more. Time had stopped having any shape or meaning, just hours of cold air, the occasional footsteps echoing off linoleum, and the unbearable weight of not being able to fix anything.
He couldn’t keep sitting there. Couldn’t stay in the silence, with the ache growing heavier by the minute. Eventually, he stood, slowly, stiffly and made his way back to your hospital room. He just needed to see you again, maybe even talk to you from the doorway. Nothing intense. Nothing that would make things worse. Just presence. Just proof that he was still here.
But as he neared your room, one of the nurses, one he vaguely recognized from the night shift stepped in front of him, hands gentle but firm.
“Mr. Lee,” she said softly, “I’m really sorry, but… we’re asking you not to go in right now.”
Minho blinked. At first, he thought he’d misheard. “What?”
The nurse glanced over her shoulder, toward your room, then turned back, her expression apologetic. “The doctor spoke with Y/N not long after you left. She was… visibly shaken. Scared, confused. Her vitals spiked. She was overwhelmed. We think it’s best to give her a little space while she adjusts.”
Minho stared at her like the words didn’t quite make sense. His eyebrows slowly drew together, a disbelieving scoff slipping from his lips. “I’m not some random guy off the street,” he said, voice rising just enough to draw a few glances. “I stayed by her side all night. I didn’t leave the room once. Not when the monitors beeped, not when the nurses came in, not even when you told me visiting hours were over. You all saw me there. You know that.”
The nurse’s expression didn’t waver, but her voice softened. “I do. We all saw it. And I know how much you care. But she doesn’t remember that, Minho. Right now, from her perspective… she’s waking up in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. Her memory is fractured. And when she saw your face, when you reacted so emotionally, it startled her. She’s not in a place yet where she can process all of that safely.”
Minho exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He could feel the sting behind his eyes again, and he fought it, hard. He wasn’t angry at the nurse. Not really. But he didn’t know where else to aim the pain inside him. The grief. The helplessness. Because how was it fair? He had held your hand through the night. Had whispered to you about the little bakery you loved, your favorite songs, how you always pretended not to cry at sad movies but always did anyway. He had begged you to wake up.
And you had.
Only now, he wasn’t allowed near you.
“I just want to see her,” he said again, quieter now. “I won’t upset her. I’ll stay back. I won’t even speak if that’s what you want. Just let me be there. Please.”
The nurse looked torn. She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I’ll talk to the doctor. Maybe tomorrow, after some rest and evaluation, we can try again. But tonight... she needs calm. The brain needs quiet to begin the healing process. For now, just, trust us, okay?”
Minho didn’t answer. He nodded stiffly, backing away from the door like it burned him.
But in his chest, he could feel the unraveling.
He returned to that same quiet hallway, but this time it felt colder. Lonelier. He leaned against the wall, staring at the pale floor tiles like they might give him something clarity, answers, maybe just a way to stay grounded when everything he knew was crumbling.
He was still here.
Still your Minho.
But you didn’t remember that.
And now… you weren’t ready to see him.
Even love, deep, steady, desperate love wasn’t enough right now.
And that was a kind of heartbreak he never knew existed.
-
Minho had barely slept.
The coffee in his hand was lukewarm now, even though he’d just bought it minutes ago. He hadn’t tasted it. He didn’t care. The bitter steam curling from the cup only reminded him of the night before, hours of pacing cold hallways, of sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs, of whispering to your unconscious body like it might tether you back to him.
And then the morning came, and with it, the nurse’s gentle insistence that he stay back. That his presence had made you worse. That for now, it was better if you didn’t see him at all.
He hadn't fought them again. Not this time. Not after seeing the look in your eyes, the way you'd flinched at his touch. The quiet, scared voice asking him to leave.
But it didn’t stop the ache that settled into his chest like a second heartbeat, pulsing with every second that passed without you remembering him.
He was just coming back from the hospital lobby, a paper cup in one hand and his phone in the other, the screen still black. No messages. No calls. Not that he was expecting any. The only message he wanted was your voice, saying his name like you remembered. Like you loved him again.
He turned the corner, heading back toward the ICU, when he saw him.
Jay.
At first, Minho froze, unsure if he was imagining it. It had been so long since he'd seen that face, longer still since he’d thought of him. But there he was, standing stiffly at the nurse’s desk, dressed too neatly for a hospital visit, his dark hair styled like he was coming from somewhere important.
Minho’s blood ran cold.
Jay.
What the hell is he doing here?
He watched, heart pounding, as Jay leaned in toward the nurse with an overly concerned expression on his face. Like he belonged there. Like he had the right.
“Hi,” Jay said, glancing at the nameplate clipped to her scrubs, “I’m a friend of Y/N’s. I heard about the accident—I just need to know what room she’s in, and what happened. Please. I need to see her.”
The nurse gave him a quick look of polite skepticism, as she should. But before she could say anything, Minho was already moving, hot coffee sloshing in his cup as his steps quickened across the hallway floor.
“Hey,” Minho snapped, his voice sharp, tense with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Jay turned slowly, his mouth pulling into a tight, false smile. “Minho.”
Minho stood toe to toe with him now, hands clenched, posture rigid. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not here, not in the hallway of the ICU, but he couldn’t stop the fire rising in his chest. “You don’t belong here.”
“I came to check on Y/N,” Jay said smoothly, unbothered. “Someone had to.”
That was it.
Minho’s jaw locked. “Don’t act like you care.”
“I do care,” Jay countered. “Not that you’d know anything about being a real friend.”
The insult was barely veiled, and Minho flinched like he'd been struck. But it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, not from him.
Because Jay wasn’t just anyone.
He was the friend you used to be inseparable from, the one you trusted with everything, until Minho came along. And from the moment Jay realized how serious the two of you were becoming, he’d tried everything he could to sabotage it. The comments. The rumors. The passive-aggressive texts. That one night he cornered you after practice and told you Minho would never love you the way you deserved, that he was cold, manipulative, temporary.
Jay never liked Minho. Never even pretended to. And when you chose Minho anyway, when you distanced yourself from Jay and made it clear where your heart was, he turned bitter. He stopped pretending. Started treating Minho like the enemy.
And now here he was.
Minho stepped forward, voice low, teeth clenched. “You think showing up now makes up for what you did? You weren’t there when she needed support. You weren’t there when she was hurting. You disappeared the second she chose me, and now you want to show up like some concerned guardian?”
“She doesn’t remember you, does she?” Jay asked, his tone light but the venom unmistakable. “So maybe this is the universe giving her a second chance.”
Minho’s hands curled into fists. He saw red for a moment pure, unfiltered rage bubbling just under his skin.
The nurse intervened then, stepping between them before things could go further. “Hey, please. This is a hospital.”
Minho turned to her, still breathing hard. “You can’t let him see her. He’s not family. He’s not—he’s not anything to her anymore.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”
The words stung more than Minho expected. The truth was, right now… he wasn’t sure how to answer. Because to you, in your broken, half-lit memories, he was nothing. A stranger. An unfamiliar face who cried too easily and begged too hard.
The nurse looked between the two men, clearly uncomfortable. “I can’t make decisions based on history I don’t know. If the patient recognizes Mr. Jay, and she’s comfortable with it, we allow visitors. But for now, we’re trying to avoid overwhelming her.”
She turned back to Jay. “You may go in, but keep it short. And speak gently. She’s still very fragile.”
Minho opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late.
Jay was walking past him, heading for your room with confident strides, as if he had every right in the world to be there. As if he hadn’t tried to pull you away from Minho every chance he got.
And the worst part? Minho couldn’t follow.
He stood there in the hallway, helpless, his fists clenched and his heart in his throat. The nurse gave him an apologetic glance before walking away.
Minho was left standing alone again.
Another locked door. Another piece of you slipping further from his grasp.
And now he was in there with you.
He didn’t know if you’d recognize Jay. If your mind had pulled him back while leaving Minho behind. If you’d smile for him. Laugh. If Jay would take advantage of the blank slate that the accident had given you.
But Minho knew one thing with unbearable certainty.
He’d spent the night holding your hand, whispering his love into the dark like a prayer.
And now he was being replaced again by the one person who had always wanted to take you away.
The nurses and doctors kept saying you were getting better.
They said it like it was a fact, like a milestone you had clearly reached "You’ll be out of here in no time," they smiled, charts in hand, voices warm with optimism. "Your vitals are strong, and your cognition is improving every day. Just keep resting, okay?"
But the truth was, you didn’t feel better.
You felt like you were drowning.
Not in pain exactly, though your head still throbbed sometimes and your body felt stiff in ways that made simple movements difficult, but in confusion. In the aching, suffocating emptiness where your memories used to be. People told you things: names, stories, reassurances. Faces came and went, some that sparked a flicker of recognition, most that didn’t. The world around you looked familiar, but distant like trying to peer through fogged glass at a life that had once been yours.
You tried so hard.
You spent hours straining your mind, pushing yourself to remember anything. A moment. A voice. A laugh. A feeling. You stared at photos, flipped through magazines, even listened to music they said you used to love. But it was all blank. All white noise.
So when the nurses brought you a puzzle and suggested you work on it to pass the time, you agreed because at least it gave your hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the panic always threatening to creep in at the edges of your silence.
You were bent over the little tray table, trying to find the right edge piece, when the door creaked open behind you.
At first, you didn’t look up. You assumed it was another nurse with more encouraging platitudes or another round of gentle cognitive tests. But then you heard his voice.
Soft. Careful. Familiar.
“Hey...”
You turned slowly, and your eyes landed on a tall figure standing awkwardly just inside the room, his hand still resting on the door handle like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come in. He looked nervous. His smile was small, but his eyes were filled with something else, something harder to define.
And something in you stirred.
You stared at him.
His face... it was like a name on the tip of your tongue. Like a dream you’d half forgotten the second you woke up. It pulled at something deep inside you, something quiet and buried.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said, shifting his weight. “I just... I heard about what happened, and I had to see you.”
Your heart picked up speed.
There was something about the way he said it. Something real. Something that rang true in a way nothing else had since you woke up in this hospital bed.
You blinked fast, overwhelmed.
“Do I... do I know you?” you asked quietly, the words cracking on their way out.
The boy stepped forward slowly, eyes flicking toward the puzzle pieces, then back to your face.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “You do. Or... you did. I’m Jay.”
And then it hit you.
Like a rush of cold air after being underwater too long.
Jay.
You knew that name. You knew him.
It wasn’t everything not a full memory, not even close, but it was a spark. A sliver of light through the fog. You remembered the way he laughed, the way he talked too fast when he was excited. You remembered late nights and long walks, sitting on sidewalks and laughing at dumb things only the two of you found funny.
Your breath caught.
A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was coming. Your hand reached up to cover your mouth as a sob built in your throat.
Jay’s face softened immediately, and before you could speak, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you gently, careful not to hurt you.
And you let him.
You let yourself sink into that hug, into the one familiar feeling you'd had in days. Your fingers clutched at the back of his shirt as you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his embrace, your body shaking from emotion you didn’t have words for.
He didn’t say anything. He just held you. And for a brief, flickering second, the ache in your chest eased. You weren’t drowning anymore. Not in that moment.
He remembered you. And, finally you remembered something.
-
Jay stayed with you for a long time.
Longer than any of the doctors or nurses expected, longer than any other visitor had. And you didn’t mind. In fact, for the first time since waking up in that sterile white room, you felt… okay. Not good, exactly. Not whole. But safe. Familiar. Like the world around you had finally cracked open just a little bit and let in a beam of warmth.
He sat in the chair beside your bed, his body slouched like he’d done it a hundred times before. He looked around like he hated the hospital, called it “soulless,” said it didn’t suit someone like you and you laughed at that. It was a genuine laugh. Small, but real. You didn’t even realize how long it had been since you’d felt one rise naturally from your chest.
Jay began to tell you stories. Small, scattered things. Fleeting moments from your childhood, things he said the two of you used to joke about. He mentioned how you used to dare each other to jump into freezing water at the lake near your old neighborhood. How you used to call his mom “Mom #2” and how she always made your favorite pancakes with too many chocolate chips. He told you about a time you’d both skipped school and gone to a matinee movie, just the two of you, stuffing your pockets with snacks and swearing the popcorn had never tasted better.
You didn’t remember the details, not really, but the way he told them made you believe they were true. Made you feel like somewhere, deep down, maybe those memories were still there. You smiled as he spoke, sometimes even laughed softly, and each time you did, he smiled wider. Like he was proud of himself. Like helping you feel something again meant something to him too.
Then, after a pause, his tone changed.
He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the hallway outside. He leaned forward, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. His voice lowered, gentled, but carried a certain edge beneath the softness.
He started talking about Minho.
“You might not remember him,” Jay said slowly, “but… maybe that’s for the best.”
Your eyebrows furrowed at the name. Minho. It tugged at something in your chest, nothing solid, but not nothing either.
“He’s not who you think,” Jay continued. “Everyone acts like you two were some kind of perfect couple, but I was there. I saw what it was really like. He was bad news. Controlling. Jealous. He made you change cut people off, stop doing things you loved. You stopped talking to me because of him. Said he didn’t like the way I ‘got in the middle.’”
You blinked, the confusion settling heavy over your features.
“I’m not saying this to upset you,” he added, eyes searching yours. “I just want you to be careful. If you don’t remember him, don’t let anyone rush you into something you don’t feel. Don’t let them convince you of a version of the past that wasn’t real.”
You didn’t say anything. You just stared down at your hands, now limp in your lap. The warmth you’d felt earlier had started to drain away, replaced by a fog of doubt. Who was Minho to you, really? What did you forget?
Jay noticed your silence. He reached out and gently touched your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, giving your fingers a soft squeeze. “I didn’t mean to drop all that on you. I just… I care about you. I always have.”
And when he stood to leave, hours later, after the sun had shifted across the room and the nurses had come in twice to check your vitals, you felt a panic rise in your chest. You didn’t want him to go.
You didn’t want to be alone again.
“Can’t you stay a little longer?” you asked, your voice small.
His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “I want to. I do. But they said visiting hours are over. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I promise.”
And for some reason, that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes again. He stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and said gently, “Try to rest. Don’t think too much. Just take it one day at a time.”
You nodded.
But once he was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him, the room suddenly felt colder. And quieter. And your thoughts, once briefly still, began to race again.
Who was Minho?
And why did Jay’s words make something in your heart feel uneasy?
Minho was going crazy.
Not in the dramatic, exaggerated way people throw that word around. He was unraveling in real time, second by second, thread by thread, as the hands of the clock moved painfully slow.
It had been exactly three hours since Jay walked into your hospital room. Minho knew because he’d been counting. Watching the time tick by on the faded wall clock above the nurses’ station like it was mocking him. Every minute that passed with Jay in your room and not him made something deep inside his chest tighten.
He’d tried everything.
First, he asked the nurses calmly if he could go in, just for a moment. They said no. Said they’d been advised to limit your visitors for your “emotional recovery.” He reminded them, again that he wasn’t just anyone. That he’d been there every day since the accident. That he’d slept in those hard plastic chairs outside your room. That he’d sat by your bedside, talking to you even when you couldn’t respond. That he loved you.
They gave him tight smiles. Apologetic, tired ones. “We understand, Mr. Lee, but she needs time. She was very distressed last time. We’re following doctor’s orders.”
He didn’t yell. Not at first. He just clenched his jaw and walked away, pacing the hallway like a man trying to out-walk his own panic. But every so often, he returned. Softened. Pleaded. Asked a different nurse. Asked again. Just one of them to please, please check in on you, just make sure you were okay. That Jay wasn’t saying anything that might confuse or hurt you.
At some point, after the third nurse, the fourth, maybe the fifth, they stopped pretending to care. They brushed him off with distracted nods or curt reassurances. One even told him to go get some fresh air, that “hovering wasn’t helping anyone.”
He almost laughed at that. Hovering? He wanted to scream.
And then finally, finally, Jay emerged.
The door to your room swung open, and Minho’s heart immediately surged with hope. Maybe he could go in now. Maybe you were asking for him. Maybe you remembered.
But then he saw him.
Jay stepped into the hallway like he owned the place, his hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, that same smug, self-satisfied look on his face that Minho had hated since the very first time they met. The glint in his eye, the cocky tilt of his head, it was like he was silently daring Minho to say something. Like he wanted a reaction.
Minho stood frozen. His fists clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked. He could feel every part of his body screaming at him to move, to do something, to grab him, shove him against the wall, demand to know what he said to you. Because he knew Jay. Knew the games he played. Knew how good he was at twisting the truth, planting seeds of doubt.
He also knew how much Jay had always hated him.
Jay had never made a secret of it. From the very start, he’d done everything he could to tear the two of you apart. Told you Minho was bad for you. Controlling. Dangerous. Said things behind Minho’s back, things he couldn’t prove but could feel were poisoning you slowly. He'd always smiled to your face but looked at Minho like he was a threat. And now, with you vulnerable, confused, unable to remember, he finally had the chance to rewrite history. To plant his own version of the past in your head.
Minho could see it in the way Jay looked at him now. Like he’d won.
Jay gave a small, mocking nod as he walked past, brushing just close enough to Minho’s shoulder that it could’ve been an accident, but wasn’t. And Minho… Minho had to dig his nails into his palm to keep from doing something reckless. Something he’d regret.
He didn’t care what the nurses said anymore.
He needed to see you. Needed to look into your eyes and hear your voice. To remind you of the truth, your truth and not whatever lies Jay had just spent three hours feeding you.
Minho waited until Jay disappeared down the hallway before moving.
He lingered just out of view behind the corner of the hallway, where the nurses wouldn’t notice him, where the monitors wouldn’t give away his presence. He was done being brushed off, done being treated like he was some stranger hovering around a patient who didn’t want him. Because he knew the truth, he wasn’t a stranger. He was yours.
He had spent every day since the accident aching to be by your side. But for hours now, he had paced, waited, begged just for a chance to see you. And now, Jay was finally gone. The coast was clear. The nurses were distracted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your door stood slightly open. Like fate had finally cracked a window in the thick, suffocating wall that had kept him out.
He moved quickly, quietly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he swore it echoed through the floor.
As he stepped into the room, the soft click of the door closing behind him made you look up from a puzzle on your tray.
The moment your eyes landed on him, something shifted.
Minho froze.
You were staring at him, not with recognition, not with warmth, but with the same look you’d had the first time you saw him after waking up: confusion. Hesitation. That faint edge of alarm. It hit him like a punch to the chest. He didn’t even get a word out before he saw your hand move not toward him, but toward the red call button clipped to the side of your bed.
His instincts kicked in. He stepped forward quickly and reached out, not to hurt, not to scare, just to stop you. His hand gently covered yours, just before your finger could press it.
"Please," he breathed out, his voice cracking already. “Just… please. Just give me a minute. One minute. That’s all I’m asking.”
You stared at him, your lips parted but no words coming out. Your hand under his didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either. You were trying to place him, he could see it in your eyes. Like your brain was flipping through the pages of a book that had been burned halfway through, trying to find a sentence that made sense.
He pulled his hand back, slowly. Raised both palms, like he was surrendering.
“I know you don’t remember me,” he said softly. “I know I’m just some… stranger in your eyes. I get it. I saw it the second you looked at me. But I’m not a stranger. I’m not.”
You were still silent. He didn’t even know if you were hearing him, really hearing him, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out now. They’d been bottled up for too long.
“I’m Minho,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m the guy who’s been here every day. I’ve been sitting outside that door since the day they brought you here. I slept in that chair—” he gestured to the hard plastic seat by your bed “—because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. Not even for a second.”
Your expression didn’t change, and that broke him a little more.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”
His throat tightened, and he looked down, trying to blink back the sting in his eyes, but it was no use. The tears came. Quiet, helpless tears. The kind that didn’t come from just sadness, but from fear. Fear that you were slipping through his fingers. That he’d already lost you, not to death, but to forgetting.
“I don’t know what Jay said to you,” he said, barely able to speak through the lump in his throat, “but whatever it was… whatever he told you… it’s not the whole story. Please don’t let him be the one to define us.”
You watched him. Still silent. Still unsure. Your eyes were softening, but you didn’t speak, and he didn’t push you.
“I just want a chance,” he murmured. “To help you remember. To remind you who we were. Who we are. Even if you never remember, even if it takes forever, I’ll be here.”
He let the silence settle then, stepping back just enough to give you space, but close enough that you could still feel the weight of his presence. His heart was in his hands now, and all he could do was wait.
When you didn’t respond, didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink for what felt like an eternity, Minho felt something inside him shatter.
He had come in here, heart in his hands, stripped raw with desperation and grief, hoping that something in you would remember him. Hoping your silence meant your mind was turning over something familiar, that maybe, maybe some part of you was starting to click into place.
But you just… stared.
Like he was nobody. Like he hadn’t spent years building a life with you. Like he hadn’t held you on the nights you couldn’t sleep, memorized the rhythms of your laugh, or traced every line of your face a thousand times. You stared at him like he was just another person in a room full of machines and white walls.
And he couldn’t take it.
He wiped at his cheeks roughly, turning away so you wouldn’t see the full force of it, the way his face twisted as he tried to swallow the hurt. He muttered something under his breath, barely audible but bitter. A curse word. Anger at himself, at the situation, at fate for putting the person he loved most in front of him only to make her forget who he even was.
“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said, voice flat now, hollowed out by pain. “Maybe you’re better off without me if you really don’t see anything left. If Jay already got in your head, maybe I was stupid to think—”
He turned, hand reaching for the doorknob. He was about to walk out, to disappear the way everyone seemed to want him to.
But then, your voice cut through the quiet.
“Wait.”
It was soft. Hesitant. But enough.
He froze mid-step, his fingers resting against the cool metal of the door handle, shoulders rigid as he slowly turned back around to face you.
You looked nervous. Your eyes flickered between his and your own hands, which were now fidgeting with the edge of the blanket in your lap. You swallowed before speaking again, voice still unsure but steadier.
“Jay… he told me things. About you. About us.”
Minho stayed still, his gaze locked on you, not daring to interrupt.
“He said…” you hesitated, trying to remember the exact words, “that we were together. But that you weren’t good for me. That we were toxic. He said you… made me feel small. That you made me cry a lot. That I changed when I was with you, and not in a good way.”
You looked at him now, not with confusion, but something else. Something bordering on hurt. Vulnerability.
“I don’t remember those things,” you said. “But I don’t remember not feeling that way either. So how do I know what’s true?”
Minho’s jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t lash out. He didn’t defend himself with rage or denial. Instead, he just looked down, breathing through his nose, composing himself before speaking.
You continued, quieter now. “I want to believe you. I really do. But right now… I believe Jay. Because he’s the only one who’s reminded me of anything. He made me laugh. He told me stories I could almost remember. And you… you just make me feel confused. Scared.”
Minho winced like you’d hit him, but still he didn’t walk away.
Then, you said the words that changed everything.
“So prove him wrong.”
The room went still again, but this time it was charged. Like the air had shifted.
Your voice steadied with the weight of your decision. “If everything he said is a lie, then prove it. Prove to me that I wasn’t wrong to love you. Prove that I didn’t make a mistake.”
Minho stared at you for a long time. His heart still ached, but now there was something else, something sparking behind his eyes. A flicker of hope.
He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.
“I will,” he said, voice thick but firm. “Whatever it takes. I’ll remind you of every good thing. Every moment that mattered. And I’ll do it without pushing, without rushing. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. But I won’t stop until you see the truth.”
His expression softened. “Because I know what we had. And I know what kind of man I am when I’m with you. That’s what I’m going to show you.”
You nodded, unsure of what you were agreeing to, but willing to let him try.
And for the first time since everything changed, there was a thread, thin, fragile, but real connecting the two of you again.
The morning sun filtered gently through the half-closed blinds of your hospital room, casting soft gold streaks across the floor. You had barely slept, your mind buzzing from the night before, Minho’s visit, his tears, his voice as he pleaded for you to remember him, to trust him. Something about the way he looked at you had stayed with you long after he left. It felt too intense to be fake. Too familiar to be made up.
Still, when Jay showed up early, carrying a takeout tray of warm breakfast and that easy, familiar smile of his, you felt the same uneasiness. He looked like a piece of a memory you couldn’t quite reach but almost could. The way he greeted you, cheerful, teasing, like you’d just seen him yesterday, felt grounding. It made the confusion from the night before quiet down a bit.
“I brought your favorite,” he said, holding up the tray with a dramatic grin as he set it down on your tray table. “Okay, well, at least what I think used to be your favorite. I might be wrong. But I’m also usually right.”
You smiled small, but genuine and he noticed, clearly pleased with himself. He helped you unwrap the meal, cutting pieces where you struggled, holding your water cup steady. It wasn’t the most graceful moment, but he filled the quiet with light jokes and soft reassurances. You laughed once, softly. He smiled wider.
Then, between bites, you spoke.
“Minho came by last night.”
Jay’s hands stilled.
You didn’t notice right away. You were focused on your fork, pushing around a piece of fruit.
“He just… showed up. The nurses didn’t know he came in. He said he loves me.”
The silence between you and Jay stretched suddenly. When you finally glanced up, his face had changed. He was no longer smiling.
Jay set the cup in his hand down slowly, his eyes scanning yours as if trying to read how deeply you meant what you were saying. “He said he loves you?”
You nodded. “I don’t remember everything. I still don’t. But something about the way he said it… felt real.”
Jay leaned back slightly, his mouth tightening into a line. His voice dropped, no longer as playful as it had been just moments ago.
“I told you, he’s not what he says he is,” he said. “Minho might look convincing, but he’s good at that. That’s the problem.”
You furrowed your brow, unsure.
“He said he’d prove it,” you murmured. “That he’d show me what we had.”
Jay sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. “I didn’t want to do this unless I had to,” he said, unlocking the screen, “but I can’t sit here and let him manipulate you again. Not after everything I watched him put you through.”
You watched as he tapped a few times on the screen before turning it toward you.
There were screenshots, texts. They looked like messages from Minho. Angry words, frustration, accusations. “You never listen to me,” one said. Another: “I’m not doing this anymore, you're impossible.”
You stared at them, trying to make sense of the harsh tone. You didn’t know enough to understand the context, but it felt like something. Like a warning. Maybe Jay had been right.
Then he showed you a photo. You weren’t in it, but it was of Minho, arms around another girl at what looked like a party, dim lighting and loud energy caught in the background. Jay didn’t even explain it; he just let it sit there between you.
“You still want to believe he’s the kind of person who’ll prove anything?” he asked softly, but there was an edge under it. “He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself.”
Your stomach churned. You didn’t know if the texts were real. You didn’t know if that girl in the picture was just a friend. But Jay sounded so sure. And you didn’t remember anything to fight what he was saying. All you had were emotions, and right now, they were tangled and contradicting.
You looked down, quietly.
Jay noticed, leaning forward a little. “I’m not trying to control what you do. But I’m your friend. I care about you. I’ve always been the one who told you the truth, even when it hurt.”
You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say.
Outside your room, the hallway stirred faintly with movement. Unseen by you or Jay, Minho had arrived, earlier than expected, just like he promised himself. And he had heard just enough to stop him cold in his tracks.
-
Minho stood frozen just outside the doorway, the hospital corridor quiet around him except for the low hum of distant monitors and footsteps. He hadn’t expected Jay to be there again, hadn’t expected that.
He had arrived early, just like he told himself he would, carrying a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Inside were pieces of your shared life: polaroid photos from your first trip together, a worn hoodie he knew you used to steal from him when you couldn’t sleep, a playlist he'd burned onto an old CD because you once said you missed mixtapes. He was ready. He had come here to remind you who he was, who you both were.
But now, as he stood just out of view and listened to Jay’s voice, quiet but sharp, digging into your uncertainty, Minho felt his stomach turn.
"He had you wrapped around his finger, and I watched it happen. You cried to me so many nights, said you felt like you were losing yourself."
Minho’s fingers clenched around the strap of the duffel bag.
Jay’s voice dripped with conviction, too confident, too rehearsed. And the worst part was, you weren’t arguing. You weren’t correcting him. You weren’t defending Minho at all. You were silent.
That silence did something to him.
Minho could feel the heat rising in his chest, shame, frustration, fear, all wrapped tight together. His jaw tensed, his throat burning. He wanted to burst in, tell you Jay was lying, that he had twisted every story, poisoned everything good between you. But he knew how that would look. Sound. Emotional, desperate, unstable. Exactly how Jay wanted him to look.
He backed away from the door, slowly. His breath was uneven, and he could feel his hands shaking as he tried to keep himself calm. This wasn’t just about you not remembering him anymore. This was about someone else rewriting the memories you did still have. Someone you used to trust. Jay wasn’t just some ex-friend trying to help. He was rewriting history while Minho had to wait behind locked doors.
The weight of that was unbearable.
Minho turned and walked away from the door before either of you could see him, his mind racing, pulse hammering in his ears. He made it to the end of the hall and leaned heavily against the wall, his bag sliding off his shoulder.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath that shook too hard to hide. You didn’t even look at him like you once had. You were starting to look at Jay that way instead.
He hated him. He hated him for being in that room. For sounding so sure. For smiling while you forgot everything Minho had fought to build with you.
But more than anything, Minho was terrified, terrified that this time, Jay might actually succeed in taking you away.
-
Minho couldn’t back down.
His chest burned with every step as he marched back toward your room, the echoes of Jay’s voice bouncing off the walls of his skull like static he couldn’t shut off. His hands were fists, white-knuckled, the strap of the duffel now hanging loose at his side, forgotten. He didn’t even remember dropping it.
All he could think about was you sitting there, looking at Jay like he was someone you could trust. Like he was the one who had stayed, who had held your hand during sleepless nights, who had loved you through every breakdown, every high and low. Like he was the one who knew how you liked your coffee, how you couldn’t fall asleep unless someone rubbed your back in slow circles. Like he was the one who had never left you, not once.
The door was cracked open.
He didn’t hesitate.
He pushed it open so hard it hit the wall with a thud.
Both you and Jay jumped, startled and before Jay could even rise to his feet, Minho was on him.
He stormed in like a wave breaking through a dam, grabbing Jay by the front of his hoodie and yanking him up so hard his chair scraped backward across the linoleum. Jay stumbled straight into Minho’s chest, caught in the grip of hands that had been trembling just seconds earlier.
“You’re done talking to her,” Minho growled, voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “You’re done lying to her.”
Jay didn’t react the way Minho thought he would. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t shout. Instead, his lips curled faintly, not into a full smile, but just enough. Enough for Minho to see it. Just enough to feel sick.
Then, with the theatrical subtlety of someone who had rehearsed this very moment, Jay turned his face toward you. His expression shifted instantly eyes wide, breath shallow, voice trembling with false vulnerability.
“See what I mean?” Jay said, loud enough for you to hear. “This is what I’m talking about. This is how he is. You think I’m making it up? Look at him.”
Minho froze.
His eyes snapped to you. You were sitting up in bed, the half-eaten breakfast tray still beside you. You were staring at him, not scared exactly, but unsure. Shaken. Like someone who had just watched two parts of their fractured life slam together with no warning.
Minho’s grip loosened.
His hands fell away from Jay’s hoodie, and Jay took a dramatic step back, brushing himself off with an exaggerated tremble in his fingers. His eyes never left you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or speak or believe.
But it was Minho who looked devastated.
His chest was rising and falling too fast now, not from rage but from panic. His whole expression crumpled in front of you like a paper burned at the edges. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t come in here to make things worse. He had come to fight for you, but not like this.
He turned to you fully now, his voice cracking when he spoke.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I just… I heard him, and I lost it. I lost you, and now he’s trying to take what little I have left.”
He looked so different then, no longer the angry, storming version of himself that had burst through the door. He looked like a man barely holding it together. Like someone who had spent every second loving you, only to be shut out when you needed love the most.
And yet, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t reach for you. He just stood there, waiting for you to decide what you believed.
Jay didn’t wait a second.
The moment Minho stepped back, just far enough for the tension to hang, thick and bitter in the air Jay straightened himself up, smoothing out his hoodie like it had actually been disturbed. His smirk had vanished again, replaced once more by that carefully measured, concerned expression he knew worked on people. The same one he used on teachers when he was younger, on your parents when he wanted their trust, on you now that he had your attention again.
He gave a subtle glance your way soft, comforting, almost protective. Like Minho was the threat and he was the shield.
Then he moved, stepping slightly in front of you not too obviously, just enough to make it seem like instinct. Like reflex. Like he was trying to keep you safe.
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made Minho look even more volatile in comparison.
“This is exactly what I was trying to explain to you,” Jay said, shaking his head like he hated being right. “You don’t remember what he’s like when he gets like this. You never liked seeing him angry, remember? I told you he was bad for you.”
He turned to you fully now, crouching down just enough so he could meet your eyes on the same level. His tone softened even more.
“I know it’s confusing,” he said, carefully, like he was walking you through a lie he’d practiced a hundred times. “Everything’s messed up in your head right now. I get it. But you have to trust what you feel. That sick feeling in your gut when he stormed in? That means something.”
Minho opened his mouth to speak, but Jay didn’t give him the chance.
“I’m not trying to turn you against him,” Jay said quickly, eyes still on you. “I’m just reminding you what’s real. You were scared of him once. I was there. I saw it. He wasn’t good to you. Not really.”
That last part hit Minho like a slap, his fists clenched again, not to strike, but to hold back the scream in his throat. He wanted to yell that it was a lie, that you were never afraid of him, that everything Jay was saying was calculated, twisted, wrong.
But Jay’s trap was already set. Calm versus chaos. Friend versus partner. His words against Minho’s silence.
And Jay, he didn’t need to win the whole war. Just this one moment. Just enough to plant the seed of doubt.
So he placed a hand gently over yours on the blanket. Softly. Casually. And looked you straight in the eye.
“I’m just trying to protect you,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
And Minho watched you, watched your face, your eyes, your hands under Jay’s as if he could still find the version of you that remembered.
Because Jay hadn’t won. Not yet. Not completely.
Minho stood there with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his other hand gripped tightly around the strap like it was the only thing holding him together.
He hadn’t come back that morning expecting a perfect reunion, he wasn’t that naive, but he hadn’t expected this either. Jay, already in your room like he belonged there. Jay, sitting at your side, feeding you bites of breakfast like it was normal. Jay, looking at him with that smug little grin barely hidden beneath faux concern. Like he’d already won.
Minho couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t watch someone else fill the space he’d been fighting to stay in. He’d spent the whole night digging through old things photos, playlists, that sweatshirt you always stole, things he thought might help trigger your memory, things he’d wanted to bring to you. To help you remember them. Remember him.
But instead, all he could do was stand there and watch Jay plant more lies in your mind. And you, you didn’t even know they were lies. You were just trying to survive inside your own confusion.
He lowered his head, letting his hand fall from the strap. He felt heavy. Tired in a way he hadn't even let himself admit until now.
“I’m going,” Minho muttered, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He didn’t look at you. “I shouldn’t have come back.”
You looked up, surprised. You hadn’t expected him to give up, not so suddenly, not when it was clear how much this meant to him. Jay didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back in the chair with a sigh, already satisfied.
“You should let him go,” Jay finally said under his breath, just loud enough for the silence to catch it. “He’s already done enough.”
Minho stiffened, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t yell. He turned toward the door with heavy steps, his hand brushing against the knob.
That’s when you said it.
“Min.”
Just one word. Just that nickname. Small, almost unsure, but the second it passed your lips, it was like the entire room stopped breathing.
Minho froze.
Slowly, he turned his head, not all the way, just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes wide, almost disbelieving.
You saw it on his face immediately. Shock. Pain. Hope. All of it tangled together like a wound trying to heal too fast.
You didn’t even mean to say it. It had just slipped out, like it had been waiting quietly in the back of your mind for the right moment to rise. You didn’t remember everything. But something about the way he looked when he stood there, his shoulders hunched, that duffel bag barely clinging to him, his voice cracking, something about it broke your heart in a way that felt familiar.
Jay stiffened. His jaw clenched.
Minho turned fully now, his eyes locked on you. “What did you just say?”
You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Min…”
It felt real in your mouth. Natural. Like it always had been.
Minho took one slow step back into the room. His duffel bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud.His eyes were glassy, his breathing unsteady.
“You used to call me that,” he whispered. “You used to call me Min. Everyday.”
Jay stood abruptly, suddenly aware that the atmosphere had shifted. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said quickly. “It’s just a nickname—”
“Shut up,” Minho snapped, not even looking at him. His eyes stayed on you.
“I didn’t think you remembered anything,” he said, voice barely holding together. “But maybe… maybe something's coming back.”
Your heart beat faster. You didn’t know why you said it, but now that you had, you didn’t want to take it back.
And Minho saw it. That flicker of recognition. The sliver of light trying to break through the dark.
It started like a whisper in the back of your mind.
As soon as the word “Min” left your mouth and you saw the way his eyes lit up, wet, wide, desperate, you felt something inside you shift. Something warm and painful and real. It didn’t come in a rush, didn’t hit you like a bolt of lightning the way people said memory sometimes did. It was softer than that. Like the faint flicker of a candle in a pitch-dark room. A glow you hadn’t seen in so long you forgot it was even there.
Minho took a careful step toward you, his expression so gentle, as if any wrong move might scare the moment away. Jay was saying something beside you, probably trying to pull your attention back, but you didn’t hear it. You were looking at Minho.
“I… I think I remember something,” you whispered, more to yourself than to anyone else. You swallowed, and your hands gripped the edge of your blanket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “It was raining. And I didn’t have anywhere to go. My family, my mom said I couldn’t come back. She locked the door. Jay told me it was my fault, that I ruined everything, and I, I didn’t know where else to go. I felt so stupid.”
Minho’s breath caught in his throat. You could see the way his body tensed at your words. He knew exactly what you were remembering.
“I was soaking wet,” you continued. “It was late. I called you… we hadn’t even been together that long. I don’t even know why I called. I just—something told me you’d answer. You told me to come over, and when I did, you were already waiting outside. You didn’t say anything when you saw me. You just… held me.”
The memory unfolded like a fragile piece of paper being smoothed out. You remembered the warmth of his arms. The scent of his hoodie. The way he kept brushing your wet hair out of your face, even though you were shivering and crying too hard to even speak. And then later, curled up on the old pull-out couch in his apartment, when you finally managed to get the words out, how he’d looked at you.
And said, “You don’t have to earn love. Not here. Not with me.”
“I remember,” you said again, your voice cracking. “You gave me dry clothes and made tea even though you didn’t know how. You burned the first batch.”
Minho let out a short, broken laugh. He was already wiping his eyes before you even finished speaking.
“I did,” he said, voice thick. “I left the bag in for twenty minutes. You still drank it.”
“Because I didn’t want to be rude.”
“No, it’s because you were trying not to cry again.”
Your bottom lip trembled, and you didn’t even realize when a tear slipped down your cheek.
Then Minho suddenly knelt down and set his duffel bag on the chair beside your bed. He unzipped it with a hand that was shaking now for a different reason. He rummaged through it for a few seconds before he pulled something out, a crumpled gray hoodie.
Your eyes widened. You knew that hoodie. Your fingers itched just looking at it.
“I kept it,” Minho said, his voice soft. “You used to wear it every night for the first few weeks you stayed with me. Even after we moved in together. I found it in the bottom of your drawer. It still smells like you. I brought it… just in case.”
You reached out for it, your hand hesitant at first, but then firmer, more certain. When your fingers touched the worn fabric, another memory sparked, curling into yourself in the corner of his couch, that same hoodie swallowing your frame, while Minho sat beside you, holding your hand and talking you through your breathing.
Minho saw the recognition in your face and gently helped you hold the hoodie in your lap. He crouched beside the bed, both hands resting on the mattress as he looked up at you.
“I didn’t just take you in,” he said quietly. “I wanted you there. You didn’t ruin anything. You saved me too. And I’ve been trying to hold on to you ever since.”
Behind you, Jay shifted in his seat, but neither of you looked at him. His presence seemed to fade as the moment between you and Minho deepened.
“You really said that?” you asked, tears streaming now.
Minho nodded, his own eyes just as glassy. “Every word.”
And even though your mind still felt like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, one thing suddenly became very clear: Minho hadn’t just been someone you loved.
He was home.
Jay shifted in the corner of the room, his chair scraping faintly against the hospital floor, the sound sharp in the silence that had settled after you finished speaking to Minho. His eyes flicked from your tear-streaked face to the hoodie in your lap, then to Minho’s crouched form beside your bed. You could see the way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His whole body screamed discomfort not guilt, not regret, but defensiveness. Like a man losing control over a story he’d worked hard to rewrite.
He stood up.
“You can’t seriously believe all that,” Jay said, voice low but pointed. “It’s been months. You’ve been through a trauma. Your memory isn’t reliable. You don’t even know if what you’re remembering is—”
“Stop.”
Your voice cut through the room sharper than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. Jay flinched slightly, blinking like he couldn’t believe you’d raise your voice at him. You sat up a little straighter, hoodie still gripped in your lap, and looked directly at him, really looked. For the first time in days, something in your gaze felt solid. Anchored.
Jay’s mouth opened like he wanted to interrupt, but you kept going.
“I remember when everything fell apart. When my mom told me to leave. When I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. You were the first person I called.”
You paused, swallowing.
The image of yourself standing outside his apartment door came rushing back with more clarity than you were ready for, the rain slamming down so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through your skin. The thunder, the way your phone screen had gone blurry from the water, how your fingers had started to go numb from the cold.
“I called you. I begged you to let me stay for just one night. You answered the door, saw me standing there soaking wet, and you looked me in the eye and told me I’d made my choice.”
Jay’s face paled, but he didn’t speak.
“You said, ‘You wanted Minho so bad? Go ask him for help.’ And then you shut the door.”
Minho, still crouched beside your bed, slowly turned his head toward Jay with a look that was anything but forgiving.
Jay’s lips parted again, trying to find something to say, but you weren’t done.
“You let me stand in the pouring rain,” you said, voice cracking just a little at the edges now. “You knew I had nowhere else to go. And you punished me for being with someone who actually cared about me.”
Jay's expression flickered, his smugness cracked for the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed. And all he could muster was a weak, “That’s not how it happened.”
“It is how it happened,” you replied, without hesitation. “And the fact that you came here, pretending like I could trust you after that… that you twisted everything just so I’d forget him…”
You shook your head slowly.
“You don’t get to play savior, Jay. Not after abandoning me when I needed you the most.”
Silence fell heavy between the three of you. Jay looked like he wanted to argue, to find a thread to pull so the truth would unravel again, but there were none left. You had your piece. The memory, fractured though it had been, was real. You felt it in your chest like a bruise that had finally begun to heal.
Minho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His hand quietly found yours on the bed, and you let it. No hesitation this time.
Jay stood there for a long moment, eyes bouncing between you both, before he scoffed under his breath,, more out of disbelief than anger and turned toward the door.
You didn’t stop him.
For the first time since the accident, Minho felt like he could breathe.
It wasn’t just a metaphor, his lungs physically expanded with the deepest breath he’d taken in days, maybe weeks. His shoulders, always tense lately like they were holding up the weight of the entire world, finally relaxed, even if only slightly. There was a softness in your expression that hadn’t been there before, a quiet kind of trust peeking through the fog of confusion and hurt. And for him, that was everything.
He exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief, as if he had been holding that breath in ever since you forgot him. Ever since you looked into his eyes in that hospital room and saw a stranger.
But now, the faint curve of your lips, the gentle smile you gave him told him that maybe, just maybe, you were beginning to see him again. Not just as a person, but as your person.
You tilted your head toward him, voice soft, curious. “What else did you bring?”
Minho’s eyes lit up.
He immediately reached for the worn black duffel bag he had placed beside your hospital bed, he’d been dragging it around since the night he left to gather everything he could find that might help you remember. His fingers moved gently, reverently, like he was handling something sacred as he lifted it onto your lap, careful not to jostle you too much.
“This,” he said, unzipping it, “is basically our entire life in a bag.”
He opened it fully, revealing a chaotic but heartfelt assortment of items: Polaroids, little keepsakes, your favorite hoodie of his (the one you used to steal every other week), and even a coffee mug that had a tiny chip on the rim, something you always teased him for never replacing.
He pulled out the first photo, its edges slightly curled. It was a candid one, taken at the beach on your first trip together. You were mid-laugh, wind tangling your hair, Minho’s arm looped lazily around your waist. He handed it to you, watching carefully for your reaction.
“I took this one the day you said the sea always made you feel like you belonged to something bigger,” he murmured. “We got sunburned that day because we forgot sunscreen. I remember you yelled at me for it and then made me rub aloe vera on your back like twenty times.”
A small laugh slipped out of you, and his heart swelled.
One by one, he pulled out more, A charm bracelet with a single initial, M, you had bought it at a market and insisted on wearing it every day, even though the chain was barely holding together. Your shared apartment’s spare key, taped to a sticky note with your handwriting on it: “Don’t lose this, dummy.” And then finally, a notebook. Minho opened it and flipped to the dog-eared pages.
“This was your dream journal,” he said quietly. “You used to wake me up at like 2 AM just to write down the weird dreams you had. Sometimes they were scary, sometimes they made no sense, but you never wanted to forget them. You said they meant something. That all dreams do.”
You took the notebook slowly, running your fingers over the cover like it was a relic from another life. And in a way, it was.
“You kept all this?” you whispered.
“I kept everything,” he said. “Even the smallest things. Because you never know what will mean something later. What might bring you back.”
For a long time, you didn’t say anything. You just looked through the contents of the duffel bag, piece by piece, and with each item, something in your face softened. The fog hadn’t cleared completely, but there were pockets of clarity now, glimpses of the life you’d had, the love that still waited patiently for you to remember it.
Minho didn’t rush you. He just sat beside your bed, one hand loosely holding yours, hope flickering steadily in his chest now.
He had brought your life back to you. And this time, you didn’t push it away.
Minho stayed with you the entire time, watching with quiet devotion as you sifted through the pieces of the life you had forgotten.
Each item was a breadcrumb leading you somewhere deeper, somewhere softer, toward a version of yourself that still felt far away but not impossible to reach. You didn’t rush. You turned every photo gently in your hands, paused over every note, reread every little caption or scribbled doodle. You could feel the weight of them, not just the physical weight, but the emotional one. These weren’t just things. They were echoes. Proof of something real.
And Minho never said a word. He didn’t press you or try to force anything. He just stayed.
Eventually, the silence settled around you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like safety, the kind that could only exist between two people who didn’t need to fill every space with words. His head had slowly tipped back against the chair, his arms folded loosely across his chest, legs stretched out in front of him. His breathing had gone soft and steady, and you glanced at him through the corner of your eye.
He’d fallen asleep.
You stared at him for a long while, taking him in again, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, the slight crease between his brows that made it seem like he never fully relaxed, not even in sleep. There was a gentleness to him in that moment that tugged at something in your chest. You had this strange feeling like you’d seen him sleep like this before.
And then it hit you.
The memory didn’t return like lightning. It came in quietly, softly, almost like a dream.
You remembered a night, not too long after you’d first moved in with him. It had been raining. You were sitting on the floor in his bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, trying to keep yourself from falling apart. The reality of what had happened, being kicked out by the people you once called family, losing your home, your stability had hit you like a tidal wave. You remembered how you had been trying so hard to stay strong for days. But that night, you broke.
And Minho… Minho didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to tell you that it would all be okay. He didn’t offer platitudes or promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he’d knelt down beside you and just… held you.
He’d pulled a hoodie over your head, one of his, because you were shivering. He wrapped you in his arms like a fortress and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
And you had cried in his arms that night, not because you were weak, but because you were finally safe enough to fall apart.
The memory washed over you like warmth, like light breaking through after weeks of storm.
You looked back down at the things in your lap, and your fingers found the exact hoodie from that night, the one he had wrapped around you like a second skin. You held it against your chest, letting yourself feel every layer of the moment return. The rain. The ache. His voice.
And for the first time since the accident, the memory didn’t feel like a puzzle piece struggling to fit. It felt like something that had always been there. You had just forgotten where to look.
You turned back to Minho, still sleeping in the chair beside you, and whispered so quietly that only the stillness could hear:
“I remember.”
Minho stirred awake slowly, his body stiff from sleeping upright in the hospital chair, neck craned slightly to the side. He blinked a few times, disoriented, until his eyes adjusted to the soft morning light spilling in through the blinds. The rustling of the blanket over your legs caught his attention, and when he looked up fully, his breath caught.
You were watching him.
There was something different in your expression this time gentler, steadier. Your eyes weren’t clouded by confusion or hesitation. They were clearer, like something inside had clicked into place, even if just partially.
“Hey,” he said groggily, straightening up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
You shook your head and gave him a small, knowing smile. “It’s okay. You were here.”
That alone made his chest tighten. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, searching your face like he was still afraid it might disappear.
Then you spoke again quietly, but firmly. “Minho… I remember.”
His heart stopped.
You saw the way his entire body froze, his mouth parted like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. Before he could ask, before he could even breathe, you continued.
“I remembered that night,” you said softly, your fingers running along the edge of the hoodie in your lap, the one he’d given you all that time ago. “That night I stayed with you. After everything happened with my family… with Jay.”
His throat bobbed, overwhelmed.
“I remembered the rain. I remembered standing outside Jay’s place soaked and scared, calling him and him hanging up on me. And I remembered you, Minho. You opened the door to your apartment and didn’t even ask me why I was there. You just… pulled me inside and told me I wasn’t alone.”
Minho’s hands curled into fists in his lap. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to not break down right then and there.
“I wanted to tell you as soon as I woke up this morning,” you added, voice faltering, “but Jay got here first. And I— I didn’t want to say anything with him in the room. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust him. So… I waited. I pretended I didn’t remember. Because I wanted to say it to you. First.”
Minho let out a choked sound, like something between a laugh and a sob. “You remembered,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “You remembered.”
You reached out and took his hand, your grip still tentative, still cautious, but it was yours. And it was real.
“My memories are still… fuzzy,” you admitted, “like I’m walking through fog. But I remember you. I remember how you made me feel. Safe. Seen. Loved.”
Tears welled up in Minho’s eyes again, but this time he didn’t look away. He let them fall, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against your joined hands. “That’s all I need,” he whispered. “I’ll remind you of the rest. No rush. Just… let me stay. Let me be here.”
You smiled, heart aching with something so full it nearly brought you to tears. “I never wanted you to go. Even when I didn’t remember, some part of me missed you.”
Minho lifted his head, looking at you with awe, like you were a miracle he still couldn’t quite believe had returned. “You came back to me,” he whispered.
“No,” you corrected gently. “You never left me.”
And in that moment, it didn’t matter that there were still gaps in your memory or questions left unanswered. What mattered was that the one person who had held you through the darkness was still here, steady as ever, ready to walk you home, one step at a time.
//
masterlist.
❌proofread
a/n: ending was a little rushed i’m sorry 🙃. “jay” is someone i made up, not an idol 👍
[permanent taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]
synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.
The ache in your head was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. A deep, dull pounding, as if your thoughts from the night before had hardened into something physical, a weight pressing against the inside of your skull. You winced, pulling the blankets tighter around you, wishing for a moment that you could sink into the mattress and disappear.
But reality wouldn’t let you.
You didn’t know how long you’d been awake, just that the light creeping in through the window was gray and cold, that strange shade that comes just before sunrise. It felt too early, and yet too late. Sleep hadn’t come easily the night before. You remembered lying there, turning from one side to the other, tangled in sheets soaked with quiet, bitter tears.
The confrontation with Seungmin kept playing in your head over and over, like a broken reel. His voice, raised. Yours, breaking. His lies, half-formed and crumbling the moment they left his lips. And then the door, slamming shut behind him. The silence afterward had been deafening.
You sat up slowly, careful not to make too much noise. The last thing you wanted was to wake Minjoon or Iseul, not yet. You needed a moment. Just one moment to yourself. Some air, some quiet. Some clarity.
Your feet hit the cold floor, grounding you instantly. You moved on instinct brushing your teeth, washing your face, tying your hair back. Each motion was mechanical, like your body remembered how to go through the motions even when your mind didn’t. You tugged a hoodie over your tank top, one of Seungmin’s old ones that still smelled faintly like his cologne, and padded softly toward the nursery.
First Iseul.
You peeked into her room, and there she was, your baby girl a bundle of calm in her crib, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Her tiny fists twitched now and then, as if she were dreaming. You stepped in just long enough to check her temperature with your palm, to make sure she hadn’t kicked her blanket off. Satisfied, you backed out slowly.
Then Minjoon’s room.
He was on his side, one leg flopped over his stuffed tiger, his chubby cheek pressed into the pillow. The nightlight cast a faint orange glow across his small face, and you felt your chest twist in that quiet, aching way it always did when you looked at him. So small. So unknowing.
So safe, for now.
You shut his door with the care of someone handling glass, and only when you were back in the kitchen did you finally exhale.
You brewed your coffee in silence. No background noise. No morning show, no baby monitor, no cartoons. Just the drip, drip, drip of the machine and your breath, slow and steady. You sat down at the kitchen table, wrapping both hands around the mug like it was the only warmth left in the world.
Then you opened your phone.
You didn’t plan to. At least, you told yourself that. But your fingers moved like they already knew where to go. The browser opened. You typed in her name.
Madison Lee.
You stared at the results, heart thudding a little too hard, a little too fast. The headache throbbed behind your eyes, but you ignored it.
Her LinkedIn was the first link. Clean, professional. UCLA graduate. Top-tier agency in L.A. Negotiated major sports contracts, specifically with international athletes looking to transition to the MLB. All of it lined up.
You moved to her Instagram next. Public profile.
Your breath caught the moment her photos loaded. She was beautiful sharp-jawed, clean lines, bright white teeth. She wore heels and tailored blazers like armor. Her captions were neat, professional. “Proud to represent some of the best in the game.” “Another day, another diamond.” Posing with athletes. Posing at dinners. Posing at events.
You scrolled faster.
The deeper you went, the more your stomach curled in on itself. There was one photo, taken two months ago that made your blood run cold. It was from a private dinner, tagged in Busan. Madison was smiling, wine glass in hand. The caption was simple: “Celebrating hard work paying off.” The comments were vague. But one of them… one of them was from Seungmin’s teammate.
“You two make a good team.”
Your throat went dry.
You stared at the comment for far too long, your mind rushing to connect dots that weren’t supposed to be connected. You remembered Seungmin’s deflections. The way he tripped over his words. The quiet “it wasn’t like that” before you’d even asked him what “that” was.
You hadn’t accused him of cheating, not then. Not even now. Not really. But somehow, he had still gotten defensive. Still shaken. Still ready to deny something before you could name it.
And now this.
The way he never told you about her. The way he downplayed everything. The way he didn’t mention the U.S. deal until it was practically out in the open, a secret dragged into the light by a journalist.
And this woman. This sleek, powerful, picture-perfect agent. She was everything Seungmin never mentioned.
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You told yourself to stop. Told yourself to close the app. To let it go. But your heart had a different plan. Your fear did. Your instinct, the one you had learned not to ignore since becoming a mother.
You clicked on Madison’s tagged photos.
One showed her seated next to Seungmin at a conference panel, his body angled slightly toward her. Another, taken from behind, showed them walking together through an airport terminal, not holding hands, but close enough. Too close, maybe.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your vision blurred and you blinked, chest tight.
Your phone nearly slipped from your hands when a tiny voice broke the silence.
“…Mommy?”
You froze.
Minjoon.
You turned slowly, eyes finding his small figure at the edge of the hallway. He stood there in his blue dinosaur pajamas, rubbing one eye with his fist, his hair a messy puff. His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“What you doin’?”
You blinked again, your phone dropping face down onto the table with a soft thud. The sudden reality of his voice so innocent, so real was like cold water down your back.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood, wiping your face quickly with your sleeve, hoping he hadn’t noticed your red eyes.
“I’m just… having coffee, baby,” you said softly, crouching down to his level. “Did I wake you up?”
He shook his head. You nodded, reaching out to cup his cheek. His skin was warm. Solid. Comforting.
He looked at you for a moment longer, his eyes filled with a curiosity you didn’t know how to protect him from.
“You sad?”
Your heart splintered.
You didn’t answer him. You just pulled him into your arms and held him close, your chin resting on the top of his head.
“I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice thick. “Mommy’s just tired.”
He didn’t respond. He just curled into you the way he always did when he knew something was wrong silent, present, offering comfort in the only way a two-year-old could.
You held him like that for a long time, your coffee growing cold on the table behind you. Madison’s face still staring out from behind the locked screen of your phone.
But in that moment, none of that mattered.
Because your little boy was watching.
And you didn’t want him to learn what it looked like to fall apart.
Not yet.
The knock-off hotel alarm clock glowed dim red in the half-dark, the numbers shifting sluggishly from 5:41 to 5:42 while drops of water slid from Seungmin’s hair and pattered onto the threadbare carpet. He had taken a five-minute shower on the coldest setting the rusty pipes could manage, hoping the bite of frigid water would shock the exhaustion and the shame, out of him. It hadn’t. His head still throbbed, his eyes still burned, and every breath still tasted like the silence that had filled the house after he slammed the door.
He toweled off in jerky, impatient motions, the towel snagging on the thin chain of the wedding band he’d looped around his neck at some foolish hour of the night. Too raw to keep it on his finger, too terrified to take it off completely.
The room smelled like industrial soap and last night’s cheap coffee. His duffel bag lay open on the bed, half-packed: a spare pair of jeans, two t-shirts, a hoodie that still smelled faintly of your laundry detergent. He shoved his travel-size toiletries kit on top, then hesitated, palms braced on the mattress, head hanging.
Go home, he told himself. Say you’re sorry, really sorry, no excuses, no half-truths. Just beg her to let you talk.
But every time he tried to picture the conversation, Madison’s name pushed in like static.
Three months of avoiding her calls, her emails, her marketing decks promising “seamless transitions” and “lifetime earning potential.” Three months of pretending he could outrun that night in the Los Angeles hotel bar, pretending the almost-kiss hadn’t happened at all.
It had happened. Quick, sloppy, drunk on victory and adrenaline after scouts bought a round of champagne. She’d leaned in, laughing at something he barely remembered saying, and before he could dodge, her lips grazed the corner of his mouth. He’d flinched back so fast he nearly toppled his chair. She’d apologized smooth, professional, but the gleam in her eyes told him she wasn’t sorry at all.
He should’ve fired her on the spot. He should’ve called you from the lobby, confessed everything. Instead he buried it because you were six weeks postpartum, surviving on ninety-minute sleep cycles and sheer determination. He told himself you didn’t need another worry. He told himself it was one slip. It would blow over. He could fix it later.
Only later never came. And the silence turned into omission, and the omission into a lie so sprawling he’d lost track of all its edges.
Seungmin scrubbed both hands over his face, then yanked the zipper of the duffel shut. He slung the strap over his shoulder, grabbed his phone and room key, and headed for the door.
The screen lit up just as his fingers closed around the handle.
Madison Lee – Incoming Call
The name glared at him like a warning flare.
His thumb hovered over Decline. Then stupid, reckless curiosity he hit Accept and lifted the phone halfway, not bothering with the speaker.
“Seung? You finally picked up.” Madison’s voice was syrup-smooth, a practiced mix of concern and authority. “I was starting to think you’d ghosted me for good.”
“It’s six in the morning,” he said, voice rough.
“In L.A. it’s one p.m.,” she answered breezily. “Look, I know things exploded online yesterday. I wanted to check in, see how you’re handling the press.”
Press. As if the fallout were a headline problem and not a marriage imploding.
“I’m fine,” he lied. He rubbed the knot forming at the base of his skull. “Nothing to talk about.”
“Seungmin.” The shift in her tone was almost imperceptible, businesslike turning coaxing, coaxing turning possessive. “We had momentum before you went dark. The Padres and the LA Dodgers both asked for new videos. If we get them preseason tapes this week, your offer numbers stay strong.”
“It’s over, Madison.”
A pause, a single beat where he could almost hear her recalibrating.
“Over?” she echoed, polite disbelief layered over steel. “The KBO is wrapping. You’re twenty-six, you’ve got prime velocity, and you’re about to start losing leverage. Over is not a strategic—”
“My marriage might be,” he snapped. “The contract can wait.”
Another pause, this one brittle.
“You told me she supports your career.”
“She does.” His throat closed. She did. Before I broke it. “But she also deserves the truth, and I haven’t given her that. I’m not signing anything until I fix what I can at home.”
“Seung—”
“She’s more important than baseball,” he said, and the second the words left his mouth he realized how painfully, perfectly true they were. “And she’s definitely more important than a contract built on secrets.”
Madison exhaled, an annoyed puff disguised as a sigh. “I understand you’re emotional right now. But you need to think long-term. Opportunities like this don’t sit on shelves.”
That familiar, silky persuasion the same tone she’d used that night in L.A. before leaning in. Guilt flared hot in his chest.
“This call is over,” he said, and hit End before she could respond.
For a moment he stood motionless, phone slack in his hand, heart hammering. Then he shoved the device into his back pocket, yanked the door open, and stepped into the hallway.
6:07 a.m.
The corridor smelled of disinfectant and stale cigarettes. His sneakers squeaked on the cheap vinyl tiles as he jogged toward the elevator, duffel thumping against his hip. In the chrome doors he caught his reflection, hair still damp, eyes rimmed red, hoodie askew. He looked like a man who’d spent the night running from ghosts and found them all waiting in the morning.
No more running.
He thumbed a rideshare request with shaking fingers. Twenty-four minutes to the house. Long enough to practice the apology again and again until the words stopped sounding useless.
But words, he knew, wouldn’t be enough. He would have to show you, prove with every action that the silence was finished, that the truth, unvarnished and ugly, was finally on the table.
The elevator dinged. He stepped inside, pressing L, knuckles white around the strap of the duffel.
As the doors slid shut, he whispered into the empty space, half-prayer, half-promise:
“Please let me still be her home.”
He rehearsed the truths, over and over, until the rideshare pulled to the curb in front of the house quiet, blue-gray in the dawn. Lights were off except one faint glow in the kitchen window. He imagined you there, a mug between your palms, the kids still asleep upstairs.
Please open the door, he prayed silently, stepping onto the walk. Please let me tell you everything.
The sun hadn’t fully risen when Seungmin stepped inside your home.
The door creaked slightly as he opened it, just enough for the morning light to creep over the threshold and land across the living room floor in narrow slants. He held his breath for a beat as he closed the door behind him, the silence of the early hour wrapping tightly around him like gauze. There was no welcome. No warm light. No scent of breakfast or soft hum of music like there used to be when things were okay.
But the house wasn’t silent.
The first sound that hit him was the tiny, sharp cry of Iseul raw and distressed, unmistakably the kind of cry that had lasted more than a few minutes. It had that edge to it, the exhausted kind that said she had been fighting sleep for a while now. The second sound, softer, more familiar, was the rustle of Minjoon on the couch, feet kicking at the blanket around him as his favorite cartoon played on low volume. The third sound unspoken, invisible was the throb of emotion in his own chest.
Seungmin set his duffel bag quietly by the door, his movements slow, deliberate, like approaching a wound he wasn’t sure how to treat. His eyes found you immediately.
You were pacing the living room, hair pulled back hastily, dark circles beneath your eyes, one hand clutching Iseul against your chest while your other rubbed her back in practiced, instinctual circles. Your lips moved every now and then hushed words, gentle reassurances, but your eyes looked blank. Not empty. Just… spent. Like a body operating entirely on instinct. On routine. On the kind of fatigue only a mother running on fragments of sleep could understand.
He wanted to crumble then and there. He didn’t deserve to walk into this into you, carrying the weight of everything on your own again. And still, you did. You always did.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking the stillness.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up right away.
But when you finally did, your eyes flicked to him in a way that made his heart ache. Not startled. Not angry.
Just… tired.
“Iseul’s been crying for over an hour,” you said, your voice thin. “She keeps waking herself up.”
He nodded, already moving toward you, his arms out. “Let me.”
You hesitated, gaze locking with his for a fraction of a second longer than he expected. Not because you didn’t trust him with her. But because this was the first time he was this close to you in days physically, emotionally. After everything. And he knew you were wondering whether you’d even be able to stand it.
But finally, wordlessly, you passed Iseul into his arms.
The baby girl fussed as the transfer happened, her cry catching in her throat, but the moment she settled into his chest, the crying slowed. His hand cradled the back of her tiny head, and he swayed slightly on instinct, rocking side to side in that barely-there rhythm she liked. Her hiccuping breaths began to slow.
“She missed you,” you whispered, voice fraying around the edges.
Seungmin pressed a kiss into Iseul’s forehead and closed his eyes.
“I missed her more,” he whispered back.
He glanced at Minjoon, who hadn’t moved from the couch but had clearly noticed his dad’s arrival. The little boy looked over with sleepy, cautious eyes, milk bottle in hand, stuffed tiger tucked into his lap. His cartoon was still playing in the background, but Seungmin could see the tension in his small shoulders.
Guilt rose again like a wave.
“Hey, Min,” he said gently.
Minjoon gave him a half-hearted smile but didn’t speak. Seungmin wanted to go to him, to kneel down and wrap his boy up in his arms too, but this moment wasn’t about repair with the kids, not yet. First, he needed to repair what had been broken with you. The children needed stability. Trust. They would get that once he gave it to you again first.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly, finally looking at you again. “Please?”
You looked at him then, really looked. The dark shadows under your eyes, the exhaustion carved deep into your features, the subtle bite of suspicion still lingering behind your gaze, it all told him exactly what kind of damage he had done. You didn’t nod right away.
You looked back at Minjoon. At the clock.
Then back at him.
Finally, you said, “Okay.”
-
He followed you to the bedroom after he handed Iseul back to you, now dozing lightly against your chest, still sniffling now and then. You laid her down carefully in her bassinet by the window and checked twice to make sure her pacifier was in place before turning back to him. You sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands resting in your lap, unmoving.
He stood for a long moment, unsure where to begin. The truth was ugly. The silence, worse. But nothing could be worse than watching the way your fingers were trembling now as you waited.
So he sat, hands resting on his knees, and breathed once before diving in.
“I didn’t cheat on you.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But he saw your shoulders tense.
“I know,” you said after a pause. “I never said you did.”
“I know,” he said back, guilt crawling into his voice. “But I acted like someone who did. And I need to tell you why.”
You looked away, staring out the window.
He continued.
“Three months ago… after a showcase game, Madison tried to kiss me.”
You flinched this time subtle, but real.
“I didn’t let her,” he said quickly. “I swear. I pulled away, told her it was inappropriate. But I didn’t fire her. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t come clean, and that’s where I screwed everything up.”
You inhaled sharply, but still said nothing. Your silence screamed louder than anything.
“I didn’t say anything because I thought I was protecting you. You were still recovering, you weren’t sleeping, the kids were barely giving you a moment to breathe—”
“And you thought I couldn’t handle the truth?” you interrupted quietly, looking at him now, eyes sharp. “You thought I’d break?”
“No,” he whispered. “No, I just… I thought if I told you, you’d see me differently. Like I’d let it happen. Like I’d opened that door. And I didn’t. But I—, I still didn’t tell you. And that’s just as bad.”
The words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy.
“I felt like I was being pulled in two,” he went on. “One side of me wanted that contract—so badly. I wanted to prove I was good enough. That I could play with the best. But the other side of me…”
He trailed off, voice cracking.
“The other side of me didn’t know how to chase that dream without hurting you. And instead of being honest, I started lying by omission. I thought I could balance both. But the second I hid Madison’s attempt to cross a line, I was already letting it fall apart.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and he could see the pain etched deep into your features.
“She wasn’t just your agent, Seungmin,” you said, voice shaking. “She was part of a secret you were keeping. That’s what hurts. Not the kiss that didn’t happen. Not the job offer. It’s that you made choices without me when we promised to do this—life—together.”
His eyes welled up. “I know.”
“Do you?” you asked. “Because you left. You didn’t talk. You didn’t fight for us last night.”
“I didn’t know how,” he admitted. “I was ashamed. I kept thinking… if I didn’t say anything, maybe it would fix itself. But I’ve been lying to myself too. And I can’t anymore. If you hate me, if you don’t forgive me, I’ll accept that. But I had to tell you. I have to be the man you and the kids deserve.”
You didn’t respond right away.
You stood up slowly, walked over to the window, and wrapped your arms around yourself as you looked out at the pale morning sky. He didn’t follow. He just waited.
Finally, you said, “I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know what comes next.”
Seungmin nodded slowly, his voice almost a whisper. “Whatever you need. However long it takes.”
He stood, stepping closer, slowly, like you were a cliff edge he was terrified to fall from.
“Let me help again,” he said, gently. “With the kids. With the house. With you. I don’t want to be a visitor in this family. I want to come home.”
Your breath hitched.
You turned toward him, tears brimming now, but still not falling.
“I want that too,” you whispered, voice cracking, “but I need to believe you again. That’s going to take time.”
He nodded, one tear finally slipping down his cheek.
“I’ll wait,” he said, softly but with conviction. “I’ll wait for as long as it takes.”
And for the first time in days, maybe longer, you nodded back.
The off-season came with quieter mornings, slower afternoons, and a noticeable shift in the atmosphere of the house. Not peaceful, exactly because healing wasn’t immediate, and the weight of everything that had happened still lingered in the walls like a draft you couldn’t quite seal up, but there was space now. Space to breathe. Space to try again.
And for Seungmin, that space meant relearning his role in his own home.
He was always a good father. Attentive when he was around, gentle, patient. But “when he was around” had become a luxury during the season. Days blurred into flights, games, hotel beds, away stadiums, and practice fields. FaceTime calls with Minjoon that ended with the toddler smashing the screen in frustration because it wasn’t the same as a hug. Missed milestones, first steps, first words that you had recorded and sent to him with a bittersweet caption and a quiet ache behind your smile.
But now, the Lotte Giants were done for the year. The glove had been hung up. And for the first time in months, he wasn’t just a guest who dropped by with gifts and apologies. He was home.
And he was trying.
You noticed it right away. The way he hovered behind you during breakfast, watching how you made Minjoon’s pancakes into small shapes to make eating fun. The way he squinted when you measured out Iseul’s formula and checked the temperature of her bottle on your wrist. The questions that followed you around the kitchen like a soft echo:
“Do we cut the apple slices like that so he doesn’t choke?” “How many ounces is she drinking now?” “Does Minjoon still hate that one blue cup?”
There was hesitation behind all of it, a nervous energy that said he didn’t want to screw anything else up. Not even the smallest task. And even when you didn’t answer too tired, too wary, too heart-heavy, he found ways to try.
It was endearing, if not occasionally clumsy.
One particular night, you had just put Iseul down in her crib after a feeding, and the house was finally quiet except for the faint sound of Minjoon’s toothbrush scraping across his tiny baby teeth. You leaned against the hallway wall outside the bathroom, arms crossed loosely, head tilted as you listened.
Inside, Seungmin was kneeling on the bath mat in his hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watching Minjoon brush his teeth with great concentration.
“Okay, buddy,” he said gently. “That’s good! You got the top teeth. Now get the bottoms. Can you say bottoms?”
Minjoon garbled a half-word around the toothbrush and grinned.
“Yeah? Okay! Cool. Um—after this, what do we do next?” Seungmin asked, clearly unsure but trying to make it sound fun. “Do we put your pajamas on now?”
Minjoon frowned like Seungmin had asked if he wanted to eat spinach for dessert.
“No,” the toddler mumbled, pulling the toothbrush out dramatically. “Mommy do face.”
Seungmin blinked. “Mommy… what?”
“Mommy,” Minjoon repeated very seriously, pointing to the towel hanging on the hook. “Mommy wash face. First. After brush. Then jammies.”
You bit back a laugh and pressed a hand to your mouth.
Inside the bathroom, Seungmin stared at the towel like it was a final exam question in a language he didn’t study.
“She washes your face?” he repeated. “After brushing?”
“Yah,” Minjoon replied, nodding with the unwavering confidence of a two-year-old whose world made perfect sense.
Seungmin let out a soft, amused huff and reached for the towel. “Okay, okay, little boss. Face wash it is.”
You heard the soft sound of water running, then a wet towel being wrung out. A moment later, the giggle of Minjoon as Seungmin dabbed the warm cloth over his cheeks.
“Is this how Mommy does it?”
Minjoon nodded again. “Warm, warm.”
“Warm. Got it. Anything else, Mr. Routine Expert?”
“No soap,” Minjoon added decisively.
“Noted,” Seungmin said, and your heart ached just a little. He really was trying.
The small exchange warmed something in your chest that had long been locked in ice. It didn’t erase the tension. It didn’t undo the past few weeks. But it added a softness to the air. A reminder of who Seungmin used to be and who he was still trying to become again.
He carried Minjoon out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the toddler now wrapped in spaceship-themed pajamas, holding tightly to his little stuffed tiger. When he saw you standing by the wall, Seungmin gave a sheepish shrug, like he’d been caught cheating on the test by asking the kid for the answers.
You smirked, arms still folded. “You let him boss you around?”
Seungmin met your eyes, and for the first time in days, his smile came with no walls. “If it means doing it right… yeah. I’ll take the help.”
Your smirk faltered slightly as your gaze lingered on him holding your son with such care, with such openness. You nodded, voice quiet. “That’s good. He’s… routine-oriented. He likes things a certain way.”
Seungmin shifted Minjoon in his arms and gave you a slow nod. “Just like his mom.”
And the look you gave him in return wasn’t soft, exactly. But it wasn’t cold either.
Progress, in its rawest form.
He carried Minjoon off toward the toddler bed without another word, and you heard him whispering a story about a dinosaur who played baseball and forgot his bat. It was silly and charming and full of nonsense, but Minjoon was giggling by the end of it. It filled the quiet of the house in a way that you had missed more than you’d realized.
You stayed leaning against the wall long after the house had gone quiet again. Long after Seungmin had tiptoed back down the hallway and passed you with a tentative glance. Neither of you said anything. He didn’t try to reach for your hand. He didn’t try to fix everything all at once.
But that night, he didn’t sleep on the couch.
Not because everything had been healed.
But because you’d left the bedroom door open.
-
The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. Outside, the early winter wind tapped against the windows rhythmically, brushing dried leaves along the glass like it was trying to soothe the tension inside.
You were propped up against the headboard, knees tucked under the blanket, phone in hand but not really reading anything just scrolling through article titles, social posts, bits of news that couldn’t quite penetrate the fog in your head. Your mind was elsewhere. Stuck somewhere between the memory of Madison’s name on that leaked article, Seungmin’s broken explanations, and the sharp echo of your daughter’s cry the morning after it all came crashing down.
Beside you, Seungmin sat on his side of the bed, legs stretched out under the covers, a respectable distance between your bodies as if he was afraid even the smallest touch might rupture the fragile stillness you’d managed to build over the last few days. He’d just come out of the bathroom in his familiar gray cotton pajamas, towel drying his damp hair like he always did before bed. It used to be a comforting routine, watching him pull the towel away from his head, ruffle his still-wet hair, and crawl into bed beside you with a sigh of relief and whispered complaints about practice. But now, even that normalcy felt like borrowed nostalgia.
He hadn't said anything yet, and neither had you.
But he was watching you.
Not the way he used to, when he'd sneak glances because he couldn’t help it, because loving you had always come as naturally as breathing, but in the way someone watches a candle flicker in the wind, terrified of the moment it might go out.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was low. Raw. The weight behind it made you stop scrolling before he even finished the sentence.
“What happens next… with us?”
You didn't move. Not right away. Your thumb hovered over your phone screen before you let the device slowly drop to your lap, its glow disappearing into the folds of the blanket.
He turned more toward you, though he didn’t close the space between you. His gaze dropped briefly to his hands fingers fidgeting, like he needed to do something with the nervous energy. When he looked back up, he exhaled through his nose and said, “Because I can’t keep pretending like we’re okay when we’re not. And I know it’s my fault that we’re not.”
You swallowed, jaw tightening.
“I was wrong not to tell you,” he continued, his voice thick. “About the MLB talks. About Madison. About… everything. I just—” He paused, eyes glossing over for a second before he caught himself. “You’d just had Iseul. You were barely sleeping. You were already carrying everything. I didn’t want to add more weight to your shoulders.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” you finally said, voice hoarse and sharp around the edges.
He nodded quickly. “I know. I know that now. I was trying to protect you, but I wasn’t honest, and I made it worse. And when everything blew up, I—” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I’ve never been this scared before. Not even when I tore my shoulder. Not even when I thought I’d never pitch again. This… you and me… the kids… this is what matters.”
Silence stretched, thick and heavy between you. His words hung in the air like a trembling branch.
“I don’t want Minjoon and Iseul to grow up in a broken home,” he added softly. “I know I’ve already cracked the foundation, and maybe you’ll never be able to forgive me for lying, but if there’s any way to fix what I’ve broken, I want to try. I need to try. Because I don’t want to lose this.”
Your chest ached at his words. There was desperation in them, but there was something else, too earnestness. A sincerity that you recognized. A part of the man you married that had been buried beneath months of silence, distance, and secrecy.
You pulled your knees closer to your chest, the blanket sliding with you, and looked at him for a long time.
“You weren’t just protecting me,” you said, voice quieter now. “You were protecting yourself. You were afraid I’d leave you if I knew what she did. You were afraid to look like the bad guy, even if it was just a kiss that she tried. You didn’t cheat, Seungmin, but you lied. You let that woman stay in our life after she crossed the line, and then you covered it up like it wouldn’t matter.”
He winced at your words. But he didn’t deny them.
“And what hurt the most,” you continued, blinking back the sting behind your eyes, “was that you made that decision alone. You stopped trusting me to handle the hard things with you. That’s what broke me.”
The room went silent again.
You looked down at your hands, turning your wedding ring absentmindedly on your finger.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “I don’t have the answer. I know I love you. I know I don’t want to lose what we built. I don’t want our kids to feel this tension either. But I can’t just… go back to normal like it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Seungmin said, voice low and steady. “I just want a chance to rebuild. Even if it takes time. Even if it’s slow. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Then, after a long pause, you slowly shifted your weight and lay back against the pillow, turning to your side to face away from him.
“Then don’t leave again,” you murmured. “Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m angry. You stay.”
He nodded, even though you couldn’t see it.
And after a minute or two, the bed shifted gently as he lay down too. Still not touching you. Still giving you space. But he was there. In the dark. Quiet and present.
It started with a note.
Folded twice, written in Seungmin’s tidy handwriting, and left by your favorite mug on the kitchen counter one early, quiet morning. You found it while reaching for your coffee, your eyes still heavy from sleep and your arms sore from holding Iseul during one of her longer crying spells the night before.
You stared at it for a long second, cautious.
Then you opened it.
“Take the morning off. Dress warm. No kids. I’ll handle breakfast, diapers, tantrums, and all. Please. just trust me. – S.”
You blinked at the page. Once. Twice. Your first instinct was suspicion, what was he doing? What did he plan? Could you trust it?
But it was followed, surprisingly, by a quiet sigh of curiosity.
It had been weeks since he started rebuilding slowly, like a man afraid of stepping on glass. Weeks of learning the kids' routines, of showing up even when you were too angry to acknowledge him, of sleeping on the edge of your shared bed and never asking for more than what you were willing to give. You saw it in the way he watched you with exhausted, apologetic eyes. You saw it in how he parented: fully, wholly, learning how to care for Minjoon and Iseul like he should have all along.
Maybe… maybe he was ready now to do more than apologize.
You moved through the motions of the morning cautiously, your heart beating too loudly for the silence of the house. The kids were already downstairs with him, Minjoon’s giggle echoing faintly from the living room, Iseul’s soft baby babble cooing in between. You trusted him with them, of course you did. It had never been about the kids.
It was about you.
You took a shower. Got dressed in something warm, a long wool coat, scarf, your gloves tucked in your pockets. Then, stepping carefully through the kitchen, you spotted another note next to your keys.
“There’s a driver waiting. Just follow the instructions. I’ll see you soon.”
You raised an eyebrow, but curiosity won out.
The driver was polite, quiet, and refused to tell you where you were headed. You stared out the window as the city passed you by, watching the buildings give way to open spaces, the grey of winter brushing along every surface like a forgotten memory. Thirty minutes later, you pulled up to an empty baseball field.
A public park, technically, but the field was immaculately maintained. You stepped out of the car slowly, hesitant, confused.
And there he was.
Standing near the pitcher’s mound, bundled up in his hoodie and warmup jacket, hair ruffled by the wind. A single bench sat nearby with a small thermos of coffee on it. Yours. The same hazelnut syrup you loved. The same milk-to-coffee ratio he had memorized long ago.
He waved when he saw you, and you didn’t wave back. But your feet moved anyway.
“What is this?” you asked, as you came to a stop a few feet away.
Seungmin’s breath fogged in the cold morning air. “A place I come to when I need to remember who I am. And… who I could’ve lost.”
You stared at him, unsure what to say.
He took a deep breath. “This is the first field I ever threw a ball on. Before the scouts. Before the league. Before the Giants. My dad used to bring me here. Just me and a bucket of balls. He’d stand where you’re standing now and say, ‘Show me who you are, Seungmin.’” He chuckled softly. “I never knew what he meant back then.”
Your lips parted slightly, but the words still wouldn't come.
“I lost myself this season,” he said quietly. “In the pressure. In the silence. In trying to be everything for everyone except the people who matter most. I thought I could control it all what to hide, what to protect you from. But the truth is, I was afraid. Of failing. Of losing you. Of not being enough for the kids.”
The wind blew gently, carrying the soft scent of pine and earth.
“I’ve been talking with the MLB agent,” he said, not flinching this time. “Madison was out of the picture the moment she crossed that line. But I should’ve told you. I should’ve come to you first. I didn't, and I will always regret that. I’ve declined their offer. Formally. I told them I wouldn’t uproot our life, not without your trust. Not without your voice in the choice.”
Your eyes widened. “You… declined it?”
“I did,” he nodded. “Not because I’m giving up on my dream. But because I forgot the first dream I ever had, us. This family. You and me. Minjoon, Iseul. I don’t want to go anywhere they can’t follow.”
You felt your hands tremble slightly in your pockets.
“I’m not trying to win you back with some big gesture,” he continued, stepping a little closer. “I’m showing you that I meant it. When I said I’d do anything to rebuild this. I’ll work as hard as I did to become a pro. Every single day. I’ll be here. Not just for the kids. For you. Because I love you.”
Tears welled up behind your lashes before you could stop them.
The wind, the cold, the weight of everything, it all collapsed into that one still moment. And you realized: he meant it.
Not just the words.
The action.
The choice.
For so long, you had been the one to make the sacrifices. You had been the one to carry the weight of parenthood, of loyalty, of silence. And here he was finally choosing you, even if it meant risking his own legacy.
“I hate that it took this for you to get it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “But I believe you.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t touch you. He waited.
And then you took a step closer. Just one. But it was enough. Enough for him to know he was forgiven, if not fully, then at least with the promise that one day, you would be.
And for the first time in a long time, you saw your future again.
Together.
-
The house was still when you both got home. Not quiet in the lonely way it had been in the days after the team dinner no, this was a different stillness. The kind that settled after a storm had passed. The kind that let you breathe again without choking on the silence.
Minjoon was fast asleep in his little bed, the soft hum of his nightlight casting gentle blue shadows on his blanket. Iseul had tired herself out after a long afternoon with Seungmin’s mom, and she lay curled in her crib, the tiniest fist tucked against her cheek, her chest rising and falling peacefully. You stood for a long time in the doorway of her room, your arms folded against your chest, watching the little miracle you had brought into the world, twice now and wondering how your life had shifted so drastically in such a short time.
Seungmin stepped behind you, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was warm, grounding. When you turned your head just slightly and caught his eyes in the soft light, something unspoken passed between you mutual exhaustion, yes, but also something tender. Fragile. Real.
When you both made your way to the bedroom, neither of you turned on the main light. Just the small lamp on the nightstand, bathing the room in amber glow. You took off your coat slowly, the weight of it replaced by something heavier in your chest. You felt raw. Exposed.
Seungmin changed quietly into a plain white T-shirt and sweats, moving through the room with an uncertain hesitance, like he didn’t want to do anything to break the calm that had settled between you.
You slid under the covers, and after a moment, so did he. For the first time in weeks, the distance between you was gone. Your bodies weren’t pressed together, not yet, but there wasn’t that cautious gap anymore. You were facing each other. Close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Seungmin looked at you the way he had when you were young and newly in love like you were both everything and the thing he could never quite believe he deserved.
“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “About rebuilding. About choosing us.”
You nodded, your fingers curling into the blanket. “I know.”
He reached for your hand beneath the sheets, and this time, you didn’t pull away. Your fingers threaded together with his slowly, and a soft breath left him relief, maybe. Or hope.
“I don’t deserve how much you’re still willing to give,” he murmured.
“You broke my heart, Seungmin,” you said softly, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to hold it steady. “But you’ve always held it, even when I didn’t know you were.”
His eyes welled, and before either of you could say another word, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t perfect.
It was real.
Warm and aching and full of tears that escaped down both your cheeks. His hand cradled your face gently, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held too tightly, and you kissed him like the ache in your chest could be healed by the shape of his mouth. It was the kind of kiss you give when words have run out, when all you have left is the truth inside your chest and the hope that the other person still wants it.
And then, suddenly, you broke away sniffling, crying harder now and smacked his chest with the side of your fist.
He blinked. “W-What—?”
You hit him again, softer this time, frustration and heartbreak rolling off you like a wave.
“You gave it up,” you cried, your voice cracking. “Your dream. You gave it up, Seungmin. For me.”
His brow furrowed in confusion, mouth parting in protest. “But I thought—”
“I never asked you to do that!” you snapped, even as more tears ran down your face. “I was mad you didn’t tell me, I was hurt, but that doesn’t mean I wanted you to give up everything you’ve worked for. You love baseball more than anything, and you were finally about to reach that next level. And you just—” Your voice faltered. “You gave it up like it didn’t matter.”
He sat up, slightly, hand still gripping yours as he searched your eyes. “It does matter,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “But you and the kids… you matter more.”
“I don’t want to be the reason you let go of that dream,” you whispered, tears falling silently now. “You’ll regret it. One day, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you’ll look at me and wonder what could’ve been. And I can’t live with that. I won’t.”
For a moment, the room was silent. Just the sound of both your uneven breaths, the way your hands trembled together.
Then he reached for your other hand and held both in his, warm and steady.
“If I call them,” he asked gently, “if I tell them I made a mistake, if I take the offer… would you come with me? Would you follow me?”
The question hung in the air like a single note.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding with something new and terrifying. You opened your mouth and closed it again, trying to form the words. You imagined the move. The packing. The loss of familiarity. The kids adjusting to a new world. You imagined yourself in a place where you knew no one, far from your support system, away from the life you built together.
But then you imagined him on the mound, beneath the bright lights of a stadium you’d only ever seen on TV. His name on a jersey that echoed the legacy he’d worked so hard for. And you standing in the stands with Iseul in your arms, Minjoon bouncing on your hip, cheering for their father.
You saw it.
You saw him.
You saw you, a different you, maybe, but a braver one.
And you nodded.
“Not at first,” you said, voice soft and sure. “I’d stay here with the kids while you got settled. But I would come. Once we’re ready… I would follow you.”
Seungmin stared at you for a long moment, something deep in his chest breaking open with relief, with emotion, with love that hadn’t diminished despite all the cracks.
He leaned forward slowly, brushing his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need.”
And in that quiet, broken, slowly-mending space, the two of you sat, still holding hands, tears still drying on your cheeks and for the first time in weeks, you felt something other than fear.
synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.
The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the bedroom as you fastened the final earring into place. Your fingers were clumsy, tired, but determined. The room was dimly lit, the last orange traces of sunset bleeding through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the vanity where you sat. Behind you, Seungmin stood near the full-length mirror in his navy suit, carefully adjusting his cufflinks.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay home?” he asked for what had to be the fifth time, his tone light, teasing, but underneath, you caught it, something uncertain. Something else.
You glanced at him through the mirror, watching as he checked his tie again, even though you had already fixed it just minutes ago. His posture was relaxed, the easy smile on his face was one you’d seen countless times before… but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight.
“I already told you,” you replied, reaching for your lipstick. “I’m going. I want to be there.”
He exhaled with a slight chuckle, walking over to you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and you paused applying your lipstick as he leaned in and kissed the top of your head. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispered.
You smiled, but your heart didn’t flutter the way it usually did. “You’re stalling,” you said plainly.
He grinned as if caught red-handed. “Can you blame me? You’re just… very pretty. Distracting.”
“You’re very bad at changing the subject,” you said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from your dress.
A soft fuss broke the moment, your daughter, Iseul. You instinctively moved toward the crib in the corner of the room where she lay in her tiny floral onesie, fists waving in complaint. Before you could reach her, Seungmin stepped in front of you.
“I got her,” he said gently, scooping her up into his arms with practiced ease. “Go on, finish. We’re already late.”
You hesitated, watching as your husband soothed your baby with a quiet hum. Even after years of marriage, and two children, it still made your heart twist to see how naturally fatherhood came to him.
“Are you sure?” you asked.
“Always,” he said, giving you a lopsided smile.
The distraction of getting ready, wrangling a toddler who had earlier decided to dump an entire box of cereal on the floor, and feeding the baby between curling your hair had left you frazzled. Seungmin’s teasing earlier had only barely been tolerable.
“Maybe it is taking longer because I’ve got two little humans to keep alive now,” you’d snapped at him earlier, glaring as he chuckled.
He’d raised both hands in mock surrender. “Not complaining. Just saying you’re not the fastest anymore.”
You’d muttered something under your breath, but Seungmin had leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and taken Iseul from your arms like it was second nature. “I’m serious though,” he had added gently. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough today. You always do.”
And for a moment, you had almost considered it. Almost.
But that look, the one that didn’t quite match his words had bothered you more than you admitted. You were tired, yes. But more than anything, you were curious.
Now, watching him with your daughter, that strange unease returned. You shook it off, slipped on your heels, and followed him downstairs.
Seungmin’s mother arrived just in time, letting herself in with the spare key. She was beaming, as always, excited to babysit her grandchildren for the evening. She ushered you both out of the house with warm reassurances.
“You both look wonderful,” she told you, bouncing Iseul with ease. “Have fun! Don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled.”
You kissed your children goodbye, lingering maybe a little longer than usual and followed Seungmin to the car.
The venue was already buzzing when you arrived. The end-of-season dinner was a yearly tradition, but this year felt different. Bigger. More elaborate. The private hall was beautifully decorated, navy accents for the Lotte Giants, chandeliers glimmering above round tables where players, coaches, managers, and their families were already seated, laughing, talking, raising glasses.
You were seated at one of the central tables with other wives and girlfriends, many of whom you’d grown close to over the years. There was an easiness to it familiar faces, shared exhaustion from parenting, the camaraderie of loving men whose careers were as demanding as they were exhilarating.
Seungmin settled in beside you, and his hand found yours beneath the table. His thumb brushed along your skin absentmindedly, comfortingly. You leaned in closer, murmuring, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?”
His smile was soft. “Yeah.”
And yet, there it was again. That shadow behind his eyes. That silence between sentences.
You didn’t press him. Not yet.
Dinner was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and endless toasts. You chatted with other WAGs, one of whom was due with her third baby in a few months and shared tips about baby sleep regressions and toddler tantrums. Seungmin drifted in and out of the conversation, occasionally throwing a playful jab at his teammates, smiling when someone complimented your dress.
But the entire night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was performing. Laughing at the right moments. Responding on cue. Holding you a little too tightly, like he was memorizing the weight of your hand.
Then the general manager stood up. The room fell quiet.
You turned toward the front, expecting the usual end-of-season wrap-up: congratulations, next season’s goals, and the usual pat-on-the-back speeches.
But this was different.
The GM’s voice echoed across the hall. “Before we close out this amazing season, I want to take a moment to acknowledge someone very special someone who’s been a cornerstone of this team for years. A player whose heart, discipline, and incredible right arm have led us through some of the toughest games of our careers.”
The room was still.
The GM continued, “Seungmin, you’ve given everything to this team and it shows. You’ve been more than a pitcher. You’ve been a leader. A brother. A Giant in every sense of the word.”
Seungmin squeezed your hand beneath the table.
“I know I speak for everyone here when I say: thank you. Thank you for the years, the grit, the wins and for making us proud. The MLB will be lucky to have you.”
Cheers erupted around the room. Glasses raised. Players clapped Seungmin on the back. WAGs smiled at you with congratulatory looks. There were whistles. Laughter. Applause.
But your body went cold.
The MLB?
The Major Leagues?
You turned to Seungmin slowly. He was smiling, ducking his head modestly, but when his eyes met yours, the truth was there. Quiet. Heavy.
You leaned closer. “What did he mean? The MLB?”
Seungmin’s smile faltered. “We’ll talk later.”
“Seungmin,” you whispered, but the room was too loud now. The moment had passed. Or maybe it had only just begun.
The car ride was so quiet it felt like the silence itself had weight.
Heavy, pressing. Like a fog that rolled in between you and Seungmin, blanketing the small, familiar space of the car in a silence that had never felt so foreign. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet that often passed between you, not the kind that came with years of knowing each other so well that words weren’t always needed.
No, this was something else.
This was the quiet of things left unsaid too long.
This was the sound of trust cracking.
Outside the windshield, the streets of Busan passed by in a blur of neon and night. Streetlights flickered over the hood of the car, casting fleeting stripes of light across Seungmin’s jaw, his hands on the wheel, the furrow of his brow. But you couldn’t look at him, not now. Not after the dinner.
Your arms were tightly crossed against your chest, like folding in on yourself could hold everything inside. Your disappointment. Your anger. Your fear. And your heartbreak most of all, that aching, low throb of heartbreak that kept pulsing under your ribs, like a bruise you didn’t see coming.
You felt him shift beside you.
Then his hand reached toward yours, the way it always did.
It was instinctive, familiar. Seungmin had always reached for you like this, even in silence. During fights. During your long hospital stay after giving birth to your daughter. During that sleepless month when your son wouldn’t stop crying and you were too exhausted to speak. His hand always found yours.
But not tonight.
You flinched.
Your arms tightened around yourself and you turned, just slightly, away from him.
Seungmin’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly fell back to the console. He didn’t speak right away.
And when he did, his voice was low. Regretful.
“I’m sorry.”
The words floated there, soft and tentative.
You stared out the window. You weren’t even looking at the streets anymore, just letting your eyes unfocus, mind reeling, thoughts scattered and tangled. You could hear the apology, sure, but it barely registered. It was buried under the roaring in your chest.
Because all you could think about, all you could see behind your tired, stinging eyes, were your babies.
Your son, Minjoon, who had refused to nap earlier today and had thrown a tantrum when you tried to get him into his formal little pants for dinner. Who’d needed three full readings of Goodnight Moon before he calmed down. Iseul, who had been fussy all evening, needing to be held, rocked, reassured. Her tiny body curling against your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.
And the whole time, you’d powered through.
You’d put on the dress you’d been saving. Done your makeup. Smiled. Laughed.
For him.
Because it was supposed to be his night.
And the whole time, the whole time he’d known.
He’d known his future plans.
He’d known your life was about to be upended, and he hadn’t said a word.
A lump formed in your throat, thick and hot. You swallowed it down, but it didn’t go away.
Seungmin sighed again. This one sounded heavier.
“I didn’t want to ruin tonight for you,” he said, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I know I should’ve told you earlier. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”
“You didn’t want to,” you said, eyes still fixed on the passing lights. “There’s a difference.”
That made him fall quiet.
You weren’t trying to be cruel. But you were tired, soul-deep tired and something in you had fractured when the general manager said “MLB.” The idea that your husband had been building a future, a whole new life across the ocean, and hadn’t included you, even in thought, had taken a sharp edge.
He shifted slightly in his seat.
“You don’t understand—”
“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t say I don’t understand. I understand too well. You’re scared, right? Scared of what it would mean to bring this up. Scared of how I’d react. So you just… kept it from me. Like it would somehow protect me. Like I couldn’t handle it.”
You finally looked at him then, and your voice cracked.
“I gave birth to two children. I’ve handled more than you know. And I thought we were in this together.”
Seungmin’s eyes flicked over to you, and the guilt in them nearly broke you. But not quite.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to risk you resenting me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you uprooted your life, left your family, your friends. The kids… They’re so young. You already do everything for them. I thought maybe, if I just waited, if I figured it out first—I could make it easier. Cleaner. Safer.”
You shook your head, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Seungmin.”
He looked down at his hands on the wheel. “I know.”
A long silence stretched between you. The car rolled into your neighborhood quiet, peaceful. Your street, lined with hedges and low lights, your home waiting up ahead. You stared at the windows, lit from inside. A warm, quiet glow.
You could imagine your son asleep in his bed. His dinosaur pajamas. The way he sometimes rolled over in the middle of the night and called for you in his sleep. Your daughter probably cradled in her grandmother’s arms, small and peaceful, unaware of the storm brewing outside her home.
You exhaled shakily. “Did you ever stop to think how this would affect them?”
“Yes,” Seungmin said, his voice hoarse. “Every day. And that’s why I’ve been so torn.”
He turned off the ignition. The sudden silence made your ears ring.
“I want to do what’s best for us. I want to give them a future. I thought this opportunity—” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “I thought maybe it would be worth it. A few hard years, and then we could have something more.”
You sat back in your seat, chest tight. “And you didn’t think what we already had was enough?”
His lips parted, but no words came out.
Because that was the question that echoed through the car, through your mind, through your bones.
You were building something. Here. Now. You had a family. You had a rhythm, even if it was messy and chaotic and exhausting. You had love. Wasn’t that enough?
The betrayal wasn’t just about baseball. It was about being left out of the most important decision since you’d chosen each other. Since you’d become parents. Since you’d stood at that altar years ago, hands clasped, promising to never go forward without the other.
And tonight, he had gone forward. Without you.
“I’m so sorry,” Seungmin said again, voice cracking this time.
You reached for the door handle but hesitated. Your hand hovered there, your heart racing.
You looked at him one last time. “We’re not okay.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
You got out of the car, heels clicking softly on the ground. Seungmin followed a few steps behind, but he didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to touch your hand. Didn’t speak.
Inside, your mother-in-law greeted you with a warm smile and gentle hushes, the kids were fast asleep. You thanked her. You smiled tightly. You said all the right things.
But inside, the ache lingered.
That night, you lay in bed beside Seungmin, your backs turned to each other for the first time in months. And though your body was still, your mind was not.
Because you weren’t thinking about MLB contracts.
You were thinking about a dimpled little boy who would one day ask why you moved. Why you left his playground, his cousins, his language. You were thinking about your baby girl who wouldn’t remember this home, her first room, the sound of the ocean just beyond the porch.
You were thinking about whether you were strong enough to make this leap and whether the man beside you would be the one holding your hand, or the one who had already let go.
The morning light seeped into the bedroom like a quiet intrusion soft, unwelcome. It threaded through the curtains and warmed the edge of the bed where you lay, still in your dress from the night before, now wrinkled and clinging to your tired body.
You hadn't changed. You hadn't even taken off your earrings.
Sleep had come in short, fractured waves stolen between the cries of your daughter needing to be fed at 2 a.m., and the restless tossing that followed after, your mind far too loud to silence. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the banquet hall, the raised glasses, the moment the general manager said "The MLB will be lucky to have him," and the proud, practiced smile on Seungmin’s face.
And then… the way he hadn’t looked at you when he said it.
He was still sleeping now, or pretending to be. His side of the bed was slightly turned away, shoulders curved inward, a breath that wasn’t quite steady. You didn’t care to check. You slid out of bed wordlessly, your movements quiet but brisk, careful not to wake the children or him.
You padded barefoot into the nursery and found your daughter still asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft pink blanket your mother had crocheted. You stared at her for a moment, absorbing the stillness, the simplicity of her peace. Your son was next, curled up in a tangle of dinosaur sheets, one small hand clutching his favorite plush tiger to his chest.
And just like that, the sharp edges of your anxiety dulled, briefly. Your children were safe. Still here. Still yours.
But the gnawing ache in your stomach hadn’t left.
You walked into the kitchen, made yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and settled at the table with your phone, screen lighting up with unread messages. Friends. WAGs. Notifications. Mentions. Group chats.
One name caught your eye.
A message from Yuna, one of the team wives, someone you had grown relatively close to. Always sharp-eyed and protective of the women around her. The message was short, clipped.
“Hey. Have you seen the article?”
You frowned.
Tapping the link she’d attached, you opened it and began to read.
“Inside Scoop: Lotte Giants Star Kim Seungmin’s Secret MLB Talks And the Woman Behind It All”
It was a gossip piece. The kind that pulled from ‘sources close to the player,’ spun half-truths into narratives, laced with just enough credibility to make it hard to dismiss.
You skimmed, your heart already racing. The opening paragraphs went over Seungmin’s impressive final season stats, a summary of his fan popularity, and then, the shift.
“Sources tell us that Kim has been in quiet communication with a high-profile American agent, who has reportedly been facilitating a deal behind the scenes for over a year. The two met during a prior sports event in California, where, according to insiders, the relationship between the pitcher and the agent extended beyond professional bounds.”
You stopped breathing.
No. No, no, no.
“While neither party has confirmed the rumors, those familiar with the situation say their connection appears personal and long-standing. One source adds: ‘She was more than just a rep. She was someone he trusted, someone close.’”
Your hands trembled as you scrolled.
“When asked for comment, Kim Seungmin’s representatives declined, saying the athlete is focused on finishing the season strong and spending time with his family. But the silence speaks volumes.”
You lowered the phone slowly, your heartbeat in your ears.
It felt like ice water had been poured into your veins.
A woman.
Someone he’d met in California.
Someone “close.”
Someone who had been “facilitating a deal for over a year.”
You thought back searching your memory, tracing timelines. Seungmin had gone to the U.S. for a week during the off-season last year. He said it was for a training camp and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? He'd FaceTimed you with a smile, sent photos of his hotel room, texted you how much he missed you.
You remembered because you’d been pregnant then. You remembered how miserable that week had been swollen feet, morning sickness that lasted into the night, and a toddler with a fever. You’d managed it all. Alone. And when he came back, he’d brought you a sweatshirt that smelled like new cotton, a stuffed animal for your son, and a small pair of baby sneakers.
It was one of the rare times he seemed truly guilty about being away.
And now… this.
You stared at your coffee, untouched, hands tightening around the mug like it might anchor you.
The sounds of the morning were beginning to rise,
Seungmin came down not long after. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Face unreadable.
But your eyes were sharp now. Searching. Watching.
He said good morning like nothing had changed. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t laid in the same bed wondering if the man beside you was no longer just your husband, but a liar.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, moving toward the fridge.
You said nothing.
He turned. “Babe?”
“Who is she?”
The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to be gentle. Not now.
Seungmin froze.
He blinked slowly, confusion flickering in his features. “What?”
“The woman. The agent.” You pushed your phone across the table toward him, screen still lit with the article. “You’ve been talking to her for a year?”
His expression darkened as he read. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“This is bullshit,” he said, pushing the phone back. “You know how gossip sites work. They just—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He paused.
That pause was worse than a confession.
Your throat tightened. “Just tell me the truth.”
“There’s nothing going on,” he said, voice steady, but not reassuring. “She’s a sports agent. I met her once. She reached out after the winter games. She said there was interest. I didn’t think it was serious. It wasn’t personal.”
“You didn’t think it was serious?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’ve been talking to her for a year. Setting up your career without me. And now there’s an article saying it’s more than that, and I’m just supposed to believe it’s all nothing?”
“She wants me in the MLB,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. His voice dropped. “That’s all. That’s all it is.”
You stood.
Something inside you, that tightly held center, broke.
“Do you know how humiliating this is?” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be the last to know about your own husband’s life? To find out in a room full of strangers that he’s moving across the world? And then the next morning, read that he’s been seeing another woman behind my back, business or not — for a year?”
Seungmin was pale now. Quiet.
“I never touched her,” he said. “I never crossed that line, I never cheated on you.”
“But you hid her,” you said. “And that says enough.”
Your son peeked around the corner, clutching his plush tiger, wide-eyed.
You exhaled, fighting to calm the storm inside you. You bent down, kissed the top of his head, and guided him back toward his toys.
“I’m not doing this in front of the kids,” you said without turning around. “I’m not fighting with you where they can hear.”
Seungmin’s voice was barely audible. “Then when?”
You looked back at him, the man you’d loved for years, the man who had held your hand in delivery rooms, danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, written love letters on hotel stationery.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Because right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
And for the first time in your marriage, you walked away.
Not because you didn’t love him.
But because you had to protect something more fragile.
Yourself.
-
The silence that had stretched like taut wire through the early morning finally snapped by noon.
You’d tried to hold your tongue. Tried to focus on the children. On the daily motions that had once felt so automatic, making lunch, folding a forgotten pile of laundry, wiping jelly from your son’s cheeks. But even the gentlest parts of your life had turned sharp, heavy with unsaid words.
Seungmin paced behind you, trailing like a shadow, quiet but restless. You could feel his gaze at your back, like static.
He was waiting.
For you to explode.
Or for you to let it go.
And you could feel it crawling up your throat, that familiar heat. You had done this for too long. Swallowed things for the sake of peace. Told yourself it was just the job, just stress, just a phase. But today? There was no peace left to keep.
You turned toward him, jaw set.
“You’ve been hiding things from me for months.”
His eyes locked with yours instantly, tired, bloodshot. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”
“Don’t—” You barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t tell me about the MLB deal. You didn’t tell me about this agent. And now, suddenly, the news breaks and everyone knows before I do?”
“I didn’t know it was going to come out like that,” he said, frustrated. “It was supposed to be private.”
“Private? We’re married, Seungmin!”
“I know that—”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked. “Because I didn’t feel married last night. I felt like someone tagging along at a dinner where my husband’s future got announced without me. And I didn’t feel married this morning, reading that some womanhas been guiding your entire next chapter, while I was here — pregnant, raising two kids — not knowing anything.”
He ran both hands through his hair, the tension in his shoulders visible. “It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Explain it. Tell me, because right now the facts don’t add up. You said you didn’t cheat, but I never even said you did.”
That stopped him.
His eyes went wide like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.
You stared.
And he knew. You saw the flicker of realization in his face. That he had let something slip, a defense he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t guilty of more than what you knew.
“I didn’t cheat,” he said again, more measured now. “I just thought— when I saw the article, I thought—”
“You thought I’d accuse you,” you said flatly. “Because something did happen.”
“No!” He stepped forward, desperate. “No. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Then why are you scrambling? Why is your story changing every ten seconds? First you barely knew her, then she reached out to you, now she’s been helping you for a year?”
He gritted his teeth. “She reached out after the winter games—”
“You already said that.”
“She brought up the offer before it was even real. I didn’t take it seriously at first—”
“And yet somehow, she’s close enough to you now that people think you’re involved,” you said bitterly. “Funny how fast that escalated.”
He groaned, turning his back briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to turn into this. I just— I’ve been trying to secure something better for us. For the kids.”
You laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you dare bring our kids into this. Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You weren’t thinking about them. You weren’t thinking about me. You were thinking about you. Your career. Your next big move.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” you shot back, “is waking up next to a stranger. A man who made decisions without me. Who kept a woman secret from me for over a year. Who lied — or twisted the truth so carefully it felt the same.”
Seungmin stepped closer, voice rising now to match yours. “She’s a professional contact. I didn’t want to involve you until I knew it was real. Is that so hard to understand?”
You were yelling now. “What’s hard to understand is why I had to find out with the rest of the world. If you respected me, if you trusted me, if we were a team like you always said— you would’ve told me.”
He shouted over you, voice breaking with frustration. “I was scared, okay?! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to hate me for dragging you and the kids overseas. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”
You stared at him, truly stared.
And what broke you wasn’t the yelling.
It was the fear in his voice. Not of losing you, but of confronting the truth. Of facing the fallout of a decision he’d already made.
Your chest heaved. Your eyes burned.
“That’s the part you don’t get,” you said, quietly this time. “You already made it harder. Not by asking me to leave. Not by considering the offer. But by lying. By deciding I couldn’t handle the truth.”
He shook his head, voice thick. “It wasn’t about you.”
You scoffed. “Right. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
You didn’t notice how loud you’d become until the silence that followed felt unnatural. And then, A piercing, frantic cry cut through the house.
Iseul.
Shrill, high-pitched, panicked.
You both turned at once.
Seungmin moved first, instinctively, like the father he still was bolting toward the nursery hallway. But your hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.
He looked at you in confusion, breath shallow.
You stared at him with fire in your eyes.
“No.”
His brows furrowed. “What— she’s crying—”
“I’ll go,” you said, your voice raw. “Not you.”
“Why?” His voice cracked. “She’s our daughter.”
“No,” you whispered. “She’s my daughter right now. Because I’m the only one here.”
He blinked like you’d slapped him.
You let go of his wrist.
Then you turned and rushed.
Down the hall, through the open nursery door, into the soft lavender-painted room where your daughter wailed from her crib, little fists clenched, cheeks red and glistening.
You gathered her into your arms, heart pounding, holding her to your chest like a shield. Her tiny body shook against yours, but you whispered soothing words, rocking her gently.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And you meant it.
Not just for her.
For yourself.
Because right now, in this house filled with cracked trust and echoing pain, you were the only one still standing for her. For both of your children. You couldn’t protect them from everything, but you could be the one who stayed honest.
You rocked her until the cries softened, until her small breaths slowed against your collarbone.
And in the hallway behind you, you heard Seungmin sit down on the floor hard, like the weight of everything had finally caught up.
But you didn’t go to him.
Not this time.
The house was too quiet.
Hours had passed since the first argument, the one that left your daughter screaming in your arms and your husband sitting stunned in the hallway like the wind had been knocked from his chest. You thought maybe that would be the end of it. That silence would stretch long enough for one of you to finally make sense of what to say.
But you couldn’t stop thinking.
And Seungmin? He couldn’t stop moving.
He hadn’t left the house, but he’d stayed out of the nursery, out of the bedrooms, mostly pacing through the kitchen and hallway like a caged animal. When you walked past each other, it was stiff, shallow. He opened his mouth once, maybe twice, but the words fell away before they landed.
Until now.
It was dark out when it happened. The kids were finally asleep, your son curled in your bed, the baby passed out against your chest after her last bottle.
You passed her to her crib slowly, carefully, and left the nursery on bare feet, moving quietly through the hall.
Seungmin was waiting at the end of it arms crossed, leaned against the doorway to the living room like he was forcing himself to stay still.
You didn’t stop walking.
“Can we talk now?” he said, not looking at you.
You paused.
Turned.
“Yes,” you said. “But I’m not doing it with half-truths again.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
You crossed your arms. “So start from the beginning. Not the version you’ve revised three times. The truth.”
He pushed off the wall and walked into the living room. You followed.
He didn’t sit. Neither did you.
“It started last winter,” he began, voice low. “There was this exhibition thing in L.A., and one of the scouts introduced us. Her name’s Madison.”
Madison.
It hurt, having a name to put to the ghost. Somehow it made it worse.
“She said she’d seen me pitch in Busan the year before,” he continued. “Said she thought I had MLB potential. I didn’t believe her at first.”
“And?”
“She gave me her card. Said if I ever wanted to explore the option, I could reach out. I didn’t. Not for months. But then— after I got that minor injury in spring training, I started thinking about my shelf life. How fast it could end. How the kids are growing, and we’ll need more— more security, more stability. So I called her.”
Your expression hardened. “You were injured, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
You scoffed. “You didn’t want me to know. That’s what you mean.”
He winced, but didn’t correct you.
“I wasn’t planning anything big at first,” he said quickly. “It was just supposed to be background talk. Feelers. I didn’t even sign anything.”
“But you were talking to her regularly,” you said. “Behind my back. Letting her shape your decisions. Tell me again how that’s not hiding something?”
“She had connections,” he said. “I needed her.”
“You needed me,” you said. “You needed us. But you didn’t think we could handle the truth?”
“I didn’t want to drag you into something that wasn’t certain.”
“Bullshit,” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t want to hear me say no.”
His lips parted. Shut again.
Your heart was pounding now. Hard.
“And now this article comes out,” you said. “And it says you’ve had a close relationship with her. Not just business. Not just professional. And you still expect me to believe it was nothing?”
He threw up his hands. “Because it was nothing!”
“You keep saying that,” you snapped. “But everything else you say changes! First you barely knew her. Then she was a connection. Then you were working together for months. Now she’s your lifeline to a better life?! Which version is the truth, Seungmin?”
He stepped toward you, voice raised. “You think I’m sleeping with her? You think I would cheat on you?! After everything—”
“I didn’t say that!” you shouted. “You did!”
His mouth opened again.
And again, he had nothing.
“Do you hear yourself?” you said, near tears now. “You keep trying to fix the story instead of just telling it. Every time you talk, I feel like I’m catching you in another lie.”
He turned away, paced across the room, grabbed at his hair.
“I wasn’t lying,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want to—”
“You didn’t want to hurt me?” you asked, voice softer now, but shaking. “Then why does it feel like every word you say is cutting deeper?”
He turned, frustrated. “I was trying to make the best of what I could! I thought if I got the deal solid first, you’d feel better knowing it wasn’t just a risk—”
“I don’t need you to protect me from risks,” you snapped. “I need you to be honest. I need you to respect me enough to let me choose the hard things with you.”
He stared at you, this woman who had stood by him through every game, every travel stretch, every missed birthday and late-night bus ride. And now, when he needed you most, he realized...
He’d gone too far without you.
And now he couldn’t pull you back.
Your hands dropped to your sides, empty. Exhausted.
“I don’t even know if I’m angry at you,” you whispered. “Or if I’m angry at myself for not seeing it sooner.”
He blinked, breathing uneven.
You moved past him, toward the hallway again.
“Where are you going?”
“I need air.”
He followed. “You can’t just walk out—”
You turned, eyes blazing.
“No,” you said. “You need to leave.”
His face twisted. “What?”
“I need space. The kids are asleep. I’m not doing this again while they’re in this house.”
He hesitated. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t care,” you said. “You can go to a hotel, you can sleep in your car, you can call your manager. I just— I can’t look at you right now.”
He laughed, bitterly. “So that’s it?”
“No,” you said. “But it’s all I’ve got tonight.”
His eyes were wild now, mouth slightly open, chest heaving with things he couldn’t say fast enough.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. You don’t want to hear it? You don’t want to listen to anything I have to say? Then I’ll go.”
“I’ve been listening,” you shouted. “It’s just that none of it makes sense.”
He shoved past you, storming into the bedroom. You heard drawers yanked open. A zipper. A bag hitting the floor.
You stood frozen in the hallway, watching the shadows move under the door.
Then, moments later, it opened. He walked past you, hoodie on, baseball cap low, duffel over his shoulder. His mouth pressed into a line.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
He walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped outside.
You watched him through the window, standing still in the dark. His car door opened.
But he didn’t get in.
He stood beside the car for a second, shoulders hunched like the weight had finally settled across them.
And then he looked back toward the house.
For a flicker.
A moment.
As if expecting you to follow.
You didn’t.
And then he got in.
And drove off.
You didn’t cry at first.
You stood there, gripping the edge of the banister like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
Then, once the headlights vanished, once the silence roared back into your chest—
You broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
You just sank.
Onto the stairs. Onto your knees. And the sobs came in waves. Quiet, painful, relentless.
Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.
Because the man you had once called home had chosen a path that no longer included you, not fully.
And you didn’t know if he would find his way back.
synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & misunderstanding, second chances, exes to ??.
wc: 12,385
[part 1, part 2]
It was early. Too early.
The shrill buzzing of the doorbell drilled into Jisung’s skull like a hammer, and he groaned in discomfort, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. His head pounded from a night spent drowning memories in whiskey, a futile attempt to forget you, so carefree with another man.
It had only been hours since he saw you walking away with him, the way you smiled, your hand cradling your belly. The sharp sting in his chest wasn’t from the whiskey, but from the way you had left him in the dust. You had moved on, and now, a new life had started without him.
Another round of doorbell buzzing shook him from his thoughts. “Who the hell...” he muttered as he squinted at the time on his phone. It was barely 6:30 AM. He had barely slept.
The buzzing came again, followed by a loud, insistent bang on the door that echoed throughout the apartment. His headache flared, and he cursed under his breath. Who was it this early? His eyes were still half-shut, barely managing to process anything as he stumbled out of bed, legs heavy, his body aching from too much alcohol.
The shirt he grabbed was wrinkled and tossed, probably something he’d left on the floor the night before. He barely remembered the events of the previous evening. All he could recall were images of you, images of him, the man you were with. The one holding you close, smiling, while you smiled back, glowing with happiness.
When he reached the door, he paused for a second, running his fingers through his messy hair. There was a moment of silence on the other side. Then it came again,
buzz. Buzz. Bang. Bang.
Jisung opened the door cautiously. He didn’t even know what to expect. But he certainly didn’t expect Lana.
Lana stood there, her usual stern expression plastered on her face, her arms crossed. She gave him a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Without waiting for him to say anything, she pushed past him into the apartment. Jisung frowned, still groggy from his hangover.
She didn’t even greet him or ask if he was okay. No small talk. Just that look, the one she always wore when she was frustrated or worried.
“You reek,” she said bluntly, glancing at him as she walked further into the apartment, her nose scrunching up in mild disgust. “And you look like shit.”
Jisung rolled his eyes, too tired and hungover to care much about her bluntness. “Nice to see you too, Lana,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “What are you doing here so early? It’s barely morning.”
Lana didn’t answer at first. She was already busy scanning the room, shuffling through a few papers on the coffee table and glancing through the empty space where your old things had once been.
“Looking for something,” she finally answered, but it didn’t take long for Jisung to realize what she was doing. He hadn’t seen any of your things in months, not since you’d left.
“Everything of hers is gone,” he said quietly, crossing his arms. The words felt heavier than he thought they would. The truth was, it still felt like a knife every time he spoke about you. “It’s been gone for a while now. The only things left are stuff I gave her.”
Lana shot him a look, almost like pity, but didn’t say anything. She moved around, scanning the apartment like it might hold some magical clue that was going to fix everything. Jisung watched her, arms still folded tightly, not sure if he should care, not sure if he even could.
Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Lana turned to face him, her eyes serious.
“Did you ever read the letter she gave you?” she asked, her voice softer now but full of an underlying concern. There was something there, an edge of frustration, maybe even sadness, as if she knew this was the breaking point.
Jisung froze.
The letter.
His breath caught in his chest as memories flooded back. The image of the torn-up letter, his drunken hands, the whiskey-soaked paper, the way he’d thrown it aside as if it meant nothing. He could still feel the bitterness on his tongue, the sharp sting of rejection, the moment he decided to rip it all away because he couldn’t handle the pain. He didn’t even know what was in it, he never gave himself the chance to read it.
Lana was watching him closely now. Her eyes tracked his every movement. And then, when he didn’t answer right away, her gaze followed the direction of his eyes.
He’d left the letter on his desk, half-shredded, forgotten.
She scoffed, her voice rising with irritation. “You didn’t read it, did you? That’s really great, Jisung. You didn’t even give her the courtesy of reading the one thing she gave you, her words. Her truth.”
The words hit him hard. His stomach churned. A wave of shame washed over him. But he stayed silent, not knowing how to respond, not knowing how to apologize for his stupidity. How could he? How could he make up for all the time he wasted being angry, being selfish, and not facing what needed to be faced?
“Can you blame me?” he finally said, his voice rough with frustration. His anger bubbled up again, and he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t. “She moved on. She’s pregnant with someone else’s kid. I saw them, Lana. I saw it with my own eyes. She’s with him. She’s living the life I couldn’t give her.”
Lana’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath, but she didn’t let him off the hook. “I get that you’re angry. But you’re being a damn fool.” She took a step forward, her eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. “She’s not with him. Not in the way you think she is.”
Jisung’s heart dropped. What the hell was she talking about?
“She’s carrying your kid, Jisung,” Lana said, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “You think she moved on? No. She’s pregnant. With your baby.”
Jisung blinked, his thoughts spinning in a thousand directions. It felt like the ground was falling out from under him, his breath catching in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t process what she had just said. His mind refused to understand.
“What? What are you talking about? How—?”
Lana threw her hands up in the air. “She didn’t move on. She’s carrying your child, Jisung. She found out six months ago. Six months ago! She didn’t want to burden you with it, didn’t want to force you into anything you didn’t want. She let you go. But you didn’t give her a chance. You didn’t even read the damn letter she wrote you. And now look at what’s happening.”
Jisung stood frozen, the words echoing in his mind, each syllable a hammer to his heart. He could feel his chest tightening, his head swimming with confusion, guilt, and panic. Six months.
Six months ago, everything could have been different.
He never gave her a chance. He hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t even been willing to try to understand what was going on with her.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” Jisung’s voice cracked, his hands gripping the back of the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from crumbling.
“She didn’t want to trap you. She didn’t want to force you into a life you weren’t ready for,” Lana said, her voice softening just slightly. “But you left. You left without giving her any hope. You chose to shut down, to drink away your feelings instead of listening to her, instead of hearing her out. She wanted you, Jisung. She wanted you to be there, but you didn’t give her that chance.”
Jisung’s knees felt weak. The weight of everything was crushing him, the silence between him and Lana stretching longer and longer, suffocating him with the realization that he had destroyed something he would never get back.
“I didn’t... I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “She never told me. She never gave me the chance.”
Lana stared at him, her face hardening again. “She did, Jisung. She gave you the chance. But you ripped it apart.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “And now she’s doing it on her own. She’s carrying your baby, and you’re sitting here wallowing in your guilt and anger instead of fighting for her. You didn’t fight. You just let her go.”
His throat was tight. His chest ached as if he couldn’t breathe. Every part of him screamed to go to her, to fix it, but he didn’t even know how.
“I—” He couldn’t finish. The words stuck in his throat, caught by the overwhelming weight of what he had done.
“Figure it out, Jisung,” Lana said with a final, cutting look. “Before it’s too late.”
She turned and left the apartment, her footsteps heavy on the floor, leaving Jisung to face the wreckage he’d made.
The moment the door slammed shut behind Lana, Jisung stood there for half a second, his mind in chaos, his heart thundering painfully against his ribs. The seconds stretched painfully long, his body frozen in place, until suddenly it hit him all at once, he couldn’t just stand there.
Without thinking, without weighing his options, he threw on the first shoes he could find, mismatched even, one a worn sneaker and the other a battered slip-on and sprinted out of the apartment. The door clattered against the frame behind him, left swinging half-open.
His head was pounding from the hangover, but he barely felt it anymore. He didn’t care about the dull ache behind his eyes, didn’t care that his shirt was wrinkled and his breath probably still reeked of whiskey. The only thing that mattered was catching Lana before she disappeared.
He found her a few steps away, still waiting for the elevator, her arms crossed, looking tired and resigned.
“Lana!” he called out breathlessly, skidding slightly as he slowed down near her. She turned, brows raised in a mixture of impatience and exhaustion.
“What do you want, Jisung?” she asked, voice clipped.
He inhaled sharply, tried to catch his breath. “Your address,” he said, almost desperate. “I mean—her address. Please. I need to see her.”
For a moment, Lana simply looked at him, studied him. She must have seen the way his chest heaved, the panic, the devastation, the regret clinging to him like a second skin.
Without a word, she nodded once, curtly. “Come on. I’ll drop you off,” she said.
He blinked, stunned at how quickly she agreed, and mumbled a grateful, “Thank you.”
The ride down in the elevator was silent. Uncomfortable. The buzz of fluorescent lights above them filled the stillness as Jisung stared at the closed doors, every second crawling by slower than the last. His mind raced ahead of him, playing out every possible scenario of seeing you again.
Would you even want to see him? Would you slam the door in his face? Would you cry? Would you tell him to leave and never come back?
His chest hurt at the possibilities.
When they finally reached the parking lot, Lana headed straight to her car, Jisung a few steps behind, heart hammering as he climbed into the passenger seat.
The drive was just as silent.
Jisung fidgeted anxiously with the hem of his shirt, tapping his foot against the floor of the car. He hated how quiet it was. He hated the way Lana seemed so still, almost robotic, her face an emotionless mask.
He needed to say something. Anything.
After a few moments of agonizing silence, he turned slightly toward her and asked, almost in a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”
He hadn’t expected to speak at all, but the words fell out before he could stop them. “Why are you helping me?”
Lana’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. For a moment, he thought she was going to ignore him, let the silence suffocate him like it had been since they left his apartment.
But just as he was about to backpedal, tell her it didn’t matter, she spoke.
“You know...” she began slowly, her voice low, almost hesitant. “She told me and Jia about yesterday. About running into you.”
Jisung stiffened, shame curling deep in his stomach.
Lana let out a slow breath, her eyes still trained on the road ahead. “She was upset. Scared, even. She didn’t say it like that, not directly. But I could tell.”
Jisung pressed his hand against his knee, his nails digging into the denim of his jeans to ground himself. He hated thinking that he had scared you. Hated it more than anything else.
“And when she told me what happened... how you looked at her, how you walked toward her like—like you hated her, I guess...” Lana paused, her voice tightening. “I felt bad. For her. But... also for you.”
He blinked, stunned, confused. “For me?”
Lana gave a humorless, bitter little laugh. “Yeah. For you. You were so angry. So broken. And you didn’t even know the truth.” She shook her head. “You didn’t even give yourself a chance to know it. You just assumed the worst because it was easier than facing your own guilt.”
Jisung swallowed thickly, throat dry, the lump forming there impossible to speak around.
“I realized... you’re not a villain, Jisung. You’re just a dumbass,” she said, and despite the ache gnawing at his insides, he almost smiled at that. “You’re scared. You always have been.”
The weight of her words pressed down on him heavily. He couldn’t deny it. He had been scared. He had run from the idea of a future that terrified him, the idea of a family, responsibility, a life bigger than himself. And because of that fear, he had lost you.
He looked out the window, blinking rapidly against the sting behind his eyes.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly. “For what?” Lana asked, glancing at him briefly.
“For... not giving up on me. For helping me even when I don’t deserve it.”
Lana scoffed lightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You still have to face her.”
Jisung nodded, setting his jaw, determination slowly taking the place of fear. He didn’t know how you would react. He didn’t know if you would even listen to him.
But he had to try.
For you. For the baby. For the future he realized, way too late that he wanted more than anything.
He had to try.
He owed you that much.
It was early, really for anything other than sleep. But as Jisung stood in the dim light of the morning, standing outside the apartment complex, he couldn’t ignore the churning inside him. His breath fogged in the cool air, his mind racing, his body still fighting the remnants of the whiskey hangover from the night before. His thoughts felt scattered, jumbled in the haze of last night’s decisions. He hadn’t expected to find himself standing here, on your doorstep, hoping for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Lana’s car had pulled up earlier, and she had given him your apartment number without much ceremony. She told him she wouldn’t come with him. That it would be better if he faced you alone. Her eyes had been unreadable when she said it, but when she spoke, it wasn’t with the usual sass or sharpness. It was more... resigned, like she understood just how badly he had messed things up. She even reminded him sternly, almost motherly, not to say anything about the confrontation with you, or the way he had torn up your letter.
“You go in there, you don’t mention anything about the letter,” she had said, the warning clear in her voice. “This is between you and her. And I’m not involved.”
Jisung had nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His head was still spinning, his chest aching as he stood here. How was he supposed to fix this? How could he even begin to make things right after everything he had done?
The sound of the car’s engine fading as Lana pulled away was the final push for him. There was no turning back now. He was standing outside your door, and it felt like the whole world was waiting.
His feet carried him, almost mechanically, toward the door. Each step felt like it was taking him further into a storm he wasn’t sure he could weather. The thought of waking you up of disturbing the fragile peace you’d probably built without him made his chest tighten. Would you even want to see him?
He reached your door, his hand trembling as he lifted it to knock. The sound of his fist against the wood felt unnaturally loud in the silence of the hallway. He waited, every second stretching on and on, until finally, he heard your voice.
“I’m coming,” you said, your tone cool, though he couldn’t help but feel the underlying tension in it.
The door creaked open.
And there you were.
For a moment, Jisung couldn’t speak. His breath hitched in his throat. You were standing in front of him, looking so… so beautiful, like nothing had changed. Your hair was messy, your eyes still half-lidded with sleep, but the moment you looked at him, he felt like everything stopped. He missed you more than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to feel you close again, but he knew that wasn’t what you wanted. Not now.
You blinked a few times, taking him in. His disheveled appearance, the tiredness in his eyes, the slight frown that had etched itself into his features, it was clear that he had come here not just out of guilt, but desperation. He had so many things to say, but when he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat.
Finally, your voice broke through the silence.
“Why are you here?” Your voice was colder than he had ever heard it, and Jisung felt the weight of it hit him like a freight train. There was no warmth in your tone. There was no softness, no kindness. Just distance.
He took a step back, swallowing hard.
“I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, raw with emotion. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I had to come. I needed to tell you how sorry I am.”
You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing as you took him in. “Why? After everything you said… after everything you did, why are you here now, Jisung?” Your voice was quieter, but the pain behind it cut deeper than anything else he had heard.
He could feel the weight of his past mistakes hanging between you both. How could he have been so blind? How could he have assumed the worst when you were just trying to do what was best for both of you? He didn’t deserve this chance, he didn’t deserve to stand in front of you, asking for forgiveness. But he couldn’t stand the thought of you doing this alone, especially not after everything.
“I know what I said before,” Jisung started, his voice barely above a whisper. “I said I couldn’t be a part of a family, that I wasn’t ready. I… I was selfish. I was angry, and I wasn’t thinking about what you needed.” His hand reached for his pocket, pulling out the crumpled remains of the letter you had left for him, but he stopped himself before he could do anything. The sight of it made his stomach churn.
“I didn’t read the letter,” he confessed, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to meet yours. “I was just... so angry and upset. I didn’t even give you the chance to explain.”
There was a long silence. The seconds felt like hours as Jisung stood there, waiting for you to say something, anything. He could feel the tension building in the space between you, the unresolved feelings thickening the air around him. He opened his mouth again, desperate to make things right.
“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but… I want to be here. I want to be here for you, for the baby. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss us anymore. Please, let me help. Let me be a part of this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
You looked at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed, eyes unreadable. He couldn’t read you, not like he used to. The walls were up, and he had no idea how to break them down.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to let you in, Jisung,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know if I can trust you again. After everything…”
Jisung’s heart sank at your words. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He knew that asking for your forgiveness would be the hardest thing he had ever done. But he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let you walk away without trying, without showing you that he was willing to change.
“I understand,” he said softly, his voice shaking with the weight of the words. “But if you’ll let me, I want to try. I’m not asking for everything right now, but just… just a chance. Please.”
For a moment, the silence between you was heavy, suffocating. Then, slowly, you nodded, but it was tentative, hesitant.
“I’m not 100% ready to let you in,” you said, your voice small, “but… I’m willing to try. I’m willing to take things slow. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Jisung felt like the air had been knocked out of him. It wasn’t everything he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was the beginning of something, the beginning of the possibility of redemption.
“Thank you,” he whispered, stepping forward, though he didn’t want to push you. He just wanted to be near you, even if that meant just standing in your doorway.
You looked at him for a moment, your eyes softening just a little.
“I can’t promise it’ll be easy,” you said, voice still trembling, but there was a hint of something maybe hope? in your tone. “But I’m willing to try. For the baby, for us... maybe it’ll work.”
Jisung smiled softly, the first genuine smile he had worn in months. It wasn’t a perfect answer, but it was a start.
And in that moment, that was all he needed.
Jisung stood there, completely caught off guard by the way you looked at him, a mixture of disbelief and amusement flashing across your face. His eyes widened for a brief moment before he quickly realized the disheveled state he was in mismatched shoes, a wrinkled shirt, his hair wild from the night he had spent tossing and turning in regret. The haze of the alcohol still clung to him like a bad memory, the scent of whiskey faint but noticeable. His heart sank when he realized just how much he must have looked like a mess standing there in front of you.
Before he could say anything, you gave a short laugh, your eyes twinkling, almost in disbelief. "You really reek of alcohol," you pointed out, your voice sharp but not unkind. You took in his appearance, your gaze lingering on the mismatched shoes, the wrinkled shirt, and then, finally, the way he was standing there, eyes wide with a mixture of regret and guilt.
Jisung's face flushed, and he immediately looked down at himself, noticing the mismatched shoes and the way his shirt had crumpled in all the wrong places. He had rushed out of the house, not thinking about how he appeared, only about getting to you, about fixing everything he had ruined. The realization made him feel even worse. He had come to you like this, looking like he had just crawled out of bed after a long night of self-pity and alcohol. How could he expect you to take him seriously when he looked like this?
But before he could spiral into another fit of self-loathing, he heard you laugh. It was soft, almost nervous, but it was there. The sound of your laughter was like a balm to his nerves, even though he knew it wasn’t coming from a place of warmth or affection. You were laughing, but there was a certain softness in your eyes when they met his.
His lips curled into a reluctant smile, the tension between you starting to melt just a little bit. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said, his voice hoarse, his throat dry from the alcohol he had consumed the night before. His attempt at humor didn’t exactly work, but it was the only thing he could offer. He couldn't believe he had shown up at your door looking like this, of all things.
You continued to look him up and down, your gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary. There was no judgment in your expression, but Jisung could see the traces of concern in your eyes, the way you were trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of this strange encounter. His chest tightened as you glanced down at his shoes, then back at his face. For a second, he thought you might close the door on him and tell him to get his life together before even attempting a conversation.
But then you did something that surprised him even more: you laughed again, the sound a little louder this time. The way you shook your head as you did so made his heart clench. It wasn’t mocking. It was more like you were acknowledging the absurdity of the whole situation, the way everything had spiraled into chaos.
"You're a mess," you said, the words lighter now, almost fond in a strange way. The sharpness in your tone from before was gone, replaced by something a little more... tender, maybe even forgiving.
Jisung stood there, unsure of what to do with that. He wanted to apologize again, but the laughter, your laughter made it feel like there was still a chance for him to explain himself. He could tell you had softened, if only just a little bit. Maybe you weren’t as angry as before, maybe you were starting to see him not as the person who had hurt you, but as someone who was truly remorseful.
His gaze shifted, following your movements as you instinctively placed a hand over your belly. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it, but the way your fingers hovered protectively over your growing stomach told him everything he needed to know. You were already thinking about the baby, about protecting what mattered most now. The thought made something warm and soft stir in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in so long. His mind was clouded with regrets about the past, but in that moment, seeing you like this, seeing how much you had grown, both in body and it hit him hard.
"You're pregnant," he said softly, the realization hitting him like a wave. It wasn’t just the fact that you were carrying his child; it was the way you seemed so much more settled now, so much stronger. The woman standing in front of him wasn’t the same person he had left behind. She was someone who had grown in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine. The confidence in your posture, the way you held your belly like it was the most precious thing in the world, he couldn’t deny that.
You nodded, but there was a slight hesitation in your eyes, as if you were trying to gauge whether he had truly understood what that meant.
"Yeah," you replied softly, your voice steady but tinged with something Jisung couldn’t quite place. "I’m pregnant." Your eyes softened for a moment, the edges of your lips twitching into a small, almost imperceptible smile. But the smile didn’t reach your eyes completely, and Jisung could see the weight of the situation in your gaze. It wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about the future.
He took a step closer, suddenly aware of how much he wanted to bridge the distance between you two. But he didn’t want to overstep; he didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable, to push you away when all he wanted was to make things right.
"How have you been?" His question was simple, but it was the first thing that came to his mind. He needed to know how you were, how you were holding up, especially now that he had messed everything up. His heart ached just thinking about it.
You gave him a small shrug, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something softer. "I’m doing alright," you said, your voice more honest now. "I’ve been getting by. It’s not easy, but I’m managing."
Jisung could feel the weight of your words. He had no idea what you’d been through, what you were still going through. He had left you behind when things got tough, when you needed him the most. And now, he couldn’t help but feel like he had lost any chance of making things right.
But as he stood there, watching you, feeling the fragile atmosphere between you two, he knew he couldn’t give up. Not when it was so clear that he had so much to make up for. He needed to make things right for you, for the baby, for everything he had taken for granted.
And so, without thinking about it too much, he spoke from his heart.
"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice breaking. "I know I've messed up. But I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. I can’t undo the past, but I’m here now. Please, let me try to make this right. I want to be a part of this. I want to help."
For a brief moment, there was only silence. Jisung watched you, desperate for any sign of what you were thinking. Your gaze flickered down to your belly again, as if you were thinking about how much had changed since you last saw him. The pregnancy, the baby, the future everything had shifted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was any room for him in it anymore.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you sighed softly and looked back at him. "I’m not sure, Jisung," you said, the words hesitant. "I’m not sure I’m ready to let you back in after everything. But…"
Jisung’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear what was coming next, but he knew he had to.
"But I’m willing to try," you continued, your voice soft but steady. "For the baby. For us. I can’t promise everything will be easy, but I’m willing to give it a chance."
Jisung exhaled deeply, relief flooding through him. It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was a chance. A fragile, delicate chance to rebuild everything he had lost.
"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes shining with gratitude. "I won’t mess this up. I swear."
You nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between you two. Neither of you knew exactly what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, Jisung felt like there was hope.
The air between you and Jisung was heavy with unspoken words, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Neither of you moved, each of you waiting for the other to say something, but it seemed like the silence was doing its job for now. It wasn’t awkward, not really, just... filled with the weight of everything that had happened.
Then, as if a quiet realization settled in, you spoke, breaking the tension with a soft offer. “Would you like to come in?”
Jisung blinked, caught off guard by your calm tone. For a moment, he simply stood there, his feet planted on the floor, almost as if he wasn’t sure what you were implying. The request wasn’t what he’d expected. He had come here thinking this would be another painful confrontation, something that might make the gap between you two even wider. Instead, you were inviting him in offering a space where you could both breathe.
After a beat of hesitation, Jisung nodded. It wasn’t the grand gesture he’d imagined, but it was enough. It was the first step.
"Yeah," he said softly, almost to himself, as if the invitation was something he had been hoping for without realizing it. "I’d like that."
You stepped aside, holding the door open just enough for him to pass. His eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary before he moved past you into the apartment. It felt surreal, the sudden shift from anger and hurt to a fragile kind of calm that seemed to hang in the air like fog, both of you treading carefully through it.
The inside of your apartment was cozy, nothing too extravagant, but it had a quiet, homey warmth to it. The light streaming in from the window made everything feel softer, gentler. As you moved into the kitchen to start preparing your tea, Jisung took a seat in the small dining area. His eyes wandered over the room, his gaze catching on something unexpected: two ultrasound pictures stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
It was like a punch to the gut.
The realization hit him before he could process it fully: the baby, his baby, was real. The ultrasound images, two of them, one from earlier in your pregnancy and the other more recent were right there in front of him, displayed so casually, as though it wasn’t the kind of thing that would completely change everything in his life.
He stared at them for a few moments, his breath catching in his throat. His mind spiraled again, and for a second, he almost forgot where he was. The weight of it all settled on his chest: the baby that was growing inside of you, the future that was unfolding whether he was ready for it or not.
You noticed where his attention had gone, and without turning around, you spoke. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been keeping them there to remind me that it’s real,” you said, your voice low. “It still feels surreal sometimes, even with everything going on.”
Jisung didn’t know what to say to that. His mind was still working through the images on the fridge, but there was something about the way you said it, something so matter-of-fact that made him want to be there. To be a part of that reality. But as quickly as that thought came, the flood of guilt followed it. He wasn’t sure he even deserved a place in that future, but the idea of walking away from it again seemed impossible.
“I never wanted to leave,” Jisung said suddenly, his voice cracking just a little. You could hear the sincerity in his words, the rawness of it. His eyes were on the ultrasound pictures, but you knew he wasn’t just talking about the baby now. He was talking about everything. About you.
He was sorry. You could hear it in his voice.
You took a slow breath and, without thinking, began to gather the tea bags and cups. You could feel the weight of his words, but the tension in the air was still too thick to address it fully. You needed to give it some space before you let everything out.
Jisung followed your lead, though, moving to the kitchen to help you. He was tentative at first, like he was worried that being too close would make things worse. But his eyes didn’t leave you as you began preparing the tea, the soft clink of the ceramic cups filling the space between your words. You looked up at him as you set the kettle down and asked, “Do you want sugar or anything?”
Jisung paused for a second, considering the question, before shaking his head. “No, just straight. Thanks,” he said quietly. He watched you as you made the tea, your movements fluid and familiar, and in that moment, something about it made his chest tighten. Everything about you felt so... settled now, so different than the chaos of the past.
When you handed him the steaming cup, he took it gratefully, his fingers brushing yours in the process. The contact was small, but it felt significant, like a small thread of connection that hadn’t been completely severed.
You both moved to the small living area after that, sitting across from each other at the table. For a while, you sipped your tea in silence, the sound of the quiet ticking clock in the background the only thing breaking the stillness.
Finally, you set your cup down and looked at him, really looked at him. The expression on your face was softer than before, but there was still a guardedness there. It wasn’t anger anymore, not like it had been the last time you saw each other, but there was an undeniable caution. The sting of everything you had been through still hung between you two.
“Jisung,” you began slowly, your voice almost too calm for what was about to come next. “I didn’t... I didn’t want any of this to happen.” You paused, collecting your thoughts before continuing. “I didn’t want to push you away, but I also couldn’t keep holding on to something that wasn’t... real anymore. I wanted to make this work with you, more than anything, but I needed to know that I was enough, that I wasn’t just waiting around for something to fall apart.”
He nodded, his throat tight. He could feel the sincerity in your words, but it was difficult to take it all in without feeling the weight of his own mistakes. He had let his fear, his pride, get in the way of something that could have worked. Could have meant something more.
“I get it,” Jisung said, his voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t there when you needed me to be. I let my own bullshit cloud everything, and I—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. He needed to get this out. “I didn’t want to be a father, but I never stopped wanting you. I just... I didn’t know how to fix everything I broke.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were full of regret, but there was something else there too: determination. Like he was willing to do whatever it took to make it right, even if it meant starting from scratch.
“I’m not perfect either,” you said softly. “I made mistakes too. I wasn’t honest with you about how scared I was. I didn’t let you in. I didn’t... I didn’t let you be part of this because I thought I could do it all on my own.” You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Turns out I can’t.”
Jisung’s eyes softened at that. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, his voice steady now. “I’m not asking for everything to be fixed in one day. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”
You looked down at your cup, swirling it absentmindedly before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t know if I’m ready to let you back in,” you said, your voice quiet, almost apologetic. “But... I’m willing to try.“
Jisung didn’t speak right away, but the quiet relief in his eyes was unmistakable. You weren’t saying you were ready to forgive him completely, but you were willing to take the first step, the most important one. He could work with that. He’d take whatever you were willing to give.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I swear, I won’t mess this up.”
You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure what the future would look like, but at least, for now, you were both willing to find out.
As the door clicked shut behind Jisung, you stood there for a moment, your hand still resting on the doorframe. The quietness of your apartment felt almost too loud after everything that had happened. You took a slow, deep breath, feeling the tension leave your body in waves. It was as if the moment he stepped out, a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying was finally lifted off your shoulders.
For the first time in months, you felt something that resembled peace, something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The tightness in your chest that had been there ever since everything fell apart had started to ease, just a little. The storm inside of you, the one that had raged every time you thought about him, about what could have been seemed quieter now. You hadn’t expected it, but the feeling of calm that washed over you was almost surprising.
You walked slowly back to the couch, each step lighter than the last, and gingerly sat down. The soft hum of the city outside your window mixed with the calmness inside, a strange but comforting contrast. You rubbed your belly absently, still feeling the warmth from the conversation you’d had with Jisung. It hadn’t been perfect, it never could be, but it was the first real conversation the two of you had in months. It felt like a small start, an opening to something that could, maybe, be better.
As you leaned back into the cushions, your mind replayed moments from the conversation. Jisung’s sincerity, the way his eyes softened when he spoke about wanting to be there for you and the baby, even when he had no idea how to fix the mess he’d made. It had been raw, real, and full of regret, but also hope. He wasn’t expecting things to be fine overnight, and neither were you. But that first step? The one where he admitted that he had been wrong, and that he wanted to try? That was everything. It meant more than the words themselves, more than the mistakes he had made. It was a promise. A promise that he would try to make it right, no matter how long it took.
You pressed your palm to your belly and let out a soft exhale. That feeling of warmth and comfort began to spread through you, almost like the little kicks that had become more frequent lately. You closed your eyes, focusing on the movement inside you, each little nudge a reminder of the life you were creating. It was as though the baby inside of you could sense that something had shifted, that you were making the decision to move forward in a way that felt right, not just for you, but for them, too.
The tiny movements against your hand felt almost like reassurance, like a little voice whispering in your heart: It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing. You’re not alone. The idea that Jisung might really try this time, that he might actually want to be there for both you and the baby, settled in your chest like a comforting embrace. You weren’t sure if you were ready to let him all the way in yet, there was still so much hurt, so many walls to tear down, but the thought that you might finally have the chance to build something together, something stable, was enough for now.
A second chance. That’s what you had just given him. A second chance to prove that he could do what he had promised. And a second chance for you, too. A chance to heal. To open yourself up to the possibility of something different. Something real.
It wasn’t going to be easy. There would still be hurdles, and there was still so much to sort through. But in that quiet moment, with the subtle rhythm of your baby’s movements underneath your hand, you allowed yourself to believe that things could get better. You could try to make them better.
You let your hand rest on your belly, smiling softly. It wasn’t perfect, and it was far from where you wanted things to be, but it was a start. And sometimes, that’s all you needed: the belief that you could make it work, one step at a time.
The tiny kicks continued, like a reassurance, a little reminder that you were doing the right thing. You weren’t alone. You had made your decision, and now, no matter what happened, you could move forward. You could allow yourself to heal. And, maybe, just maybe you could allow yourself to hope again.
It was the beginning of something new. A second chance. For you. For Jisung. And for the baby who was growing stronger inside of you every day.
After sitting there for a little while longer, soaking in the quiet and letting yourself feel everything relief, nervousness, hope you finally got up from the couch. You made yourself another cup of tea, needing something warm to hold, something grounding.
The day outside had started to brighten, golden sunlight peeking through your curtains, casting a soft glow across your apartment. It made everything feel even more surreal, like the heavy fog that had been hanging over you for months was finally starting to lift.
You weren't naïve. You knew things wouldn’t magically fall into place because of one conversation. You knew trust didn’t rebuild itself overnight. But still, you had to start somewhere. And you had chosen to start here.
Meanwhile, across the city, Jisung sat alone in his apartment, the overwhelming aftermath of the morning sinking in. He was finally sober now, feeling the full weight of his mistakes. He replayed everything, your guarded but soft voice, the look in your eyes when you told him you were willing to try. It was a second chance he hadn’t deserved but one he swore he would never take for granted again.
For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in work, distractions, or alcohol. Instead, he felt determined. He needed to get his act together, for real this time. He needed to show you, not just tell you, that he could be the man you and the baby needed him to be.
The first thing he did was clean his apartment really clean it, not just a lazy sweep. He threw out the alcohol bottles, aired out the rooms, and opened the windows to let fresh air in. It was a small, physical act of change, but to him, it felt important. A symbol of letting go of the past he’d been clinging to.
The next few days were careful, tentative. Jisung texted you, not overbearing, just small check-ins: “Good morning, hope you’re feeling okay today.” or “Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be around.” Simple, unobtrusive. He was careful not to pressure you, to give you the space you needed to adjust, but he wanted you to know he was there.
And surprisingly, you found yourself responding. Short answers at first, but they warmed up quickly, especially when he’d send you cheesy jokes or tell you random little things about his day, just trying to make you laugh. There were still walls between you, but you could feel them starting to thin out, piece by piece.
You were moving slowly, and that was exactly what you needed.
Then, one afternoon, a week later, Jisung asked if he could come by no pressure, no expectations just to drop off something. You hesitated but said yes.
When you opened the door, he was standing there with a small, awkwardly wrapped package in his hands. It was a simple thing, a tiny onesie, soft and pastel, with a silly little duck on the front. He handed it to you with a sheepish look, scratching the back of his neck.
“I saw it and thought...you know, maybe you could use it later.”
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t a perfect apology. But it was effort. It was real.
And in that moment, you realized...maybe things could really change. Maybe it was okay to hope for something better after all.
So you smiled, small but genuine, and you invited him inside again.
It was a beginning. Your beginning. Slow, fragile, but real.
-
It happened more naturally than you would have ever expected.
You hadn’t spoken to Jisung much in the past week, not because either of you was upset or because something had gone wrong, but simply because life got busy. He had warned you ahead of time that he would be caught up with work, that there were long studio nights coming, meetings, deadlines. You’d appreciated the honesty; it had been a small, early test of communication between the two of you, and he’d passed. Still, the silence had been a little strange not painful like before, but noticeable. You found yourself missing his casual updates, his small jokes, even just the way he asked how you were feeling every day.
That morning, you had been going through the list of things you still needed for the baby the hospital bag essentials, a stroller, bottles, a few more newborn clothes, blankets and the weight of it felt heavier when you realized how close your due date actually was. Your first instinct had been to call Jia or Lana, but somewhere deep inside you, an impulse stirred. You pulled out your phone, hesitated, but finally typed out a message to Jisung:
"Would you want to go baby shopping with me today? If you’re free."
You didn’t expect a fast reply. Maybe you even prepared yourself for him to say no, he was busy, after all, and you didn’t want to be disappointed. But barely a minute later, your phone lit up.
"Of course. I’ll come pick you up. What time?"
No hesitation. No excuses. Your heart thudded heavily, emotions a little tangled nervous, happy, scared. But above all, hopeful.
An hour later, you stood by the window of your apartment, watching the street below. Jisung’s familiar car pulled up, and you grabbed your bag quickly, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror. You smoothed your hands over your dress, instinctively resting a palm against your belly as you took a deep breath and headed out the door.
When you slid into the passenger seat, you found him smiling nervously at you. “You look great,” he said, and there was something so genuine about it, not just an empty compliment. You thanked him quietly, your cheeks warming, and the two of you set off.
At first, the drive was a little quiet. Not uncomfortable, but tentative. Jisung asked about how you were feeling lately, about the baby’s kicks, about if you were sleeping okay. You answered honestly, and then you found yourself asking about his work, about how he’d been managing everything. The conversation picked up from there, flowing more easily the longer you talked.
By the time you reached the baby store, some of the tension had melted away completely.
Inside, everything felt overwhelming at first. So many options, so many tiny clothes, gadgets, things you didn’t even know existed. You stared at a wall of strollers, feeling a little helpless, until Jisung bumped your shoulder playfully. “Looks like we’re going to need a map for this place,” he joked. You laughed, the sound breaking the last bit of awkwardness lingering between you.
The two of you wandered the aisles together, picking out onesies, swaddles, a diaper bag. He was attentive, reading labels, asking questions, genuinely interested. Not rushing through it, not treating it like a chore.
At one point, you found a tiny beanie, soft and knitted, and you held it up to show him. Without thinking, he leaned down, brushing his fingers over the fabric and then so carefully over the curve of your belly. “They’re gonna look so cute in that,” he murmured, almost to himself. You swallowed hard, trying to fight the sudden sting in your eyes.
That moment, so small and simple was when you truly let him in. Not because of anything grand or dramatic, but because he was just there, with you, in a way that he hadn’t been before.
You smiled at him, and he smiled back, something soft and vulnerable in his expression.
Later, when you loaded the bags into the trunk of his car, Jisung surprised you again by suggesting you both grab dinner, no pressure, he said, just something casual. And for the first time in a long time, you said yes easily.
It was still early evening by the time you and Jisung finally pulled into the parking garage of your apartment complex, the car packed full of bags, far more than you had originally intended to buy. It had been... easy with him today, far easier than you would have thought a few weeks ago. You were tired now, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from a full, good day, not the emotional kind that usually dragged you down.
You unlocked your front door, letting Jisung in first as he carried several bags over his arms, insisting you shouldn’t be lifting too much. You laughed under your breath but didn’t fight him on it, your back was aching slightly anyway, and truthfully it was nice having someone there to help. Once inside, you both got to work unpacking everything, laying it out over your couch and coffee table. Tiny onesies, a mountain of soft baby blankets, bottles, pacifiers, diapers, little pairs of socks so small they barely fit in the palm of your hand.
You sat back against the couch for a moment, letting out a small sigh of contentment. Jisung settled next to you, holding up a pale yellow onesie you had picked out, his lips curving into the softest smile you had seen on him in a long, long time. "Look at this," he said, voice full of wonder. "It’s so tiny... I still can’t believe we’re going to have a tiny human wearing this."
You chuckled lightly, resting your hand on your belly instinctively as you leaned over to look at it with him. "I know," you murmured, a little awe in your own voice. Without thinking, you both leaned your heads together, admiring the onesie like it was the most precious thing in the world. It was such a warm, natural moment that your heart squeezed painfully in your chest, not in a bad way, but in the way that happens when you feel something real settling inside of you.
But then
BEEP BEEP, the code to your door punched in. The door swung open with a loud bang as three very familiar faces burst through: Jia, Chan, and Lana.
You and Jisung both jerked upright, startled, the onesie slipping out of Jisung's hands and landing softly on the couch. For a long second, none of you moved.
Jia’s eyes widened almost comically, her mouth opening slightly but no words coming out. She glanced between you and Jisung like she couldn't quite piece it together fast enough. Chan’s brows lifted, but unlike Jia, he didn't look angry or shocked, more curious, even a little relieved. Lana... Lana just stood there, her arms crossed loosely, looking more amused than anything else, like she had expected this and was just waiting to see how it would unfold.
The air was thick with tension and awkward silence. You were the first to move, standing up slowly, brushing your hands down your sides in a nervous gesture. "Uh… hi," you said, your voice a little too high-pitched.
Jisung stood too, glancing at you uncertainly, waiting for your lead.
Jia finally managed to say something, although it came out more like a strangled squeak. "We, uh… we just came to check on you! Not, uh, not to—interrupt?" she said, her eyes darting to Jisung again.
You could feel your cheeks burn, but you forced yourself to speak calmly. "I was going to tell you guys..." you began, feeling a little defensive but mostly just embarrassed. "I just… wasn't ready yet."
Chan gave you a small, understanding smile. "You don’t owe us an explanation," he said gently. "As long as you're okay." His words and the genuine way he said them, made some of the tension in your shoulders ease.
Lana, meanwhile, just lifted a brow and muttered, "Well, I’m glad someone finally stepped up," earning her a sharp nudge from Jia.
You glanced at Jisung, who gave you a tentative but encouraging nod, silently telling you he was here for whatever you needed to say. You inhaled deeply and looked back at your friends.
"Jisung and I... we’re trying," you said, the words tasting strange but right in your mouth. "We’re not rushing into anything. We’re just… trying to figure it out together."
Jia still looked a little wary, like she wanted to protect you but was biting her tongue. Chan gave Jisung a small, respectful nod, and you could see the slight relief on Jisung’s face like maybe he had been expecting Chan to punch him or something.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.
Slowly, your friends trickled further inside. Lana picked up a few of the baby things, making little comments about how adorable everything was. Jia offered to help organize, and Chan drifted over to the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone.
Jisung stayed close to you, not too close, but enough that you could feel his presence solid and steady by your side. When you caught him looking at you that soft, unguarded look again, you realized something.
You weren’t alone anymore.
Not in the way you had been, not even when you had your friends around. This was different. This was the beginning of something healing, something real, something that could one day, if you both worked hard enough, be a family.
And maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to let that happen.
-
The evening settled into a kind of chaotic comfort, the kind that only happens when you're surrounded by people who feel like home.
Jia and Chan were bickering loudly over the TV remote, their voices rising in playful (but intense) competitiveness. "You picked the last movie!" Jia accused, trying to yank the remote from Chan's hand. "You didn't even watch it! You fell asleep twenty minutes in!" Chan shot back, holding the remote high above her head.
Lana, sitting cross-legged on the rug, sighed dramatically and tried to mediate, though she clearly wasn’t really trying that hard. "Just give it to Jia," Lana said, her tone half-annoyed, half-amused. "You're just making it worse, Chan."
You sat on the couch, a little farther away from the chaos, with Jisung beside you. There was a little pile of tiny onesies and newborn clothes between you both, freshly laundered and soft to the touch. You were showing him how you liked to fold them, smoothing the tiny sleeves inward, then folding up the bottom half carefully.
"Like this," you said, demonstrating slowly, smiling a little to yourself at the concentration on Jisung's face as he tried to mimic you. His brows furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly in focus as he carefully mirrored your actions.
You couldn't help but giggle quietly, nudging his elbow when he finally got it right. "There you go," you praised, and he looked so absurdly proud that it made your heart twist in your chest.
The noise from Jia and Chan faded into the background as you and Jisung worked together, folding onesie after onesie, your hands brushing once in a while. It was easy, surprisingly easy. And even though you were still cautious, still hesitant deep down, you couldn’t deny the way you felt lighter around him.
At one point, after folding a particularly small pair of socks, Jisung shifted closer to you slightly, setting the socks down neatly before speaking. His voice was low, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should break the comfortable quiet between you.
"I'm really... thankful," he said, glancing over at you, his eyes earnest and soft. "That you have them. Jia, Lana... even Chan. It’s clear they care about you so much."
You smiled, following his gaze to where your friends were still tangled in a ridiculous argument about movie choices. "Yeah," you said softly, your heart swelling a little. "They’ve been here for me... when I didn’t even know how much I needed someone."
Jisung nodded slowly, his fingers playing with the hem of a tiny shirt. "And... I’m thankful," he continued, voice a little rough now, "that they didn’t treat me like... like I didn’t belong here. They didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t welcome. Even after everything I did wrong."
Your breath caught a little in your chest. You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were open, vulnerable, no walls left. He wasn’t perfect, you both weren’t. You had hurt each other. But he was trying. He was here.
You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles where his hand rested on his knee. "They know I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want to try," you said gently. "And they trust me."
Jisung’s lips curved into the smallest, most grateful smile you’d ever seen.
For a long moment, you both just sat there, your friends’ laughter and squabbling a warm, distant hum around you. You realized you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time not fully, not truly.
Hope.
It wasn’t going to be easy. You still had to rebuild trust. You still had so much healing to do, separately and together.
But maybe, just maybe, it was possible.
You and Jisung finished folding the last of the baby clothes, placing them carefully in a basket you’d set aside. And when Jia finally wrestled the remote away from Chan and put on some random cheesy movie, and everyone settled down to watch, Jisung stayed close. Not too close, not pushing any boundaries, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, steady and solid beside you.
It was a start. And for the first time in a long time, a small, genuine smile tugged at your lips, not out of obligation, not out of politeness. Out of real, tentative happiness.
Because maybe you weren’t alone anymore. Maybe you hadn’t been for a while. Maybe... you were finally ready to believe that you could build something new, something better not just for you, but for the tiny life growing inside of you too.
The next few months passed like a series of soft, tentative steps forward. Nothing was rushed, nothing was forced, it all unfolded in the kind of natural way that only happens when two people are really trying, when the effort itself means something.
As your due date crept closer and closer, the atmosphere around you changed too, like a gentle hum in the background of your everyday life. Things weren’t perfect, there were still tough days, moments of uncertainty where you questioned whether you were doing the right thing by letting him back into your life, but they were outweighed, slowly but surely, by the good days. And Jisung, he made sure you had more of those good days.
He became part of your group almost seamlessly, something you never would’ve expected when you first opened your door that early morning and saw him standing there, a mess of mismatched shoes and regret. It was awkward at first, of course it was. Especially with Chan.
At first, there was a lingering tension between them whenever they were in the same room. Jisung was polite, if a little stiff. Chan was friendly, but you could tell he was holding back a little too, unsure of where the boundaries were supposed to lie. There was a certain unspoken protectiveness that Chan carried when it came to you, and even though you had never given him any reason to think you wanted anything more than friendship, you could understand why Jisung might have felt a little... threatened.
But one afternoon, after you had gone into the kitchen to grab some snacks during a movie night at your apartment, you overheard them talking. You paused, just out of sight, feeling a little guilty for eavesdropping but too curious to stop yourself.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Jisung had said, voice low but sincere. Chan chuckled, a little awkwardly. “Nah, man. She’s strong all on her own. Always has been. I’m just glad she has more people looking out for her now.”
There was a brief pause, the kind that spoke volumes. Then Chan added, “I’m not gonna pretend it wasn’t weird at first. But if you’re serious about being there for her and the baby... that’s what matters.”
And from then on, things got easier between them.
They bonded, slowly, mostly over music at first, it was neutral ground. Chan had experience producing a few tracks for friends back in Australia, and Jisung, passionate and hardworking as always, immediately lit up whenever they talked shop. You’d catch them having full conversations about studio software, instrumentals, and beat progressions, both completely oblivious to the fact that the initial awkwardness had faded.
Jia and Lana were relieved. They had been watching everything unfold with eagle eyes, ready to swoop in if needed. You knew they were still protective of you, but their relief showed in their softer smiles and in the way they treated Jisung more like he was one of them now, no longer an outsider trying to claw his way back in, but someone they were cautiously welcoming back for your sake... and maybe for his own too.
It meant the world to you. Because it wasn’t just about your relationship with Jisung anymore, it was about your world, your community, your support system. You needed them all to mesh, to get along, to coexist in a way that didn’t leave you feeling like you had to pick sides.
And Jisung, he tried. He was there for every little thing he could be.
If you had a doctor’s appointment, he’d move mountains to be there, even if it meant showing up straight from work in slightly wrinkled clothes, with tired eyes but a bright, excited smile. He read every book you mentioned offhandedly, studied every article about pregnancy and baby care until he could quote things you didn’t even know. He was there when you were too tired to get up from the couch, cooking you simple meals (even if sometimes he had to call Lana for help halfway through). He was there when you needed a hand up from a chair, when you dropped something you couldn’t bend down to pick up anymore, when the loneliness crept in during the nights and you didn’t know how to tell anyone somehow, he just knew.
There were late-night calls that turned into sleepy conversations where he told you about his day and asked you about yours, moments where you’d accidentally fall asleep on the phone and wake up to a simple "goodnight" text he’d left after hanging up.
There were moments when you’d catch him staring at your belly with this look of wonder like he couldn’t believe this was real, that he had almost thrown it all away. He’d ask to feel the baby kick, and every time he felt the tiny flutter of life beneath your skin, his entire face would light up like the sun had decided to live inside of him. It was healing, in its own slow, imperfect way.
You still weren’t naive about it. You still had your guard up sometimes, and he never pushed you past what you were comfortable with. You both knew there were still conversations that needed to happen, still trust that needed to be rebuilt fully.
But you were getting there. Step by step. Moment by moment.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel like a scary, lonely thing anymore. It felt like something you could walk into together bruised but stronger, fractured but healing, cautious but hopeful.
It felt like maybe, just maybe you could have the tiny family you always dreamed of. Even if it looked a little different than you had originally imagined. Even if it took a long, winding road to get there.
You weren't alone anymore. And neither was he.
Your baby boy arrived exactly on your due date, and somehow, despite the chaos and the endless scheduling, Jisung had managed to be there. He had told you countless times that he would make it work, that no matter how busy his schedule was, no matter what meetings or recording sessions he had, he would be there for you. And true to his word, when you felt the first rush of contractions that morning, he dropped everything and rushed to your side.
It was a long and exhausting labor, but with each breath, each push, you felt a sense of clarity. There was no going back from this moment. You weren’t doing this alone. The presence of Jisung, his hand in yours, his voice murmuring words of encouragement through gritted teeth, made all the pain and uncertainty fade into the background.
And when the cries of your baby boy filled the room, it felt like the world had shifted, like everything you had fought for, everything you had hoped for was standing in front of you, in his tiny, wriggling form.
Jisung had been there the entire time, right by your side, holding your hand through the hardest moments and softly kissing your forehead when you could barely hold your head up. But it was in the quiet moments after, when the rush of the birth had settled and you both were left with your son in your arms, that you truly saw the difference in him.
You’d been watching him quietly for a while now. Jisung was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, your baby boy cradled in his arms. His face was a soft picture of awe, his gaze fixed on the little bundle of joy in his arms like he was the most precious thing in the world.
He was so careful, so gentle with the baby, like he was afraid to breathe too loudly in case he’d break him. He rocked him slowly, softly, his eyes never leaving your son’s little face as he tried to wrap his head around everything that was happening. It was such a beautiful, surreal moment that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh when you watched him. The sight was almost too perfect to be true. You had expected him to be nervous, to fumble a little. But no, he was doing this so naturally.
And then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you broke the silence with a teasing comment. “So, this is the baby you didn’t want, huh?”
Jisung’s head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing as he gave you a playful glare. He shifted the baby gently in his arms, like he was preparing for an argument, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Really?” he said, his voice still thick with the emotion of the moment, but his teasing tone clear. “That’s the first thing you’re going to say after I just helped bring this little guy into the world?”
You let out a light laugh, the sound a little breathless from the exhaustion of labor, but your heart was lighter than it had been in months. “I mean,” you said with a smirk, “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about what you said, you know? You weren’t exactly enthusiastic about having a baby back then.”
His eyes softened at the reminder, and you could see the shift in him, the genuine remorse that still lingered from the moment he realized he’d almost lost you, almost lost the chance to be a father to his child.
He leaned closer, his voice quieter now, as though speaking only for you and your son to hear. “I know I wasn’t ready back then, but... I’m here now. I’m here for both of you.”
You studied him for a moment, your heart swelling. Jisung wasn’t just holding your baby, he was holding your family in his arms. And there was no question in your mind now: He was ready, more ready than you had ever imagined.
You softened, smiling up at him. “It’s too early for jokes like that, huh?”
He nodded, a knowing, teasing smile finally reaching his lips. “A little too soon. He’s only a few hours old, give him a break.”
The moment settled between you, warm and quiet, as you both let your eyes linger on your son. You couldn’t stop the tear that escaped down your cheek. It wasn’t from sadness, though. It was joy, pure, overwhelming joy.
You reached out and gently touched the little hand that Jisung had been holding so carefully. “I’m really happy you’re here, Jisung. And that you want to be here for him.”
He squeezed your hand back, looking at you with sincerity. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, for him, for you... for us.”
The gravity of his words sank in, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the world but the three of you, together. Everything that had been so uncertain between you two, all the hurt, the doubts, the tension seemed so distant now, so irrelevant. This was where you were supposed to be. This was your family.
lines blur and tension finally snaps, pulling you and jisung into something reckless, heated, and long overdue. in the thick of smoke and low murmurs, nothing feels uncertain anymore—only inevitable.
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. charlies note: OKAY this is a long time coming, maybe a months time ? but its finally here !! 4.3k words
warnings : VERY suggestive
back to library | req? yes / no
you never expected to be this familiar with your dealer.
at first, it was just a business arrangement—a text when you needed something, a quick exchange, and then you’d both go on with your lives. han jisung was well-known on campus for two things: having the best weed and being absolutely insufferable. his reputation preceded him. everyone said he was funny, maybe a little too chatty, but reliable. which was all that mattered.
your first deal was simple. a friend had given you his number with nothing but, “jisung’s got the best. just text him.” so, you did.
you: hey. chris gave me your number.
jisung: either you’re looking for an existential crisis or some quality bud. which one is it?
you: second one.
jisung: nice. meet me outside the library in 10.
that was the start of it. nothing special. just a clean transaction. except jisung had a way of making even the most basic interaction feel like an event.
“first-time customer discount,” he had said, grinning as he passed you a carefully packed bag. “because i’m generous.”
you rolled your eyes but took the deal. and that should’ve been it.
except it wasn’t.
now, somehow, he texts you first.
jisung: yo. got some new stuff. fresh, just for you. discount included, 'cause i'm generous like that.
you: are you seriously running a customer loyalty program?
jisung: obviously. you’re a vip now.
what started as casual transactions turned into late-night conversations on his beat-up couch, the smell of weed and ramen mixing in the air as he ranted about music and you ranted about life. at first, he was just the guy you went to when you needed to take the edge off. but now? now, he’s showing up at your apartment with food. now, he’s making sure you get home safe from parties. now, he’s your favorite part of the week.
and that’s when you realize:
you might be getting addicted.
and not to the weed.
it hits you in the middle of a tuesday night when jisung shows up at your door, a plastic bag in one hand and an unlit joint between his lips.
“you look like you need this,” he says by way of greeting, wiggling the bag.
you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “what gave it away?”
“the fact that you texted me three times in the past hour.”
you scoff. “i was just asking questions.”
he steps inside without invitation, already making himself at home as he kicks off his sneakers. “questions like ‘are you awake?’ ‘where are you?’ ‘why do you take so long to reply?’”
“you do take forever to reply.”
jisung plops onto your couch, making himself comfortable. “i was rolling.”
you snort, locking the door behind him. “rolling what?”
“guess.”
you shake your head and drop onto the couch next to him. he pulls out a container of takeout, handing it to you like it’s second nature.
“you brought food?”
“yeah. thought you might need something to soak up the smoke,” he says, finally lighting the joint. he takes a slow drag, then holds it out to you. “want?”
you take it, but don’t smoke just yet. instead, you watch him exhale, the soft glow of the cherry illuminating his face in the dim light of your living room. it’s strangely intimate. more than it should be.
“jisung.”
he turns his head to you, lazily raising a brow. “yeah?”
you hesitate, then take a hit. the smoke burns in your lungs before you release it. “never mind.”
he watches you for a second longer, then smirks. “you sure?”
no. not at all.
the air between you shifts after that night.
jisung still shows up unannounced, still texts you about new strains like he’s running a startup, still steals your leftovers when you’re too high to fight him for them. but now, there’s something else. a tension neither of you fully acknowledge but both of you feel.
it’s in the way he lingers when he hands you a joint, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. in the way his gaze drops to your lips when you inhale, watching the way they part, the way your chest rises and falls. it’s in the way he sits just a little closer, his knee knocking into yours like it’s an accident.
one night, you’re both sprawled on his couch, passing a blunt back and forth as some old-school hip-hop plays in the background. you’re not even sure whose playlist is on anymore.
jisung stretches, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. he catches you looking and grins. “like what you see?”
you scoff, taking the blunt from his fingers. “in your dreams.”
his grin widens. “you are in my dreams.”
your heart stumbles. he says it so casually, like it’s not a big deal. like he’s not just admitted something that makes your stomach twist into knots.
you cover it up with a laugh, exhaling smoke in his direction. “sounds like a personal problem.”
jisung doesn’t respond immediately. instead, he watches you, head tilted like he’s deciding something.
then, suddenly, he leans in.
your breath catches. he’s close—closer than he’s ever been. his eyes flicker to your lips, and for a second, you think he’s actually going to do it.
then, at the last moment, he pulls back with a smirk. “you blinked first.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “you’re an idiot.”
“and yet,” he says, plucking the blunt from your fingers, “you keep me around.”
you don’t have an answer for that. or maybe, you do, but you’re not ready to say it out loud.
without warning, he reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a small packet.
“here,” he says, tossing it into your lap.
you pick it up, eyebrows furrowing as you inspect the package. mango-infused rolling papers.
your lips part in surprise. “what—”
“figured you’d like them,” he interrupts, lighting another joint of his own. “said you liked the smell of mangos once.”
you don’t remember saying that. but he does.
something warm blooms in your chest. you trace the edge of the package with your thumb, an unfamiliar feeling creeping in beneath the usual haze of smoke.
jisung exhales, watching you closely. “you gonna roll one, or just stare at it?”
you shake your head, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “shut up, han.”
he grins. “make me.”
and just like that, the tension coils tighter.
the next few times jisung comes over, the tension keeps building, but it’s always there in the back of your mind: am i imagining this?
at first, it’s subtle. a lingering touch as he passes you a joint. his gaze a little too long when you laugh at something he said. but you’re probably just reading too much into it. after all, he’s han jisung. the guy who makes a joke out of everything, who treats every moment like it’s a bit for his own personal comedy show.
so, when he texts you one evening, “yo, got something new for you tonight. think you’ll like it,” your heart doesn’t skip a beat. it doesn’t, really. except maybe it does.
he shows up late, as usual, with his usual lazy grin and a bag that smells like something distinctly new. but instead of the quick exchange you’ve grown used to, he lingers a little longer at your door this time, his eyes flickering down to your lips.
you clear your throat, feeling heat creep up your neck. “you’re staring.”
“i’m not staring,” he says, but his voice is low, an edge to it you haven’t quite heard before. “just thinking.”
“about what?”
he shrugs but there’s something unspoken between you, something that hangs thick in the air. something you can’t quite place.
“do you ever wonder,” he starts, his fingers brushing yours as he hands you the joint, “if we’re more than what we pretend to be?”
you frown, heart stuttering in your chest. “what do you mean?”
jisung just gives you that smirk. “you tell me.”
you swallow hard, trying to ignore the feeling curling in your stomach. you’re not sure if he’s joking or being serious, and honestly, you don’t want to know. because the thought that he might actually mean something makes you feel something that’s far too complicated to unpack right now.
instead, you change the subject. “you’re an idiot,” you say, taking the joint from him.
he chuckles, but this time it doesn’t feel like the easy, playful laughter you’re used to. there’s something else there. something that makes you doubt yourself even more.
the next night, you're sitting on your couch, the glow of the tv flickering softly, when jisung knocks on the door again. your stomach tightens before you can stop it, the familiar feeling of his presence throwing you off balance.
he steps inside, holding a bottle of wine and that same lazy grin. “you ever smoked with wine?” he asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
you raise an eyebrow. “that’s a thing?”
“anything’s a thing if you’re willing to try it,” he shrugs, and his eyes are on you—just a little too long.
and just like that, you’re caught in another moment, wondering if you’ve imagined it all.
you keep your focus on the wine, on the rolling papers, on anything other than the way your heart seems to beat just a little too fast every time he looks at you.
but it’s definitely just in your head. right?
when you’re both sitting on the floor, half a bottle of wine gone, rolling yet another joint, something shifts. your fingers brush as you take the paper from him, and this time, neither of you pull away. it’s not an accident.
jisung’s gaze flickers down to your lips again, and this time, he doesn’t look away. “i think i like this,” he says quietly.
you look up at him, confusion swirling in your chest. “the wine or the company?”
he pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “both.”
the words linger in the air between you two, heavy and loaded with something you can’t quite name. but you know it’s there, just beneath the surface, waiting.
you laugh, more out of nervousness than anything else. “you’re ridiculous.”
but inside, your heart’s pounding, and the only thing you can think of is the question you’ve been too afraid to ask: is he flirting with me? or am i just imagining it?
the wine’s long gone, and so is the joint you’ve been passing between you two, the air thick with smoke and something else you can’t place. jisung’s on his third one, and you’re starting to feel the warmth spreading through your limbs. but in this moment, something’s different.
for the first time in a while, the haze doesn’t make you forget everything—it sharpens things. your thoughts, your awareness. your feelings.
you’re both sitting a little closer than usual, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes flicker over your face, the way his lips quirk into that teasing grin that’s beginning to feel a little less playful, a little more… personal.
he catches you looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels too small.
you pull the joint back to your lips, your fingers brushing against his again as you do. this time, it’s impossible to pretend it’s an accident.
jisung leans back into the couch, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. “you ever realize how much clearer everything feels when you’re high?” he asks, looking over at you.
you blink at him, feeling strangely attuned to his presence in the dim light. “clearer?” you repeat, your words coming out a little slower than you intend.
he shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. “yeah. it’s like all the noise in my head clears out, and i can actually think about stuff. like, really think about stuff.” his gaze flickers to you, just briefly. “i guess when you’re high, the sober thoughts don’t seem so hidden anymore.”
you blink again, his words cutting through your own haze. high words and actions are sober thoughts, you realize, the thought hitting you with a strange clarity you hadn’t anticipated.
it’s almost like the high is making the things you both never say, the things you both dance around, impossible to ignore anymore. maybe that’s why the air feels charged, maybe that’s why every time your eyes meet, there’s that pull, like something is about to snap.
“you ever think about stuff, jisung?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. you feel almost nervous now, the blunt between your fingers nothing but a prop for the words you can’t seem to stop from spilling out. “i mean… really think about it.”
he turns his head slowly, catching your gaze with a serious look, his voice dropping low. “yeah,” he says softly. “i think about you.”
the words are simple, but they hit harder than they should. you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. the room feels too warm now, your mind scrambling to process what he’s said. it’s one thing to joke around, but this—this feels different.
you laugh, but it comes out breathless, more to cover the sudden weight of his words than anything else. “you’re such a jerk.”
he smiles, but there’s no teasing in it now. “you think i’m joking?”
the air between you is thick with tension, thick with something that’s become impossible to ignore. the weight of your unspoken thoughts hangs in the air like smoke, swirling and curling around you, suffocating you.
“i don’t know,” you reply honestly, feeling the truth of your own words more than you want to. “i think i might be imagining it.”
jisung doesn’t say anything at first. he just watches you, and for a second, you wonder if maybe he’s reconsidering saying what he just did. but then he leans in slightly, his eyes still locked onto yours, his voice barely a whisper. “i don’t think you are.”
your heart skips a beat, and you look away, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting. you wish you could just laugh it off, like you always do with him. but this time, it’s different.
high words and actions are sober thoughts, and right now, you’re both too sober to ignore what’s brewing between you two.
the silence that falls between you both is thick, heavier than any haze that’s filled the room. it’s like the air’s been sucked out, and all that’s left is this palpable tension, the kind that lingers in the space between two people who almost say what they’re really thinking, but don’t quite dare.
jisung shifts on the couch, his body so close to yours now you can feel the warmth radiating off him. it makes the room feel even smaller, more intimate than you’re ready for. you fight the urge to look at him, your eyes glued to the floor, trying to distract yourself with anything that isn’t the way he’s breathing just a little deeper than usual.
“so,” you say, your voice a little higher than it should be, a weak attempt at breaking the silence, “you were saying something about sober thoughts?”
his lips curl into that familiar, cocky grin, the one that usually makes your heart race. but tonight, it’s different. tonight, it feels like he’s just about ready to say something that’ll change everything.
“yeah,” he mutters, eyes still on you, tracing the curve of your cheek with his gaze. “i was thinking… maybe we’re both just too good at pretending we don’t know what’s going on here.”
you’re not sure if it’s the wine, the weed, or maybe just the way his words sink deep into your chest, but you finally meet his gaze. the air crackles between you as his eyes flicker to your lips, then back up to your eyes, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture. your heart skips, and you can’t decide if it’s the anxiety or the adrenaline that’s making your palms sweat.
“pretending?” you repeat, the word hanging in the air like smoke. you know exactly what he’s talking about. the tension—it’s been there for weeks now, building and building with every touch, every glance. but hearing him say it out loud somehow makes it all too real.
“yeah,” jisung says quietly, his voice almost like a confession, “pretending like we don’t know we’re both walking around this whole time pretending we don’t want to… do something about it.”
your pulse quickens, and you can feel the heat rising to your face. you want to respond, but your mind’s a tangled mess of thoughts that don’t seem to make sense. you’re high, but you’ve never felt so aware of everything happening around you—of every little shift in his expression, every tiny change in the way he’s looking at you.
and then, without thinking, without even realizing you’re doing it, you close the space between you. one hand moves to his chest—tentative, unsure—and the other touches his shoulder. your breath hitches in your throat as his gaze drops to your lips again, and just like that, the world seems to slow down.
you’re about to kiss him.
no, you tell yourself, but your body doesn’t listen. you can’t stop it. you don’t want to stop it.
jisung’s breath comes a little faster now, his eyes searching yours, like he’s looking for some kind of permission, some kind of answer to the question neither of you has asked out loud. he leans in just a fraction more, and then he stops, waiting for you to make the move.
you can’t breathe. the tension is unbearable, and you know this could change everything. this could be the moment where everything shifts from playful teasing to something much deeper.
but instead of kissing him, you pull back, just enough to catch your breath. “are we really doing this right now?” your voice cracks, betraying the mix of nerves and excitement swirling inside you.
jisung’s lips twitch in the beginning of a smile, and he leans back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “no. we’re just talking about it.”
you blink in confusion. “talking about it?”
“yeah,” he says, his grin widening. “you’re not ready for that, huh?”
your chest tightens, heart racing. you stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s teasing or serious. but the way he’s looking at you now—it’s not the usual cocky, playful look. it’s something deeper. something that makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall but unsure if you should.
“why are you doing this, jisung?” you ask, the question escaping before you can stop it. you need to understand—because you don’t know what’s real anymore, and what’s just the high talking.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, he leans forward again, his voice low. “maybe i’m doing this because i can’t stop thinking about you.”
the words hit harder than you expect, a weight settling deep in your chest.
the room is silent again. the weight of the unspoken words hangs in the air, heavy and pregnant with possibility.
and suddenly, it feels like the only thing you can do is lean in again.
this time, you don’t stop.
you kiss him.
it’s tentative at first, a slow, almost unsure press of lips. but then, just like the way the tension between you two has been building for weeks, the kiss deepens. it’s more than just an answer—it’s the release of everything you’ve both been holding back. his hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if trying to close the gap that’s been lingering between you both for far too long.
the warmth of his lips sends a jolt through your body, your heart pounding in your chest. you taste the remnants of the wine on his breath, the faint sweetness mingling with the earthy flavor of the weed. the combination is dizzying, a mix of flavors and sensations that blur everything around you.
and it’s all so natural. it feels right.
you pull away for a second, breathless, to catch your bearings. you’re not sure how to process this, how to make sense of the rush of emotions flooding your chest. but jisung doesn’t give you time to think.
his lips are on yours again, more urgent this time, his hand moving to your waist, pulling you even closer. you let him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. the way he holds you, the way he kisses you—it’s like he’s been waiting for this just as much as you have.
and when he pulls away again, there’s a fire in his eyes, one you haven’t seen before, not like this. his breathing is shallow, and his fingers are grazing the side of your face like he’s still processing the fact that this is real.
“don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with desire. there’s a vulnerability in his tone that catches you off guard, a rawness you hadn’t expected from him.
you look up at him, heart in your throat. “i don’t want to regret this either.”
and for a second, it’s like the world stops moving. the weight of everything—of the flirting, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments—crashes down on you. this is the moment where everything changes. where you stop pretending. where you stop running from it.
jisung leans in one more time, and this time, there’s no hesitation. no second thoughts. just the feeling of his lips pressing against yours again, urgent and hungry. it’s a kiss that tells you everything you need to know. that tells you he’s not just playing around anymore.
he’s in this.
and maybe, just maybe, you are too.
the kiss lasts longer this time, slow and deep, the kind that makes everything else fade into the background. the buzzing from the weed, the lingering taste of the wine, the tension that’s been building for weeks—all of it disappears in the space between you two, until there’s nothing left but him and you, tangled together in the moment.
when you finally pull away, both of you gasping for air, you don’t know what comes next. but you know one thing for sure.
this is only the beginning.
the moment his lips meet yours again, it’s not slow anymore. it’s fast, hungry, desperate, as if you’ve both been waiting for this moment for too long and now that it’s here, neither of you can hold back.
his hands are on you—everywhere. one hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, while the other slips around your waist, pressing your body into his. the heat between you intensifies with each passing second, the softest moan escaping you when his lips find that sweet spot on your neck.
jisung doesn’t let you catch your breath. his lips are insistent against yours, each kiss deeper than the last, until you’re both breathless, the room spinning around you. his tongue brushes against your lips, asking for permission, and you give it, parting your lips for him. the kiss turns hotter, the world shrinking until there’s only him and the feel of his hands roaming your body.
your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to deepen the kiss as much as you can. it’s messy and frantic, but neither of you seem to care. his lips move with purpose, taking the kiss from soft and slow to urgent and fierce. you feel the heat rise in your chest, your body pressed so tightly against his that you can feel every inch of him, every muscle tensing as he pulls you impossibly closer.
jisung groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he pulls you onto his lap without hesitation. your knees settle on either side of his hips, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. the joint—forgotten—smolders in the ashtray beside you, the scent of weed and roses lingering in the thick air between you.
his hands roam, slow and teasing, fingertips grazing the bare skin beneath your hoodie. you shiver, a breathy sigh slipping past your lips when he presses his palms flat against your back, pulling you closer. his lips move against yours, unhurried but deliberate, as if savoring every second.
“you’re high,” you murmur against his mouth, though you don’t pull away.
jisung exhales a laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “and?”
“high words and actions are sober thoughts,” you remind him, voice barely above a whisper.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, dark and heavy with something you can’t name. his thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your lips.
“exactly.”
your breath catches.
the weight of his words settles between you, thick and undeniable. he’s not hiding behind the haze of smoke. not playing it off like a joke. he means it.
and you’re fucked.
because you believe him.
because you want this—sober, high, or anything in between.
his hands slide down your back, settling at your waist as he leans in again, this time slower, deeper, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension snap and coil until all that’s left is you, him, and the quiet hum of something inevitable.
your fingers tangle in his hoodie, gripping tight as you meet him halfway, lips parting, bodies pressing closer, heat pooling between you like a slow burn waiting to ignite.
-> You keep coincidentally running into your supervisor after work hours. It's getting harder and harder not to flirt with him...especially since he can't seem to stop flirting back.
The office hums with the usual mid-morning background song. Your keyboard clacking, phones ringing, Felix down the hall laughing a little too loud at something Minho sent him instead of working. You’re at your desk, half-focused on a spreadsheet, half-wishing you could get a third cup of coffee.
It's not that you live on caffeine. It's just that, getting up for the excuse of coffee gives you a reason to procrastinate writing a report for this case. It went well with Chris' help - actually, the young man who was in danger of breaking several environmental laws ended up retracting his request and resubmitting his business proposal with all the necessary precautions in place.
So, the environment is safe!
Which means, he got his loan. Which means, you've got a report to write.
Just another normal day at Mindy&Mindy Consulting.
Well. If you ignore the fact that you slept with your supervisor two nights ago. And again last night. And also this morning. But who's keeping track?
Your email pings, thank god. Something to do that's not paperwork.
From: Jisung, Han
Subject: URGENT - Copy Room
"Could you grab the quarterly report off the printer? Thanks."
You squint. Awfully suspicious. The quarterly report isn’t due for two weeks. Your department doesn't even have everything they need for the quarterly report yet, so why would he be printing it?
You nonchalantly stretch your arms overhead as you prepare yourself to once again take responsibility for an underwhelming task.
The copy room is small and dim, quiet except for the low hum of the printer. It's rarely used now that the company has gone paperless. But, every so often, Bossman wants a physical backup of a document, so he keeps the printer around.
Much to your approval.
You open the door and step inside.
Jisung is already there, leaning against the table like a drama lead in a corporate romcom, arms crossed, eyes locked on you the second you walk in.
"A quarterly report, really?” you ask, closing the door behind you and sauntering in a few steps. “Corporate betrayal before 10am? You're getting worse."
“I’m living on the edge, remember?" He smiles as he pushes off the table and makes his way toward you, slow and smug, stopping just a breath away. "Hi."
You try to keep a straight face and fail. “Hi.”
"Did anyone see you?"
"Nope."
His hands slide to your waist, fingers curling at your sides like he’s been waiting all day to touch you. As if he didn't have his hands all over you earlier this morning.
Actually, being Jisung's secret lover is really fun! Finding each other in random places and sneaking in kisses when no one is watching.
But unfortunately, today has not allowed many opportunities to flirt.
Discovering new ways to fluster him might be your favorite part of all this. Sending secret winks across the room, leaving a dirty post-it hidden in his desk, pinching his butt in passing. Yeah, that's right.
You only did it once because he got so embarrassed, but it was a glorious moment. His butt is too cute for it's own good.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” he murmurs.
“I’ve been working.”
“More like torturing me."
You smack your lips in teasing empathy. “What a tragedy. A whole two hours without groping your subordinate.”
“I know, it’s been hell," he says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "I almost faked an emergency just to get you alone.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of emergency?”
“Something very serious,” he says as he pulls you just a bit closer, hands slipping over the curve of your ass. “Like a paper jam.”
It's not fair that his voice has such a cute, innocent, humorous tone, while his hands are kneading you like dough. At least his eyes can't lie - when he said he likes to live on the edge, he meant it.
You stifle a laugh and lightly shove his chest, but he doesn't let you get too far away before he's roping you back in, dipping his head to kiss your neck.
“I missed you,” he says, barely a whisper.
“We saw each other this morning, pretty boy."
“Hmm, not enough.” His lips brush your jaw, tracing a line of sin to your ear, causing goosebumps on your skin. "Need more of you."
“You’ve gotten plenty—” you start to tease. But his kisses suddenly turn hungry, catching you off guard. Desire flares hot in your chest, answering his spark with a desire of your own.
Whatever you were about to say. Gone.
Once his teeth have ghosted over your earlobe, they're nipping at the soft flesh of your neck, leaving behind a much too obvious change of color just below your ear. The touch lights your body on fire, the sense of him so close is becoming more and more familiar.
As he's learning your body, your body is learning him. It's only been a few days, but you can already recognize the impact he's had on your reflexes. It's a natural occurrence now, the way your self-control dissolves at his command.
Your breath is stolen, body obediently molding to his, knees going weak. Thankfully, Jisung has a firm hold under your ass, or you're pretty sure you would have collapsed to the ground. Your hands find his biceps and hold on for dear life, your heart rate beginning to rise to a dangerous level.
After only two nights and one morning together, he knows several of your weaknesses. And he enjoys using them.
“You’re going to get us caught," you protest, body betraying your words by leaning into him.
“You’re going to get me fired," he relays, lifting his lips off your neck to instead look in your eyes. "Still...may I?"
You nod, smiling despite yourself, and kiss him properly this time.
He's appreciative, although it starts off slow and gentle, savoring the feeling of him, letting the tension of the day melt off your shoulders. He slowly kisses you back, waiting for one thing - permission.
You give it to him. A light nibble into his bottom lip followed by a whispered, breathless, "...you're crazy."
"Yeah," he says, voice low, "for you."
Happy to oblige, your fingers slide into his hair, the kiss deepening, teeth brushing, breath mingling.
It turns messy and urgent quickly. You, attempting to keep the noises to a minimum, and Jisung, attempting to make that as difficult as possible with his leg between your thighs and his tongue down your throat.
He makes a low, determined sound against your lips, one hand gripping your waist while the other drags along the lines of your body. You feel the shift in his body before he even moves, his feet solidifying on the ground, his muscles tighten, and he adjusts his center of weight.
Then suddenly, you're lifted.
Your breath catches in your throat as he hoists you up and sets you on the table. Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself as his hands slide down to your thighs, grip firm, possessive.
"This is a terrible idea--oh!"
Without time for a breath, he jerks you to the edge of the table, hips colliding, successfully earning himself your first undeniable moan of the moment. He eats it up like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for you for weeks even though it's only been hours.
"The worst," he agrees and kisses you harder.
He guides your lips with ease, heat in every inch of contact, every part of you simultaneously aware of how fucking risky this is, but also how fucking amazing it feels to have your legs wrapped around his waist. To have his hand slowly feeling under your skirt.
Oh, it's so wrong, but you don't stop it. He kisses you like it's the only thing in the world he's ever been and ever will be responsible for. The sudden, obvious jerk of his body is caused by the feeling of your fingers messing with the buckle of his belt.
"Oh, shit!" You jump when a loud whirring sound from the printer starts going off, and several sheets of a printed PDF start to appear.
Fuck, you’re something precious to him. He hopes you can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way his lips savor you. But you're dangerous at the same time. If he keeps going like this, he's not sure when he should stop. When the table breaks?
You push Jisung away so fast he stumbles back into the corner, tripping over a box of printer paper before finally managing to compose himself.
He adjusts his shirt and pants while you pull your skirt down and brush a hand through your hair. A few quick glances and then you're using your thumb to help clean the smudged lipstick off Jisung's mouth.
The door swings open.
Hyunjin walks in, holding a coffee and looking way too observant for your comfort.
He pauses in the doorway, eyes drifting between the two of you.
Jisung, without missing a beat, nods seriously and says, “So anyway, as I was saying. The Q2 projections will need to be adjusted based on the revised marketing estimates. Make sure you ask Minho for the numbers."
"Right. Will do. Q2 projections. Very impending." You blink, then nod along like this was a real conversation all along.
Hyunjin narrows his eyes, gaze flicking between the still-warm printer, your slightly mussed hair, and Jisung’s flushed ears.
A long beat of silence.
“…Whatever,” Hyunjin says slowly, pointing at the printer. “I just came for the client contracts.”
He walks to the printer, opens it, but keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s trying to decide if he should report this to HR or be impressed by how quickly the two of you responded.
Jisung clears his throat and grabs a random stack of paper from the table like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“I’ll email you the updated numbers,” he says to you stiffly.
“Looking forward to it.”
You both exit the copy room with perfectly neutral expressions, only for the illusion to fall apart the second the door swings shut behind you.
You glance at him sideways, muttering under your breath as the two of you scurry back to your desk.
“Are you trying to get us fired?”
“I mean, not actively,” Jisung whispers back with a grin, walking in step with you down the hall. “But if it happens, totally worth it.”
“Jisung—”
“Come on, admit it," he says with a sparkle in his eye. "Almost getting caught was kinda exciting."
You huff, cheeks warm. “That’s not the point.”
“You liked it.”
“I panicked,” you hiss, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to hear. “If Hyunjin walked in two minutes later, he could have saw us mid...you know."
"Mid what?" He leans closer, smirking. “Say it.”
You elbow him in the side. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He winces dramatically, rubbing his ribs. “Abuse. In the workplace. I should report you to HR."
You roll your eyes but a little giggle manages to slip out. “Seriously, though. We've got to be more careful.”
“We are careful.”
“We were making out on the copy table, Jisung."
“Yeah,” he says with a dreamy sigh. "That was really hot.”
"Oh my god." You cover your face with your hand, but you're smiling. “You’re impossible.”
You round the corner and see your desks, side-by-side, a bit painfully close now that you have something to hide. Jisung gently grabs your wrist, bringing you to a pause before you can sit down.
“Not to enable either of us, but…no one pays attention in this office. Everyone’s too tired or too busy to notice anything. I bet we could get away with more.”
You raise a brow. “More?”
He shrugs like he’s talking about trying a new coffee order or shoes, as if sneaking around the office is casual. “Just saying. There’s a ten minute window after lunch where the whole floor basically powers down. You could kiss me in the middle of the room, and no one would notice."
You eye him suspiciously. “Is this you strategizing or flirting?"
He grins, shameless. “Both.”
You stare at him for a beat longer, trying to decide if he’s being ridiculous or if he’s actually got a point. Because the worst part? You’re thinking about it. Really thinking about it.
Ten minutes. That’s nothing, practically no time at all. And yet…
Your mind drifts, imagining what it might be like. Kissing him slow and deep in the wide open while everyone is in the break room completely oblivious, practically daring someone to walk out and see you. See his hands on your waist and your arms around his neck. The thrill of it. The danger. The way his smile would turn smug as hell if you actually did it.
God, you shouldn’t even entertain the idea.
But suddenly, you kind of want to see how far you can get before someone catches on. After all, Hyunjin definitely suspected something, but it's not like he called you out or told anyone.
Just how much would it take before someone said something?
Just how much could you get away with?
Just how many rules could you bend?
You face him head on, stepping just an inch closer. Just close enough to be in his personal bubble. Just a hair too close to be friendly. “You really want to play that game?”
He nods, clearly excited that you're getting on board with this.
"What if you get called into HR again?"
"Alright," you finally agree, equal amounts excitement and nervousness rising in your chest. "I'm in."
He shrugs, totally unbothered by the idea.
It bothers you a bit...but clearly not enough to beat the way Jisung is looking at you right now.
His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Better than our work dinner?"
He leans in close, murmuring so only you can hear. “You know nothing could ever beat that day, baby."
::
You tap a finger on his chest, trying to look innocent while your heart races at the new term of affection. “Baby? You keep calling me that, and I'll have to think of a name for you too."
He catches your hand and holds it to his chest, never missing a beat. "I already know the one I want."
synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.
It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.
At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.
But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.
You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.
That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.
“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”
Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”
Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”
Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.
You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.
You wanted someone to call yours.
A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.
And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.
But dreams change.
And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.
A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.
You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.
But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.
More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.
Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.
“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”
You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.
Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.
Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.
You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.
This baby was yours.
And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.
At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The letter.
That goddamn letter.
It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.
The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.
Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.
Maybe it was an apology.
Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.
He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.
He was angry.
Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.
So no, he didn’t open it.
He refused to.
The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.
He moved around it. Literally.
Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.
Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.
Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.
Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.
And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.
So why write?
What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?
He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.
And he didn’t.
Not until he started dreaming about you again.
Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.
He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.
Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.
“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”
He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.
He never meant to lose you.
He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.
The dreams came harder after that.
Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.
And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.
If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.
What if it was a goodbye?
What if it was closure?
The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.
Still, he didn’t open it.
Not yet.
Because once he did, there’d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.
Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.
Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.
Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.
-
He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.
It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.
But still, he scrolled.
A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.
His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.
Jia’s post.
A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.
Laughing.
Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.
You looked happy.
And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.
He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.
And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.
Smiling.
And not at him.
Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.
The drawer creaked.
That drawer.
He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.
He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.
You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.
He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.
The letter rested in his hands.
And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.
A rush of something hot surged in his chest.
Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.
It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.
You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?
His grip tightened.
The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.
He was going to rip it.
Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.
He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.
The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.
But something stopped him.
Not guilt. Not even curiosity.
Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.
What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?
It came quietly. It always did.
Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.
Because something was wrong.
Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.
The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.
And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.
Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.
Or maybe he wasn’t.
The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.
And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.
And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.
At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.
You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.
But no one told you how lonely it would feel.
How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.
And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.
You weren’t bitter.
You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.
It was Jia who brought it up.
“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.
“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.
“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”
Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”
“No. Chan.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”
Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”
“She’s pregnant.”
“I know that.”
“And emotional.”
“I know, Lana.”
Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”
“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”
“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”
“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”
Reluctantly, Lana agreed.
So now here you were.
Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—
A tap.
Soft. On your shoulder.
You turned.
And there he was.
Chan.
The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.
He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.
You blinked in disbelief.
“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”
The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.
Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.
Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.
You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”
“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”
You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”
He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”
That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.
He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.
“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”
You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.
Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.
You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”
Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”
“So did I,” you said quietly.
He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.
And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.
You felt like you again.
And that… that felt like breathing.
Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.
Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”
Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.
“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”
“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”
“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”
“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”
Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”
Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”
Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.
You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.
“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”
Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.
Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.
“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”
Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”
You nodded. “I could use the walk.”
“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.
“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.
The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.
Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”
He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.
It meant you.
You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.
But you didn’t talk about Jisung.
You didn’t need to.
Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.
Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.
“Have you thought of names yet?”
You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”
He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”
You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”
Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”
You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”
“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”
You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.
Just care.
And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.
You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.
Just… you.
And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.
Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.
Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.
He thought he was finally past it. Past you.
It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.
But then he saw the photo.
You. Laughing.
Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.
You looked so… okay.
That was what struck him the most.
You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.
He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.
The possibility made his stomach twist.
He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.
His hand hovered over it.
Six months.
What if he’d missed something important?
The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.
And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?
He could barely breathe.
“I’ve always wanted a family.”
It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.
And he hadn’t listened.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.
The man in the picture.
And that look on your face.
He thought about what it meant.
What it could mean.
And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.
What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?
What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?
He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.
His heart thundered.
The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.
But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.
-
The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.
He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.
A laugh.
But not just any laugh.
Your laugh.
For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.
It echoed again, closer this time.
He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.
And there you were.
Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.
Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.
You weren’t alone.
The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.
You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.
And it hit Jisung like a truck.
Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.
Someone who wasn’t him.
Something cracked deep in his chest.
It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.
You had left him and this was why?
You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?
His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.
Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.
He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.
All he knew was that he needed answers.
Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.
You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.
The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.
For a second, no one said anything.
You stared at each other.
The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.
You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”
But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.
The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.
“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.
Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”
Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”
His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”
The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.
“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.
“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”
Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”
You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.
“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.
“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”
“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.
He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.
“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”
“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”
“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.
Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.
“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.
You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.
“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.
You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.
Jisung didn’t follow.
He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.
You didn’t mention the letter.
You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.
And he still had no idea what he had missed.
All he knew now was this:
You had moved on.
And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.
You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.
At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.
You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.
You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.
Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.
You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:
Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.
You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.
The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you’d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.
It felt good. Almost normal.
You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.
“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.
“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”
You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—
You heard your name.
That voice.
That damn voice.
Your body went cold.
It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.
You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.
Jisung.
It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.
You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.
And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.
He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.
Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.
And you saw it.
The flicker of realization.
He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.
The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.
You hadn’t even told him it was his.
You didn’t want to.
Not like this.
Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.
The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.
And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.
You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.
And you meant it.
When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.
You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.
Because if you did, you knew it would break you.
You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.
Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.
He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”
Your lip trembled.
And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.
But then the tears came.
Without warning.
You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.
Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.
You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.
All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.
The betrayal of being forgotten.
The fear of being a single mother.
The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.
You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.
And in that moment, maybe he was.
He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.
He just held you. Like you needed.
Like you deserved.
Like Jisung never did.
It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.
Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.
“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.
You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.
He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.
The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.
When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.
Chan didn’t seem to mind.
He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.
“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.
You blinked, caught off guard.
And then… you laughed.
Just a little.
Soft and tired, but real.
You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.
“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.
You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.
You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.
He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”
You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”
That was all you needed to say.
He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”
You turned your head slightly to look at him.
“Yeah?”
Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”
You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”
Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”
You looked down at your stomach.
The guilt crept in again, slowly.
The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.
“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.
Chan looked over.
“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”
You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.
“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”
He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.
Because that didn’t matter. Not now.
Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”
You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.
And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.
He made you feel like you weren’t broken.
Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.
Still worthy of being held.
Still worthy of being chosen.
It had been hours since he saw you.
Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.
But it was still echoing.
Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.
You were pregnant.
And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.
And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.
He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.
He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.
He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.
Opened the drawer.
Pulled out the envelope.
The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.
He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.
For a moment, his hand trembled.
He could read it.
He could finally read it.
But then his mind flashed back to earlier.
The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.
And then came the anger.
All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.
His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.
“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”
He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.
He needed it to be true.
Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…
No.
He couldn’t think about that.
Couldn’t handle it.
So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.
The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.
And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.
The sound that left his throat was ugly.
Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
He didn’t know why he was crying.
He didn’t even feel like he was crying.
But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.
You were gone.
You had moved on.
And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.
And still… he didn’t know the truth.
Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.
He sat like that for a long time.
The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.
warnings: cursing, pet names(reader is called ‘baby’ once) mentions of sex but none actually written(hope i explained that right🤞🏾) Minho is mean here.
summary: you and Minho aren’t a couple and that’s been established many times through long arguments. So why is he acting so cold towards you after seeing you with another man?
dolle’s note: first time writing angst..hope i did good…!
────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ──
You’re relationship with Minho isn’t exactly one that your friends or parents approve of. Hell, you didn’t even approve of it at first. It’s just..complicated. You guys aren’t dating—that’s for sure, you guys have sex, stay up late together and kiss like a couple, but you both knew you guys were far from being a couple.
Along with these..intimate moments come with lots of arguments, really big arguments that leave you devastated over and over again every single time even though you’ve been through this for months. Every time is just more heartbreaking for you, but Minho isn’t even effected by these arguments anymore. Maybe it’s because he always starts them and still finds a way to blame you for everything.
Even after all of these screaming matches, hurtful words and deep words you always end up in the same place at the end of the night. laid flat on his black sheets, naked and needy for what he can give you. Both of you were aware that nothing about this was healthy and you were destroying each other, but he was like a drug to you. You just kept going back.
Maybe that’s why you’re waiting outside of his door in the middle of the night. Usually, you would have been asleep right now considering it was 1:32 am but you knew Minho was awake and you needed someone to talk to, someone that will listen to you. Seconds passed and you were about to turn around and go back to your car, but before you can turn around the door swung open.
“What’re you doin’ here? It’s late.” He sounded pissed off. That wasn’t new to you.
“I wanted to talk.”
There wasn’t lots of regular talking between you too. Just dirty or mean words most of the time, but when you two did just have normal talks you felt like you knew who he really was. After a couple of seconds of him staring at you he finally lets you in. You two went upstairs to his room, the one you’ve had restless nights in.
“Why’re you actually here, ‘cause I know you aren’t here to ‘just talk’. I’m not stupid.”
“I did just wanna talk, Minho. Not everything is always about sex between us.” As you replied to his words you roll your eyes. You seem to do that a lot when Minho talks.
A scoff falls from his lips at your words. “Uh, yes it is. That’s literally all we are, fuck-buddies. Thought that was established a while ago.”
You don’t know why but you felt pain in you at his words. “That’s really all you think of us, Minho?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We aren’t dating or anything and we never have.”
Maybe he was right. You two have never really acted like a couple. There was no hand holding, no gentle kisses and there definitely wasn’t any ‘i love you’s exchanged between you two at any point in this fucked up relationship you two have. There was never anything fond in any of his touches. Just lust filled and rough, exactly like his personality.
“What? You thought we were dating? God, you really gotta get your definitions in order.”
Why was he acting so cold towards you today? You two haven’t even talked in a few weeks. Maybe he’s just stressed out right now because you haven’t done anything to him. It hurt you, to be frank. He was just being mean to you out of nowhere and it was unfair to you.
“If you want a relationship go talk to that guy you were hanging out with all night.”
Just as he was about to go lie down on his bed you called him back. Now you knew what all of this was about. You never really took Minho for the jealous type. Possessive? Yes. Jealous. No. Wow, this night was just full of surprises.
“Wait, is that why you’re acting to mean towards me? Over a fucking picture?”
“Yeah, over a picture. You’re out here in small dresses with all of these men, probably getting passed around.”
Now this was just flabbergasting. First he’s laughing at you because you thought you guys were in a relationship, now he’s admitting that it pisses him off when you’re around other men. Men are really confusing.
“Why does it make you so mad anyway? It shouldn’t matter to you.” You figured that he was just being insecure which didn’t make any sense since you guys aren’t together.
“It matters so much because you’re at some club looking like a whore, then coming here asking to talk nights later. You just love to fuck around with men don’t you?”
“You have some fucking nerve calling me a whore. You’ve had more girlfriend’s and talking stages in one year then i have had in half of my life!” Minho was never one to just settle down with a girl, he never has.
“You’re so..cold hearted, you don’t care about the others you hurt.” That’s something you both knew but never really talked about other than through very small gestures.
You don’t know why you’re still here in his home. You don’t know why you’re still here in this messed up relationship with him. Nothing about him was comforting to you and by the looks of it, nothing ever will be. You’ve sought comfort for a while, you just want the reassurance. You don’t need long nights and days to talk, you just want someone to hold you in their arms.
“Do you want me to cradle you now? You want me to comfort you? Wake up, no one cares and no one ever has.” His words hurt more than they should have and he knew it. That’s the only reason why he actually said it.
“You’re so full of shit, you’re a selfish asshole!”
“Preach it to me, baby.”
By now you guys would have already been kissing and ripping your clothes off of each other. But this time you weren’t going for it, you didn’t want this anymore. You didn’t want to deal with him or his bullshit anymore, it wasn’t good for you.
“I’m leaving. Don’t contact me, Minho. Block me, delete my number. Do whatever you she to do in order to never talk to me again.”
While you were walking downstairs you wished he would’ve ran down and tried to stop you but of course he didn’t. Why would he? He only cares about himself and doesn’t think about how he hurts others. That’s what always stayed the same in what you two had. When you stepped outside you practically ran to your car as warm tears began to roll down your cheeks. You drove home with watery eyes and millions of things on your mind all at one time.
Maybe your friends were right. Maybe he was always bad for you. Yeah. They were always right, you were just too deep into the hole to see it. The only thing you saw was someone who could help you while all he saw was someone to relieve his stress. By now you would’ve been on the bed getting pounded into, it was always the same routine with him.
But not tonight. Tonight, you walked away before he could touch you. No begging, no glances back, no pretending it meant anything. The silence on your phone didn’t scare you anymore—it felt like peace. Maybe heartbreak wasn’t as loud as people said. Maybe it was quiet, like breathing again after holding it in for too long. And maybe, just maybe..you’d finally stop mistaking pain for comfort.
Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn
synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind
warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips
a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.
You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.
You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.
It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.
You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.
You let them think what they wanted.
The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.
“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”
Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.
Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.
His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.
They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.
Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.
Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.
The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.
Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.
---
You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.
An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.
“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.
“Follow. No questions.”
You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.
My God, the library.
Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.
You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.
Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.
The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.
He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.
“Did they assign me one of the interns?”
“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”
“No.”
“But sir—”
“I said no.”
He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:
“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”
He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.
---
Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.
“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”
Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.
She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.
---
The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.
You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.
In came Mr. Grey.
No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.
“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”
“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”
Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”
He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”
The doors slammed open again.
Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.
“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.
He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.
You didn’t blink. Neither did he.
It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.
Yours said, I already am.
Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”
Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.
One second.
Two.
Then he left.
And you? You smelled the war before it began.
After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.
She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”
A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”
The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.
You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.
The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.
You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.
Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.
Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.
“Miss Y/L/N.”
That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.
Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.
“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”
You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”
He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”
You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.
You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”
“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.
Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.
“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”
You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”
You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”
---
The door clicked shut behind you.
Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.
Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey
The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.
You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.
Then, an old university blog.
“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”
You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.
Summary:
Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.
You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.
Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.
“This’ll be fun.”
And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.
---
The routine had set in fast.
Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.
You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.
But Jisung?
Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.
You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.
And she always was.
The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.
“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”
“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”
Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”
“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”
“Oh, please don’t say—”
“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.
Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.
He didn’t say anything.
“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”
Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”
“Eleven. Don’t be late.”
“I’m always late.”
“I’ll dock your paycheck.”
“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”
“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.
It was a Thursday.
You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.
Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.
“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”
Papers were passed.
Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled
Priority Confidential.
Below it:
Supervisor – Han Jisung
Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.
“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.
But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.
You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.
You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.
Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.
His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”
“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”
“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.
You hated it.
“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”
“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”
You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.
Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.
“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”
“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.
Then,
“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.
“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”
“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.
His gaze lingered. Too long.
You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.
And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.
“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”
Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.
“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”
“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.
You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—
—he looked.
He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.
The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.
Fuck.
He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.
“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.
He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—
Nope.
He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.
It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.
---
You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.
His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—
And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.
You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.
The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.
Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.
“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”
“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.
Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.
“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”
“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.
Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.
---
The door clicked shut behind him.
Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.
It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.
The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.
He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.
Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.
Well…one intern.
His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.
Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.
He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.
And that skirt?
Jesus.
He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.
“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.
No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.
The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.
He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.
But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?
Didn’t want to be.
The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.
Perks of being Han Jisung.
He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.
Dad
Incoming call.
Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.
“Yeah?”
A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.
“You sound tired.”
“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”
“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”
“Still am.”
A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.
“He’s using you.”
Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”
“Exactly.”
He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.
“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.
“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”
Another pause. This time heavier.
“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”
Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.
“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.
Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”
“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”
Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.
“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.
“She hot?”
“Jesus, Dad.”
“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”
“So, you hate her.”
“…Something like that.”
There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”
“I’m not new to this.”
“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.
“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”
“Call your mother.”
“I will.”
“Jisung.”
“What.”
“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”
Click.
The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,
“…She’s still just an intern.”
But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.
Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.
He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.
His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.
His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house. Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.
“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”
“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”
When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.
She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.
When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.
Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.
He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom
He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.
“Sung-ah.”
His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.
“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”
“For you? Always.”
He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.
“I got assigned someone today.”
“At work?”
“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”
“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?
“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.
“That’s not a feeling, baby.”
He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”
“So, she’s not scared of you.”
“No. And that’s the problem.”
“Or the point.”
Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”
He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”
He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.
“I will.”
Click.
The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...
…or the unraveling of his.
---
The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.
Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.
Just said, “You’re late.”
“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.
He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”
“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”
A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.
Grey entered last. Of course.
Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.
He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.
“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”
He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.
“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.
“Everyone, give her the floor.”
Y/N blinked. “Wait—”
“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”
Shit.
She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”
The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”
Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”
She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”
He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”
Jisung’s jaw ticked.
Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.
He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”
“Was that… a compliment?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m writing it down anyway.”
“You do that.”
They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.
She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”
“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”
“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.
“You’re stubborn,” he said.
“I adapt.”
“That’s worse.”
She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.
He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.
His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.
He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.
“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.
The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.
Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.
Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.
Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.
“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.
Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.
She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”
“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.
She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”
“On it,” she replied.
Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”
“I’ll grab something later—”
“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”
“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”
She blinked. He smirked.
“And that’s not an empty threat.”
Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.
“You’re not eating?”
“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”
“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.
Y/N finally took a bite.
And—damn it—it was really good.
For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.
And neither of them realized it yet…
…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.
The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.
Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.
Then—she paused.
Froze.
Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.
She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.
“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.
But when she turned—
He wasn’t responding.
Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.
She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”
No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.
“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”
Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.
“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.
“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”
He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”
“Y/N—”
“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”
He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.
“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.
“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”
That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.
“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.
“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.
And then he was gone.
---
Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.
He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.
He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.
Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.
“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.
Then another ping.
Text from Y/N:
Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.
He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.
“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”
And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.
He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.
—
The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.
9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.
But it made his left eye twitch.
He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.
You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.
You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”
He gave you a slow blink.
“Yeah.”
“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”
Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.
He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”
Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”
You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.
“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”
The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.
“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”
There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.
“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”
Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”
“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”
Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”
Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”
He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”
Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”
You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”
Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”
You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”
Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.
“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.
Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”
“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”
“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-
Focus, Han. Not now.
The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.
Prep for the Mock Trial
The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.
“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”
“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”
“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.
Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”
“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”
“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”
The air went ice cold.
“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.
“I didn’t say that—”
“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”
“You think I didn’t?”
“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”
He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:
“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.
“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”
You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“Y/N, I—”
“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.
Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.
---
The atmosphere in the trial room was different.
Tense. Unspoken.
The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.
You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.
You didn’t look at him.
You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.
And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.
And she wasn’t looking at him.
The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.
You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.
Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.
Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.
Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.
You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.
“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”
“Yes.”
You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”
“Uh… maybe twice a week?”
“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”
The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.
You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.
You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”
Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”
What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.
As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”
When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?
“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”
Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.
---
Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.
“Y/N—”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Okay,” he finally said.
You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.
The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One
Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.
The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.
She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.
“All rise.”
Everyone stood.
“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”
The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”
Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”
It was clean. Sharp. Confident.
The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.
Classic. But weak.
Witness Examination — Day Two
By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.
“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”
“Yes.”
Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”
“I tried. But the internal review team—”
“Objection. Hearsay.”
“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”
“By whom?”
The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”
The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.
“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”
“Yes.”
“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.
“It’s not one I authorized.”
“Yet it came from your department.”
“It did.”
“Then who accessed it?”
The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”
Gasps.
“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”
Recess
Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?
It was a cold war.
Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court
Day Six, 3:45 PM
The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.
The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”
A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”
A murmur swept through the gallery.
“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”
Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.
They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.
But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.
Until,
“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.
She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.
“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.
“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”
Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”
“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”
But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.
That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.
And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.
---
The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.
“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”
You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”
“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”
“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”
There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.
Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”
You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”
“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.
“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”
Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.
—
The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.
There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.
He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.
He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”
Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”
Silence.
Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”
Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”
Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.
Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”
“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”
He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.
And Jisung sat alone again.
But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.
…One Week Later…
The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.
Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.
Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.
They only spoke when absolutely necessary.
And those conversations?
Clinical. Precise.
Like cutting stitches with cold hands.
Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.
“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.
He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.
The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”
She turned a page.
He swallowed. “About last week—”
“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”
He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.
---
The doors slid open. She was already inside.
He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.
“Getting in?” she asked quietly.
He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.
“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.
She blinked. “What?”
“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”
Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.
But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”
The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.
---
Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.
“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.
“Progress?”
“I think it was worse than silence.”
Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”
“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”
Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”
Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”
Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”
---
The knock was soft, but firm.
Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”
She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.
He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.
“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”
Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”
“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”
YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.
“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.
“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.
“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”
Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”
“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”
She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.
“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”
Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.
But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.
---
The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.
You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.
You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.
“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”
You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”
“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:
“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”
Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”
Another pause. A breath.
“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”
“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”
You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”
Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.
---
The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.
You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.
“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.
When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.
Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.
“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”
And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.
“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”
“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”
“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”
He exhaled, almost crumbling.
“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”
You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”
You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”
“I know.”
“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”
“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”
He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”
“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”
He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.
“I still owe you lunch,” he said.
“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.
They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.
Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.
You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.
“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.
Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”
“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”
“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”
“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.
“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.
He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”
You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”
“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”
“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”
“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.
“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”
Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.
“Don’t act like it’s just me.”
A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.
You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”
Then, without warning, you kissed him.
Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.
“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”
But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.
You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.
“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”
One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.
You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”
“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”
“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”
“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.
He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.
“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.
“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”
“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.
And then—
RIIINGGGG—!!
The desk phone blared.
The two of you froze.
Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.
“I should sue it for emotional damage.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”
The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.
“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”
There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.
“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”
He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”
He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”
“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”
You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”
“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”
“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”
“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.
You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.
“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”
“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.
“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.
Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”
“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”
“Only because I want dessert.”
“Ohhh my God.”
You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.
Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰
synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, heavy emotional themes, arguments/yelling, exes to ???.
wc: 8729
You’d always known what you wanted. That’s what people said about you “She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” “She’s a planner,” “She knows where she’s going in life.” And maybe you clung to that image a little too tightly, because letting go of your future, of what you thought it should look like felt like losing everything.
So when you told Jisung that night, hands slightly trembling, voice careful, “I want a family,” it wasn’t just an idle thought. It wasn’t a dreamy declaration thrown out over candlelight dinner like some offhand fantasy. It was your truth. Your foundation.
You thought it was a simple conversation, really. Something to talk through. Something couples talked about, planned for. But then he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just a soft, disbelieving chuckle that felt like a bucket of ice water down your spine.
“A family?” he repeated, almost like the word was foreign in his mouth. “Like… kids?”
You blinked. “Yes, Jisung. Kids. A house. A real future.”
He leaned back on the couch, arms crossed loosely, lips pressed into a faint line. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see the way his expression shifted, not into panic exactly, but discomfort. Resistance.
“I thought we were just… living,” he said slowly, cautiously. “You know, taking things day by day.”
You frowned. “It’s been five years, Jisung. How many more years do we need to take before we start talking about what we are?”
He looked away.
And that was the beginning.
You hadn’t meant for it to spiral. But it did. Fast.
“I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a dad,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice small. “I don’t… want that kind of responsibility. I don’t think I ever have.”
You stared at him like he’d slapped you.
“What do you mean you don’t want that kind of responsibility?” your voice came out sharp, slicing. “You knew I wanted this. I’ve always wanted this.”
“I thought maybe you’d change your mind,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
You stood up. “Change my—are you serious right now?”
His eyes flicked up, wide, as if he’d only just realized the weight of what he’d said.
“Why would I change my mind about something like that?” you demanded, anger bubbling beneath your skin. “That’s not some trivial thing, Jisung. That’s not like me saying I want to try a new hairstyle. That’s my future. My whole damn life.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Tried again. “I didn’t know it meant that much to you—”
“Then you don’t know me at all,” you snapped, and you watched as that hit him like a brick wall. Something in his face crumbled.
“You know that’s not fair,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice. “You know I love you.”
“Then why don’t you want to build a life with me?” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated that the hurt was bleeding through now, that your anger couldn’t keep it at bay anymore.
He stood up too, like he couldn’t take the distance between you anymore. “I do! I do want a life with you, I just—I don’t want it to be tied to some rigid idea of what it’s supposed to look like. Why does it have to be a house and kids? Why can’t it just be us?”
“Because I’m not nineteen anymore, Jisung!” you yelled, and the sound of your voice echoing off the walls startled both of you. “I don’t want to float around hoping that maybe one day you’ll change your mind. I can’t live like that. I want something real. I want stability. Commitment.”
His jaw clenched. “I am committed.”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “No. You’re comfortable. There’s a difference.”
He flinched.
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
“I can’t believe we’re fighting about this,” he muttered after a while, pacing the room like he could walk off the tension. “We’ve never fought like this before.”
“That’s because every time something serious comes up, you brush it off like it’ll work itself out,” you snapped.
He spun around. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll change? That I’ll suddenly wake up one day and want to raise a kid? I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Then don’t!” you cried, your voice breaking again. “Don’t lie. But don’t expect me to stay either.”
His eyes widened. “Wait—what? No. You’re not doing this.”
“I am,” you said, barely holding yourself together. “I can’t stay with someone who doesn’t see the same future I do. It’s not fair to either of us.”
“Bullshit,” he snapped, voice rising. “You’re giving up. Just like that? After everything?”
“I have to think about what’s best for me,” you said. “And I can’t keep pretending that this—us—is going anywhere.”
He looked like you’d punched him. “You don’t mean that.”
You did. And you didn’t. You didn’t want to mean it. But you had to.
You had to protect the version of yourself you’d been building for so long, the one who wanted love and a home and tiny feet running down the hallway. You had to believe that was still possible.
“I’m not going to waste more time hoping you’ll change,” you whispered. “Because what if you don’t? What if I wake up five years from now and you still don’t want what I do? What then, Jisung?”
He looked shattered. Absolutely wrecked. And still, he tried.
“Then we’d figure it out,” he said, stepping closer. “We always figure it out. That’s what we do. We work through it. We don’t just give up.”
But it didn’t feel like working through it this time. It felt like trying to build a life on top of sand.
You took a step back.
“I love you,” you said, voice hoarse. “But I’m not going to love you into something you’re not.”
“I can try,” he said, desperate now. “Let’s—let’s go to therapy. Or talk about it more. Please, just—don’t walk away.”
Your heart cracked. Shattered in slow motion.
“You shouldn’t have to try to want kids,” you said quietly. “That’s not something you force yourself into for someone else.”
“I’m not someone else,” he said. “I’m yours.”
You looked at him then, really looked. The pain in his eyes. The way he was holding himself like he was barely holding on. It would be so easy to stay. To fall into his arms and believe in something temporary. But you’d done that for too long.
You couldn’t build your forever on almosts.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you meant it.
He didn’t try to stop you when you turned to leave. Not because he didn’t want to. But because deep down, he knew.
You were already gone.
Jisung didn’t cry after you left. Not right away.
He just stood there in the middle of the apartment, staring at the door you’d walked out of like it might swing open again, like maybe this was just some twisted argument with an eventual apology hanging on the other side.
But the door stayed closed. The lock clicked.
That sound echoed louder than anything else in his head.
He didn’t sleep that night. Couldn’t. The silence in the apartment was unbearable. Everything felt too still, like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for you to come back.
Your shoes weren’t by the door.
The little things were missing, and yet, everywhere he turned, you were there. A ghost that wouldn’t leave. Your jacket still hung on the back of the chair. Your favorite mug was in the sink. A single earring sat abandoned on the coffee table. He didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.
By morning, the apartment was too quiet, and his chest too full.
He sat at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your name. He wanted to call. To say he didn’t mean it. That he’d change. That maybe kids weren’t so impossible. That maybe he just needed time.
But the call never came. Not from him. Not from you.
And that’s when it began.
The shift.
The sadness came first, thick and suffocating. He could barely breathe without it pressing down on his lungs. He went through the motions, wrote a few lines of a song, deleted them. Answered a text, turned off his phone. Walked into the studio, turned right around. Everything reminded him of you. Every lyric sounded like your voice. Every silence echoed like your absence.
He stopped eating properly. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting alone at the table where you used to eat breakfast barefoot and half-asleep. Couldn’t listen to music without wanting to smash the speakers. Couldn’t think about the future without seeing the one you wanted, the one he didn’t give you.
That’s where the anger crept in. Quietly at first, like a shadow under the door.
How dare you.
How dare you walk away after everything.
After the nights he stayed up with you, the songs he wrote for you, the times he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe he could give you everything. That even if he didn’t want kids, he could love you enough to be enough.
But it wasn’t. And you didn’t even fight for him. Not really. Not the way he fought for you.
You said you loved him, but you left.
You left because his future didn’t fit inside the perfect little box you’d built in your head, and somehow he was the one who got left with the wreckage.
And now everything pissed him off.
He snapped at his manager during a recording session. Some minor thing about studio time being pushed. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. But now? He slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled the walls.
“You okay, man?” his manager asked, cautious.
“I’m fine,” Jisung bit out, not looking back.
He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the moment you looked him in the eye and told him you were done. Like love had an expiration date. Like years meant nothing.
Every little thing grated on his nerves.
A barista spelling his name wrong? Rage.
A fan asking about relationship advice during a livestream? He ended the broadcast early.
A producer suggesting a more emotional tone for his lyrics? He stormed out of the booth.
Everyone around him noticed. His team started whispering behind his back. His friends sent fewer and fewer texts. He stopped responding anyway. He didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want their fake concern. Didn’t want them looking at him like he was broken.
Because he wasn’t broken.
He was angry.
He was angry at you for leaving. Angry at himself for not wanting the same things. Angry that love wasn’t enough to make you stay. Angry that you couldn’t just wait a little longer. Angry that you chose some imaginary child over him.
He used to think love was something real. Solid. Unshakable.
But now? Now it felt like something flimsy. Conditional.
You loved him, but only if he changed.
Only if he fit the picture you’d painted.
You said you wanted stability, a family, something grounded. Something he couldn’t give. Something he didn’t even want to give.
But why did that make him the villain?
Why did your dream matter more than his freedom?
Why was he suddenly the bad guy for not wanting to wake up in five years to a screaming toddler and a suffocating routine?
He used to think compromise was the answer.
But now he wasn’t sure. Maybe some people just weren’t meant to bend. Maybe some things were too core to who they were.
And maybe loving someone didn’t mean sacrificing yourself for them.
But then, why did it hurt so much?
He sat in his studio late into the night, eyes burning, jaw clenched. His guitar sat untouched beside him. A song hung unfinished in front of him, lyrics scattered, chords abandoned.
He wanted to write about love. About heartbreak. But everything sounded hollow. Fake.
Because the truth was: he hated you now.
And he hated that he hated you.
Because there was a time he would’ve given everything for you. There was a time he thought love would be enough. That if he held you close enough, you wouldn’t ask for more.
But you did.
And now, all he had was this seething heat under his skin, this gnawing ache in his chest, and a future he didn’t even recognize anymore.
You were gone.
And every day that passed, he stopped missing you and started resenting you.
Started resenting the way you made him question himself.
Started resenting the version of love you demanded.
Started resenting the idea that if he had just been different, maybe you would’ve stayed.
And worst of all, he started resenting the part of himself that almost wanted to be what you wanted.
Because he could’ve tried.
He could’ve forced himself into that mold. Given you the picket fence, the crib, the schedule. But then who would he be?
Not Jisung. Not really.
And still, he hated you for making him choose.
You hadn't unpacked half the boxes.
You told yourself it was because you were busy. You told your friends you were just easing into the new place. But the truth? You couldn’t even look at the taped-up cardboard stacked along the hallway without feeling a twist in your stomach. That new apartment wasn’t home. Not even close. It smelled too clean, too empty, too foreign. No creaky floorboard near the kitchen. No slightly faulty light switch in the hall. No Jisung's jacket draped on the chair.
Just silence. Cold and sterile. Like you were squatting in someone else’s life.
The breakup had gutted you.
You’d imagined it would hurt, but not like this. You hadn’t expected it to swallow you whole. To make you feel like your own body was betraying you. You could barely stay awake some days, head pounding, your stomach constantly churning, food turning your mouth sour. Nausea crept up without warning. The migraines were worse. And the back pain, it was unbearable. You kept telling yourself it was just stress. Just grief. Just the weight of losing someone you’d thought would be your forever.
Jisung.
Even thinking his name made your eyes burn. The argument played on a loop in your mind. Every word. Every yell. The way his voice cracked when he said he loved you. The way he looked at you like you were tearing him apart when you said you couldn’t stay.
You’d thought leaving would feel empowering. Like reclaiming your future. But all it felt like was free-falling without a parachute. Alone. Empty.
So when Jia and Lana, your best friends said they were coming over, you didn’t say no.
You didn’t want to be alone anymore.
You opened the door for them in the baggiest hoodie you owned, dark circles under your eyes, hair tied up like you hadn’t even tried. Because you hadn’t. Not in days.
“Holy shit,” Lana muttered the moment she saw you. “You look like a ghost.”
“Love the honesty,” you mumbled, stepping aside to let them in.
Jia walked in with a grocery bag full of junk food and wine. “We brought reinforcements.”
You gave a half-hearted smile and followed them to the couch. They looked around your place, boxes untouched, kitchen still half-set up and exchanged a look you caught but didn’t address.
“Alright,” Jia said, flopping onto the couch. “We let you have your silence for a few weeks, but we’re not doing that anymore. Spill.”
You hesitated. Chewed your lip. Looked at the floor.
“We broke up,” you said flatly.
“Clearly,” Lana said. “But why?”
You didn’t want to say it. You’d kept it locked away, even from yourself. But the words were right there now, like they’d been waiting at the back of your throat for too long.
“He didn’t want a family,” you whispered. “He didn’t want kids. Didn’t want that life.”
They were both quiet.
You looked up and saw confusion flash across Jia’s face, and something sharper in Lana’s.
“Wait… that’s it?” Jia asked, frowning. “That’s why you left him?”
You gave a hollow laugh. “That’s not it. We screamed. I said I couldn’t stay with someone who didn’t see a future with me. He said I was giving up. That I didn’t love him enough to compromise.”
“Did you want to compromise?” Lana asked softly.
You shook your head. “No. I’ve always wanted that. A home. A family. I wasn’t going to let myself settle for less.”
Silence settled around the three of you for a moment. Then Jia leaned over and squeezed your hand.
“You did the right thing,” she said firmly. “You were honest about what you needed. That’s not wrong.”
You nodded slowly, even though it didn’t feel like truth. It felt like hell.
“I miss him,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I feel like I can’t breathe most days.”
“That’s grief,” Lana said gently. “Doesn’t mean you were wrong. It means it mattered.”
Jia stood up and pulled a bottle of wine out of the bag. “Okay, we’re not solving this tonight. But we are drowning your sorrows.”
You raised your hand weakly. “I—actually, I can’t drink.”
They both froze.
“Why?” Jia blinked. “Are you on meds?”
“No,” you said slowly. “It’s just—my body’s been all over the place. Headaches, nausea, back pain. I’ve been throwing up constantly. It’s like… every symptom ever.”
“You sound like me when I had food poisoning,” Jia said, trying to lighten the mood.
Lana snorted. “No, you sound pregnant.”
You froze.
Jia laughed too, but then stopped when she saw your face. “Wait… wait, no. You’re not. Right?”
You didn’t respond.
“Hold on,” Lana said, sitting up straighter. “You haven’t…? You’re not on birth control, right?”
“I was,” you said faintly. “But… we got lazy. We always did. He said it was fine. I said it was fine. We trusted each other. I didn’t think…”
“Oh my god,” Jia whispered.
Your hand flew to your mouth.
You felt the air leave your lungs. Felt the room tilt slightly. Your heart was pounding in your ears.
It all clicked like a slap. Like a bolt of lightning to the spine.
The nausea. The vomiting. The back pain. The soreness. The exhaustion.
The fact that you were late.
You hadn’t even noticed. You were so wrapped up in grief, in anger, in heartbreak, in trying not to drown, that you hadn’t stopped to count the days. And now, sitting here between your two best friends, your stomach twisted in a different way entirely.
Jia reached out and took your hand. “When was your last—?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. I haven’t been keeping track.”
Lana stood up. “We’re getting you a test.”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—I can’t—what if—”
“What if you are?” Jia said gently. “Then we deal with it. Together.”
Your breath caught.
You weren’t ready for this. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not mentally. And especially not without him.
What if you were carrying the one thing he never wanted?
What if the fight you thought had ended everything… had only just begun?
Jia stood slowly. “Okay. Okay. We’re not freaking out. We’re going to the pharmacy. Right now.”
You didn’t move.
You sat there, paralyzed, as realization sunk in like lead into your bones.
The nausea. The headaches. The fatigue. The back pain.
The way your body didn’t feel like yours anymore.
The way your emotions had been on a knife’s edge since that night with Jisung.
The way you’d left because he didn’t want a child and you might already have been carrying one.
Tears welled in your eyes, unspoken words crumbling in your throat. Jia sat back down beside you and wrapped her arms around your shoulders. Lana crouched in front of you, her hands on your knees.
“Hey,” Lana whispered. “No matter what happens, you’re not alone, okay? We’re here. We’ll figure it out.”
You nodded, but you didn’t feel reassured.
Because now, everything had changed.
And you weren’t sure how to breathe.
-
The trip to the pharmacy was a blur.
You barely remembered getting in the car, or how Lana managed to keep the conversation light as Jia drove through the quiet streets, trying to fill the silence with anything that wasn’t panic. The buildings passed like smudged paintings outside the window. You just stared, numb, hands clenched in your lap.
You weren’t crying. Not yet. You weren’t feeling anything. Just floating, adrift in your own body, your own thoughts.
When the neon light of the 24-hour pharmacy blinked into view, it didn’t feel real.
Lana hopped out first. “Come on,” she said, trying for her usual confidence. “We’ll go with you.”
Jia gave your hand a squeeze. “We’ve got you, okay?”
You nodded, but it was empty.
The bell over the pharmacy door chimed when you walked in. The air inside was too bright, too sterile. Every step toward the pregnancy test aisle felt like walking deeper into something you couldn't take back. The aisle was quiet, and there was something humiliating in the way you reached for the box, something too loud in the crinkle of the packaging as your fingers closed around it.
You felt like the whole store could hear it.
When you made your way to the register, there was only one cashier, an older woman with tired eyes and thin, pressed lips. Her eyes flicked to the box in your hands, and then up to your face. She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t have to.
The look was enough.
Judgmental. Knowing.
Like she’d already drawn her conclusions, tucked you into a neat little box of irresponsibility and shame. Like she knew you weren’t ready. Like she knew you were just another girl who made a mistake.
And you wanted to scream. You wanted to tell her you weren’t like that. That you weren’t careless. That you wanted a family. That this wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
But you didn’t say anything.
You paid in silence, holding the little white bag like it was full of glass. And when you stepped outside into the parking lot, the night air felt sharp against your skin.
Back home, Jia and Lana followed you wordlessly into the apartment. You didn’t even bother taking your shoes off.
“I’ll wait outside,” Jia said softly, her voice gentle, cautious. “Unless you want—”
“No,” you interrupted. “I just… I need a minute.”
“Okay.” Lana nodded. “We’re right here, though. You’re not doing this alone.”
The bathroom door closed behind you with a soft click, and the silence that followed was deafening.
You sat on the edge of the tub, hands trembling as you opened the box. The instructions blurred a little. You read them anyway, three times, like somehow they’d say something different. Like maybe you’d missed something. Maybe there was still a way out of this feeling.
There wasn’t.
The test was cold in your hand. Mechanical. Impersonal. Like it didn’t understand the weight of what it could tell you. Like it didn’t care.
You did what you needed to do.
Then you set the stick down on the edge of the sink and set your phone timer.
Three minutes.
Three minutes to sit there, heart racing, mind spiraling.
Three minutes to question every decision you’d made. Every word of that fight with Jisung. Every scream. Every tear.
You’d wanted this. A family. A child. A life you could call your own.
But not like this.
Not like this, with shaking hands and no one by your side. Not in a cold bathroom under fluorescent lights, with your body already aching and your chest hollowed out by the absence of the person you thought would be there when it happened.
You thought about the way he looked at you during that last fight. Like you were breaking his heart.
You thought about the silence afterward. The way he never called. The way you never called.
You thought about how it ended because he didn’t want this. And how now, somehow, you were here anyway.
And you were alone.
Your phone vibrated, the sharp trill of the timer slicing through the stillness.
You didn’t move for a second. Just stared.
Then, slowly, you reached for the test.
You looked.
And everything inside you fell apart.
Positive.
Two lines. Clear. Unmistakable.
There was no maybe. No error.
You were pregnant.
Your vision blurred instantly, your breath catching on a sob that ripped up from somewhere deep in your chest. Your hands flew to your mouth, as if you could stop the sound from escaping. But it was too late.
The weight of it crushed you.
You curled forward, sobbing so hard your ribs ached. Your body trembled, your heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.
You didn’t even hear the door burst open.
But you felt them.
Jia was on the floor beside you in an instant, her arms around you before you could even speak. Lana followed, kneeling, her hand on your back.
They didn’t ask. They didn’t need to.
“Oh my God,” Jia whispered, voice shaking.
Lana pressed her forehead against your shoulder. “Breathe. Just breathe, okay? We’re here. We’re right here.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think—” Your voice broke. “He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this.”
“I know,” Jia murmured, rocking you gently. “But you’re not alone.”
You weren’t sure if that was true. Not really.
Because no matter how tightly they held you, no matter how soft their voices were, the truth was that your heart was broken, and your future had just changed forever.
And Jisung didn’t even know.
Eventually, the sobs ran out.
You didn’t know how long you stayed there, curled up on the bathroom floor, the test lying forgotten by the sink like some cruel joke. Your body felt heavy, like you’d been wrung out, your soul cracked open and left to dry in the cold fluorescent light.
When Jia helped you to your feet, she didn’t let go. Her arm stayed wrapped around your waist as she guided you out of the bathroom, and Lana silently grabbed a blanket from the arm of the couch, draping it around your shoulders as you sank into the cushions.
The apartment still felt foreign. But the couch, worn in and sunken felt a little like home, if only because you’d cried into it every night since the breakup.
They didn’t say much at first. Just sat with you. Gave you time.
You weren’t sure how much time passed before Jia finally broke the silence.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice full of something that sounded like belief. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but… you will.”
You didn’t answer.
Because how could you be okay?
You were barely holding it together. You were heartbroken. Exhausted. Confused. You felt like a stranger in your own skin, like the world was spinning too fast and everyone else had their feet planted except for you.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered eventually, staring at nothing. “I feel like I can’t even breathe.”
Lana sat down beside you and tucked your hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You just found out. One step at a time, okay?”
You nodded numbly.
But then Jia’s voice broke through, gentle but firm. “He should know.”
You stiffened.
“Jisung?” you asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your voice. “You think I should call him? After that breakup? After everything?”
“He’s still—” she started, but you cut her off.
“What, I’m supposed to pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, I know you didn’t want this, but I’m pregnant’? You think that’ll go well?”
Jia’s face twisted with sympathy. “No. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just saying he deserves to know. It’s his, too.”
You laughed bitterly, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.
“He made it very clear he didn’t want to be a father. We screamed about it for hours. I left because of it. I’m not dragging him into this now.”
Lana frowned. “But it’s not dragging him in. It’s telling him the truth. What he does with it after that is on him.”
You shook your head, the tears already threatening to start again. “I can’t see him. I can’t even hear his voice without feeling like I’m breaking all over again.”
Silence fell again, heavy and weighted.
Lana, ever the quieter of the two, finally broke it after a long pause.
“Then don’t see him,” she said gently. “Write him a letter.”
You blinked, confused.
“A letter?”
“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell him everything. How you feel. What happened. What you want. Don’t filter it. Just let it all out. You don’t even have to send it right away. But… if you can’t talk to him in person, maybe writing will help.”
You were quiet.
You hadn't thought about that. But something about the idea made your chest ache in a different way. It wasn’t a confrontation. It wasn’t immediate. But it was honest.
Still, the idea of writing to him… it was like opening a door you’d slammed shut just to stay upright.
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” you admitted. “What do you say to someone who ripped your heart out and you still love them?”
“You say what you need to,” Jia said, her voice soft and steady. “Say everything you never got to.”
You looked down at your hands.
Your fingers were shaking again. From fear, maybe. From exhaustion. From still not knowing what your next step would be.
“Maybe,” you whispered. “Maybe I’ll try.”
Lana squeezed your hand. “That’s all we’re asking.”
And for the first time that night, you didn’t feel quite as alone.
-
It was past midnight by the time Jia and Lana finally stood to leave.
They didn’t want to. You could see it in the way they lingered by the door, casting worried glances over their shoulders, their eyes filled with unspoken hesitation. But you needed the silence. Needed the space to feel everything without having to translate it into words for anyone else.
Before they left, they each gave you a hug, long, warm, and impossibly tight. The kind of hug that tried to hold your heart together.
“We’re just a call away,” Lana whispered into your shoulder.
Jia cupped your face gently. “Take care of yourself. And write that letter. Even if you don’t send it.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched them go. The door clicked shut with a finality that felt heavier than it should’ve. Then you were alone again.
Really alone.
You stood in the center of your quiet, dimly lit living room, wrapped in the same blanket, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound left to keep you company. The soft cushions of the couch sagged where the three of you had just sat. A half-full glass of water sat forgotten on the coffee table. The white pharmacy bag was still on the bathroom counter like a ghost of what had just happened.
And the test was still there.
Positive.
You turned away from it and sank to the floor beside the low table, pulling your knees to your chest. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Eventually, your fingers reached for the drawer beneath the table, pulling out a notebook and an old ballpoint pen. The page felt too white. Too new. Too honest.
You stared at it.
Then you began to write.
The first line didn’t make sense. Neither did the second. The words were stiff, robotic, guarded. You ripped the page out. Crumpled it. Threw it aside.
Then another.
And another.
For hours, the floor around you slowly filled with small white paper orbs, tiny broken attempts at being brave, at being honest, at saying the right thing. None of them felt like enough. None of them felt like you.
You were terrified of getting it wrong. Terrified of opening that door and letting him see how shattered you were.
Because if he didn’t respond, if he didn’t care, you weren’t sure if you’d survive it.
It wasn’t until your hand was cramping and your eyes were blurry with exhaustion that it finally came together.
Not perfectly. Not beautifully. But truthfully.
You stared down at the letter for a long moment before you began to read it over:
-
Jisung,
I don’t really know how to start this, except to say I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.
For how it ended. For the things I said. For the things I couldn’t say at the time because I was too angry, too hurt, too heartbroken to find the words.
I want you to know that I loved you. I still love you. That’s what made everything so hard. You were home to me. For so long, I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. So when I realized we wanted such different things… it broke me.
I thought I could walk away and feel strong. I thought leaving was the right thing to do. But it felt like cutting my own heart out.
These past few weeks have been hell. I moved out, I tried to move on, but I haven’t been okay. I’ve been sick, physically and emotionally. I thought it was the stress at first, nausea, migraines, fatigue, the kind of pain that doesn’t let you breathe.
And then Jia and Lana came over. And we joked about it. At first.
Then I realized… it wasn’t a joke.
We went to the pharmacy tonight. I bought a pregnancy test. I took it. I stared at the result for what felt like forever.
It was positive.
Jisung… I’m pregnant.
I know this is the last thing you wanted. I know this might feel like a betrayal, or like a nightmare, or something you never imagined happening between us. And I’m not telling you this to try to force you into anything. I’m telling you because you deserve to know.
You have every right to walk away. To pretend this letter never existed. If you don’t want to be involved, I understand. I won’t chase you. I won’t beg. I’ll raise this baby on my own if I have to. But I couldn’t not tell you.
If you want nothing to do with me or the baby, I’ll take the hint. If you don’t respond, no calls, no texts I’ll understand, and I’ll disappear from your life.
But if some small part of you wants to talk… I’m here.
I just needed you to know.
Love,
me
-
You let the pen fall from your fingers as the final word settled onto the page like dust.
Your hands were trembling again, but it wasn’t just fear this time. It was relief, too. Catharsis. Like you’d finally let out something you’d been holding onto for too long.
The letter wasn’t perfect. It didn’t fix anything. But it was the truth.
And maybe that was enough. For now.
You leaned your forehead against the edge of the table, the paper still in your lap, and closed your eyes.
You weren’t sure what came next.
But at least now… he’d know.
-
It was late.
So late, the world outside your window felt like a dream, one soaked in shadows and muted by silence. The clock on your phone blinked 2:07 a.m. in pale white digits, and the city had long since tucked itself into stillness. But you couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried.
The letter sat on your kitchen table, folded neatly, sealed inside a plain envelope with his name written across the front in your handwriting, the one he used to call pretty, always a little tilted, always a little too careful. You’d read the letter at least a dozen times, and still, the words felt like they bled every time you looked at them.
You didn’t want to give it to him.
But you also couldn’t keep it.
So before you could think twice, you grabbed your coat, your keys, and the letter, clutching it like it was made of glass. The air outside was cold, and the drive felt like a slow-motion reel of all your memories. The streets you passed were all ones you’d driven before, with Jisung in the passenger seat, legs up on the dash, humming some half-written melody.
Your hands tightened on the wheel.
The closer you got to the apartment, the heavier your chest became. It was like your body knew you were walking back into something it had barely survived.
When the building finally came into view, you had to sit in your car for a moment and just breathe.
You hadn’t been here since the breakup. Since the day you packed your things into boxes that felt more like coffins. Since you shut the door for the last time and didn’t look back.
But the building still looked the same.
Still tall. Still modern. Still home, in a way that hurt.
You pulled up to the side gate, rolling down your window as you approached the guard station and your stomach twisted.
There he was.
Bong.
You hadn’t thought about Bong. The older man who’d been stationed there almost every night, always sitting in his chair with his crossword puzzle and thermos of barley tea. He’d loved you and Jisung. Always waved. Always grinned. Always made cheesy comments about how “young love like yours gives me hope.”
And now he was blinking in surprise as he looked up and recognized your face.
“Ah! Look who it is!” Bong said, standing up with a slow but cheerful stretch. “Where’ve you been hiding, sweetheart? Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
Your throat closed. You forced a smile.
“Hey, Bong. Yeah… I’ve been busy. A lot going on.”
“Busy?” he chuckled. “You and Jisung used to be stuck together like gum on a shoe. Thought maybe you were just on vacation or something.”
Your heart gave a painful jolt.
You nodded slowly. “Something like that.”
Bong gave a little laugh, patting the side of the guard booth. “Well, he’s not in tonight, if you’re here to see him. You just missed him, I think. Probably out at the studio.”
You nodded again, more quickly this time. “Yeah, I figured. I, uh… I just need to drop something off. I forgot my key, though. Think you can buzz me up?”
Bong didn’t even hesitate. He reached for the panel without question, fingers dancing over the buttons like muscle memory. Why would he question you? You used to live there. You used to be part of them.
“Of course, of course,” he said, smiling. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? You two were my favorite couple in the building. Always smiling. Always polite. Not like these loud kids on the 10th floor.”
You laughed softly, hollowly. “I’ll try.”
He buzzed you in, and you walked through the lobby like a ghost like the version of yourself that used to live there was watching from a corner, remembering how it used to feel to come home to him.
The elevator was slow. Every floor it passed felt like a memory clawing up your spine.
4A.
When the doors finally slid open, you stepped out and moved quickly, not letting yourself stop. You already knew the way. Muscle memory took over. Your feet found the familiar hallway. Your fingers traced the same line along the wall you used to follow when you came home late and didn’t want to wake him.
And there it was.
The door.
Still the same. Still painted navy blue. Still slightly scuffed at the bottom where Jisung used to kick it open with his foot when his hands were full.
You stood in front of it for a second, staring down at the handle.
You wondered if he was still using the hooks you installed behind the door. If he still left his shoes slightly to the left, if your handwriting was still on the little sticky notes stuck to the fridge. If your scent still lingered on his pillows. If he ever even looked at the empty side of the bed.
But it wasn’t your place anymore.
Not really.
Your hand shook as you crouched down and gently slid the envelope under the door, careful not to bend it. It slipped through in one smooth motion and disappeared into the quiet darkness behind the door you used to unlock every night.
And that was it.
No dramatic goodbye. No explosion. Just paper and silence.
You didn’t wait. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t let yourself feel it.
You turned and walked back to the elevator with your arms wrapped tight around yourself, like if you held on hard enough, you wouldn’t fall apart.
By the time you made it to the lobby, Bong waved again, confused as to why you were leaving.
You nodded without looking him in the eye.
Then you pushed through the glass doors and stepped back into the night, where the cold met your skin like a slap and your lungs finally remembered how to expand.
You got into your car, turned the key, and drove off, leaving a piece of yourself behind in the hallway of 4A.
And in that letter on the floor.
Waiting to be read.
Waiting to break him, or not.
You didn’t know.
You didn’t know if he’d open it at all.
But at least now… the truth was in his hands.
And all you could do now was wait.
The building was quiet, bathed in the soft blue hues of early dawn. The kind of silence that clung to the walls, still heavy with the weight of a sleeping city. Jisung pushed through the front doors of the apartment lobby with a tired yawn stretching his face, a hand lazily dragging through his already-messy hair. He looked worn out, but lighter somehow like the crushing weight that had lived between his shoulders for weeks was finally beginning to lift.
He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t healed. But he was getting better.
Finally.
The angry, bitter edge he’d been carrying like a shield since the breakup had dulled, softened into something quieter. Less venomous, more resigned. His music had started to flow again. His manager had stopped flinching every time he walked into a room. Even his friends, who had, for a while, tiptoed around him like he was a landmine were starting to laugh with him again. Things were starting to move again.
And yet…
You were still there.
Always in the back of his mind. Like static he couldn’t quite tune out.
Even now, yawning in the lobby at five in the morning, he was thinking about you about the way you used to wait for him with tea already steeping, your legs curled up on the couch, soft music playing. About the way your handwriting covered sticky notes he still found around the apartment sometimes, even after he tried to throw them all away. About how he both hated and missed you in a way that made no sense.
That’s when he heard his name.
“Jisung!”
He blinked and looked up.
Bong, ever the night guard, stood with a warm grin and a small wave, stepping out from behind the booth like he always did.
“Back late again, huh?” Bong chuckled. “Or early, I guess.”
Jisung gave a tired smile and a small shrug. “Studio ran over. You know how it is.”
Bong nodded knowingly, then added casually, “Y/N stopped by and left quickly after.”
The words hit like a slap.
Jisung’s entire body went still.
His eyes locked onto Bong’s face, every bit of warmth draining from them in an instant.
Bong noticed the shift immediately. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “She didn’t say much, just said she forgot her key. I let her up, she lives here, right?”
Jisung’s jaw tightened. He looked down for a moment, then asked, voice sharp, clipped “Did she say anything else?”
Bong shook his head. “No, just that she was busy lately. But—oh, she was carrying something. An envelope, I think.”
An envelope.
Something cold and familiar crawled up Jisung’s spine.
He swallowed thickly and nodded once, muttering, “Thanks,” before turning and walking briskly toward the elevator.
He didn’t wait to hear Bong say goodbye.
His chest was tight by the time he reached the fourth floor. Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last, anxiety and irritation crawling under his skin like ants. By the time he reached the door of his apartment, his hand was already trembling as he reached for the handle.
He didn’t know what he expected.
Maybe a note taped to the door. Maybe nothing at all.
But there it was.
The envelope.
Lying just past the threshold on the floor. Still sealed. Still untouched. Still hers.
His.
Jisung stared at it like it might explode.
He didn’t move for a long time.
His thoughts were a mess. racing, snarling, tripping over each other with every passing second. He didn’t need to pick it up to know it was from you. He could recognize your handwriting with his eyes closed. He used to trace it on your back with his finger when you were sleeping.
He bent down slowly, jaw clenched, and picked it up.
It was light.
Just one page, maybe two. It smelled faintly like you. Like the vanilla lotion you always wore, the one he pretended not to like but secretly found comforting.
He hated how fast his heart was beating.
What does she want?
Why now?
Is she trying to come back?
Does she think I’m still waiting for her?
The thoughts twisted into anger before he could stop them.
He scoffed, bitterness curling on his tongue like smoke. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself.
He was doing better.
He was moving on.
He was finally breathing without choking on her name.
And now she was back, her shadow pressing into the crack beneath his door, her words lying in wait in his hallway, like some ghost that refused to stay buried.
“Probably just wants to talk,” he muttered bitterly. “Probably wants to fix things. Pretend like it didn’t happen. Like she didn’t throw me away.”
He walked to the desk in his office, the envelope dangling from his fingers like it disgusted him. His eyes fell on the drawer he hadn’t touched in weeks, where he kept unfinished lyrics, contracts, spare USBs, pens, and things he didn’t want to look at.
He yanked it open and shoved the letter in without a second thought.
Then slammed it shut.
Hard.
The sound echoed through the apartment, loud and final.
He stood there, breathing heavily, hands braced on the desk like he needed it to stay upright. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His vision was blurry with emotion he didn’t want to name.
Because he knew.
He knew the moment he opened that drawer again, when he touched that envelope, read those words, it wouldn’t just be you pulling him back in.
It would be everything.
All the pain. All the love. All the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to feel again.
So for now… he wouldn’t.
He wouldn't read it.
He wouldn’t feel it.
Not yet.
But the letter was there.
And no matter how hard he tried to forget it…
He knew he’d open that drawer again eventually.
-
Rest didn’t come easy anymore.
Not that it ever did, after Jisung. But lately, even the small comforts, warm tea, soft music, rain against your window, did nothing to settle the storm constantly churning in your chest. You couldn’t sleep through the night. You couldn’t go more than an hour without wondering if he’d read it. If he’d at least seen the envelope. If he’d seen your handwriting and felt anything at all.
The uncertainty gnawed at you like a second heartbeat.
You kept telling yourself no news is good news, but that wasn’t true, not when the silence was deafening. Not when it meant you had no answers. Not when every unread message, every call you didn’t make, left you drowning in maybes and what-ifs.
You kept checking your phone.
You hated yourself for it.
Every time it buzzed, your heart leapt into your throat before plummeting back down when it wasn’t his name lighting up your screen. You tried to be rational. Tried to tell yourself he was processing, that maybe he needed time. You’d written that in the letter, after all. “If you don’t want to respond, I’ll understand.” But you didn’t really mean that. Not completely. Not when a part of you had still hoped he’d come running.
But weeks passed. Then a month.
A whole month.
No call. No message. No knock on your door.
And at some point between the quiet sobs in the shower, and the nights you lay curled in bed with one hand pressed gently over your growing stomach, you realized something soul-shattering:
He wasn’t coming.
He’d read it. Or maybe he hadn’t. But either way, he knew. And his silence was an answer in itself.
It gutted you.
Because you hadn’t just told him you were pregnant, you told him you still loved him. That you were scared. That you were willing to raise this baby with or without him. You’d given him a window back in, and he’d walked past it like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter. Like the baby growing inside you, a piece of both of you didn’t matter.
You cried harder than you had since the breakup.
And when the tears ran dry, what settled in wasn’t peace, it was resolve.
You had no choice but to move on.
Because this wasn’t just about your broken heart anymore.
This was about the tiny life blooming inside you. The little heartbeat that fluttered stronger with every week. The child you’d already started to love before you’d ever seen their face.
You weren’t alone, not really. Not with Jia and Lana.
They were there through every panic attack, every 3 a.m. spiral, every emotional breakdown over cereal. They never asked for too much, never pushed you too hard. They simply showed up.
When you told them about the silence, about how Jisung never replied, never called, never even acknowledged your letter, they were furious.
Jia paced your living room, arms folded tightly across her chest. “I can’t believe him. Seriously. What kind of coward ignores something like that? You gave him a chance, and he just—ghosts you?”
Lana was quieter, but her face was tight with restrained anger. “It’s one thing to break up. It’s another to abandon someone when they need you most.”
You just sat on the couch, blanket wrapped around your legs, head resting against the pillow as you stared out the window. The late afternoon sun had begun to dip beneath the buildings, turning everything gold and tired.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “He didn’t want a kid. He told me that. I just thought... I don’t know. I thought maybe once it was real, once he knew... he might change his mind.”
Jia sat beside you and pulled you into a tight hug, her hand gently smoothing your hair. “That’s not on you. You were honest. You did everything right.”
Lana knelt in front of you, her expression softening. “You gave him a choice, and he made it. That’s on him. Not you.”
You nodded, tears gathering again, but you didn’t let them fall. Not this time.
Instead, you reached for the ultrasound photo you’d been keeping in a book on the table nearby. It was blurry, indistinct, but it was yours. Proof that you weren’t alone. Proof that there was still something to fight for even if the person you wanted beside you had walked away.
“I’m going to do this,” you whispered. “With or without him.”
And for the first time in weeks, your voice didn’t shake when you said it.
-> You keep coincidentally running into your supervisor after work hours. It's getting harder and harder not to flirt with him...especially since he can't seem to stop flirting back.
Warnings: flirting, cursing, sexual tension, some suggestive conversation and dirty thoughts, kissing, implied sexy time
After Hours Navigation
it's time for the ever anticipated work dinner lol sorry for the wait, idk life just kinda came at me 🙃 but we're back, baby! This is Bounce Back Jisung bc I'm obsessed someone help--
Han Jisung, the most inconsiderate, intolerable human to ever grace the planet, did not seriously just come to pick you up after hours wearing that.
A suit, even though this man only bothers with them on days packed with important meetings, and today’s calendar was empty. But not just a suit – a vest. A perfectly tailored vest over a crisp, pinstriped button-down, tucked neatly into form fitting navy slacks. And rolled sleeves – oh dear god – rolled sleeves to expose his forearms adorned with silver chain bracelets and a tasteful number of rings just to make his fingers that much more of a menace. His suit jacket lays drapped over his arm like a souvenir.
He runs a hand through his irritatingly perfect hair before adjusting his vest with a roll of his shoulders. He checks the time on his phone, releasing a breath from puffy cheeks, a few hops in place to help ease the butterflies in his stomach.
At least it's nice to see him just as nervous as you feel.
Thankfully, he hasn't seen you yet, so you have a spare moment to collect your thoughts and bury them in the deepest, darkest hole you can muster.
“Hey!” you greet him, appearing from around the corner with a smile. “Sorry to make you wait. I'm ready to go now.”
Oh, but he's not ready. He has to check you out first (in the most respectful and obvious way).
Your outfit suits you like it was made for you. The way it fits your frame, highlighting the curves and lines that are uniquely yours. The strength in your posture, the grace in your movements.
Are you legitimately expecting him not to stare?
The way your shoulders carry a quiet confidence is so hot. He wishes he could come up with a less fuck-boy way of saying it, but damn, you're so hot. The way your waist draws in when you give him a little twirl. The soft, natural rhythm of your body as you walk, seemingly unaware of the effect you have on him.
“I got it yesterday for our work dinner,” you explain when you see him staring. “Is it okay?”
Is it okay!? It's fucking legendary!
You actually bought a whole new outfit for dinner with him? Oh, he's definitely not going to overanalyze that little detail. There's no help for the butterflies in his stomach seeing you all dolled up for him.
You – who could make a trash bag look like Prada – took the time to dress to impress. Were you hoping to ruin him on purpose?
Despite your smoking sense of style, it’s the realness of you that draws him in so effectively. The way you smile at him - fuck. He has to remind himself what this dinner is supposed to be for.
“You look amazing,” he tells you with genuine awe in his eyes. “Shall we?”
He expects perhaps a nod of your head at most. But instead, your arm assumingly slips through his, your hand resting casually on his bicep.
“We shall.”
He's short-circuiting. Malfunctions shot through every nerve ending of his body.
Thankfully, instinct kicks in. He lifts his arm to make room for yours, already walking a little closer than he anticipated. And then you glance up at him, cool as ever, like you haven’t just sent his brain into an aneurysm.
Yep. He’s screwed.
You keep walking like it’s no big deal, talking about random details of your work day, while he’s silently trying to remember how legs work.
The restaurant isn't too far from the office, which is nice for your poor feet. It was a long day of standing and reaching and walking and presenting. You're more than ready for a few hours of just sitting and processing with Jisung.
All throughout today, you were replaying your last conversation with him while in Chris’ office.
"If you're avoiding me, I completely understand. Tell me to shut up and leave at any point and I will, no questions asked. But if you'll let me, I really need to talk to you…”
And don't think you haven't noticed his distant demeanor since you started walking. He's being an overt gentleman, holding himself upright, leading you by the arm, but he's definitely stiff. More stiff than you've ever seen him. Almost as if he's…nervous about something.
It's understandable to a degree, of course, you're a little nervous too. But your nerves are from a place of excitement. Dinner with Jisung? Who the fuck cares if it's labeled a work dinner? Time alone with your crush is time alone with your crush, whatever the setting or label.
At the restaurant, Jisung pulls your chair out for you and helps you sit down, all around being a perfect date supervisor.
The restaurant hums with the quiet clinking of silverware and the low murmur of conversation. A candle flickers between you and Jisung, its glow casting soft shadows on his face. Gotta admit, you're feeling this vibe.
Jisung didn't have to pick somewhere super fancy, and he wouldn't consider this establishment particularly rich - definitely not as luxurious as he would say you deserve. But he's confident you'll find it nice, and they have some of the best upper class burgers in town.
“Jisung?” you softly say his name to recapture his attention after a lengthy pause. “Is everything okay? You said you needed to talk to me about something.”
He’s been fidgeting with his napkin, unfolding and refolding it, so you can tell he’s working up to something. Just not saying it.
He’s not sure how to phrase it - and he's not even sure how it's possible - but somehow, you've managed to make his work that much more enjoyable and frustrating at the same time. He constantly thinks about you, wonders if it's okay to check in on you for the fourth time in an hour, and moves around meetings and deadlines if it means he can spend the afternoon chatting with you at your desk.
He's already admitted to himself that he likes you. He might as well accept that he sucks at keeping it lowkey.
But if his unspoken feelings have made things difficult or uncomfortable for you, even in the slightest, he can't let another moment pass without saying something.
Finally, he exhales and meets your eyes.
“I wanted to have dinner with you to apologize,” he pauses, rolling his lips together before continuing. “I’m sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable. I've been informed some of my actions lately have been…less than gentlemanly.” His fingers drum against the tabletop, his eyes flickering downward as if afraid of what your response might be. “I get carried away sometimes, especially when I'm drunk, so if I did anything to even remotely upset you or make you feel uncomfortable, please know that I would never intentionally do anything to–”
He’s starting to ramble, so you reach across the table and place your hand over his to cut him off. His lips snap shut, startled by the contact.
“If this is about the company dinner, you didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you say softly, glancing at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “Actually, I thought you were pretty sexy up there.”
His brows lift in surprise. “Sexy?”
You clear your throat, realizing how that must have sounded. “I mean, you have a nice voice. It was spontaneous, but it was fun.”
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Peopke tell me I can be a little too spontaneous, but I feel like the best moments in life happen when you’re not expecting it.”
“You mean, when you’re drunk.”
He chuckles, “That too. I just don't want you to think I'm that guy.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “What guy?”
“You know, the fuck boy who sings sexy songs to everyone when he's drunk.”
“Oh?” You feign ignorance, subtly shifting your fingers to drag along the inside of his palm. “You don't sing sexy songs for everyone when you're drunk?”
“No, only for you.”
A spark flickers somewhere deep in your gut, catching you off guard and setting fire to your insides. It’s not just his words, it’s the way he says them. Low, a little shy, but sure beyond denial. He means it, and it's so undeniably critical the way he curls his fingers around yours just to emphasize his confession.
He’s looking at you. Not glancing, not darting away – just looking. Intensely but gently. Like the rest of the restaurant has blurred into the background, and you're the only thing in focus. You're in his sights and nothing else.
Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had the opportunity to flirt with him in what feels like forever, but resisting his gravity is overwhelmingly harder than it ever has been. You can feel yourself drifting dangerously off course, letting the current carry the conversation somewhere you know it shouldn’t go.
But a large part you wants it to go there. So, you allow yourself to push the boundaries of professionalism, just a little further.
“So, what I'm hearing is, you like living on the edge.”
“I like the feeling of seeing how close I can get to the edge,” he smirks, flipping his hand over so he can more directly hold yours.
“Testing limits?”
“Well, limits are meant to be tested, aren't they?”
“That can be dangerous,” you muse. “But I bet it makes everyday things more exciting.”
“Exactly,” he says, his voice lowering just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “The rush, the anticipation…the way your heart races at the thought of crossing a line.”
Your breath stalls somewhere between your chest and your lips. Because in this moment, it feels like something’s shifted. Something real just settled between you two.
He parts his lips, all too pretty, and then he sighs.
"But there are some lines I can't cross."
"Why not?"
"Because it's selfish."
"Is it so wrong to be selfish?"
"When it means dragging someone innocent down with you? Yeah…I think it can be."
There it is. There’s the line. Drawn cleanly in the sand, just taunting maliciously. You both see it, feel it. But this time, the risk of crossing it feels nearly impossible to measure, not when the air between you sparks with something heavier than reason.
It’s just the two of you. No office gossip behind your shoulder, no HR, no rules. The low flicker of the candle throwing soft shadows across his face is more than romantic - it's enticing. Tempting.
If there’s going to be a cap on the flirting, it has to happen now or never. While the world is quiet and the space between your bodies still exists. Because once you’ve seen each other soberly, unmistakably, undeniably vulnerable, there’s no taking it back.
You either give into the feeling. Or you kill it.
You're not sure you're prepared to give these feelings up. But if that's what he wants…do you even have the right to push for more?
The silence between you stretches, thick with something unspoken. Eventually, you feel the pressure to respond with something.
You drag your hand away. “Right. That makes sense.”
With the rest of dinner wrapped in passing glances and a silence that pressed too tightly between you, Jisung walks you home like it’s habit. Like muscle memory.
But tonight, his steps are different. They're quiet, but weighted. Too slow. Too heavy.
Usually, he feels so light beside you, effortless. He has a way of slipping under your skin with a single glance, lifting your mood and making your heart race without even trying.
But now, when you glance over at him, his eyes are fixed on the pavement, following the slow shuffle of his feet like he’s afraid to look up and see you're not as lighthearted as you once were either.
It feels like something has been crushed between you. And you both have to trudge home carrying the pieces.
About halfway through the walk, without word or glance, he gently drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders. The fabric still holds his warmth, faint and comforting.
“But you’ll be cold,” you protest, gesturing to his vest and rolled-up sleeves, the night air no doubt nipping at his arms.
He just shrugs, like the chill doesn’t faze him. “I’m fine,” he says, but the slight shiver that runs through him betrays his lie.
Still, he doesn’t try to take it back. Keeping you warm matters more than anything else. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, refusing to take back what he's offered. And while you can tell he’s cold, he won’t admit it. He just smiles softly, as if he feels insufficient offering you his measly jacket.
You clutch it closer, slipping your arms into the sleeves and wrapping yourself up in it.
This is the second time he’s walked you to your door, but this time feels heavier. The air between you is frigid. It’s not just the chill of the evening air or the subtle bite of the wind against your legs – it’s him.
You hand him back his jacket with a quiet, “Thank you.”
He stands there like he’s waiting for something, staring at the ground, then at your face, then just past your shoulder like maybe the right words are hiding behind you. There’s something in his eyes. Hesitation disguised as composure, the kind of silence that annoyingly buzzes in your ear.
And you?
You’re doing everything not to reach for him. Not to close the space and pull him inside like he already belongs there.
Because the truth is, after tonight, it's even harder not to want him. Harder not to be selfish. Harder not to believe that just maybe, if you were brave for one moment, he would be brave too.
Jisung hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but instead, he steps back and–
Oh fuck, that shattering feeling inside your chest…your heart just broke a little bit.
“Thank you for having dinner with me.”
“You're welcome.”
“And for accepting my apology.”
“Of course.”
“And for a lovely evening.”
“Same to you.”
You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you forget to breathe. Because deep down, as wrong as it is, you want him to break. You look at him with a dare, to stop holding back, to lose control, to be selfish. Even though guilt coils in your stomach for wanting something that could cost him his job and probably more.
But still, your eyes flick to his lips, your breath halts, and the silence between you feels electric with all the things you wish he would do to you.
He’s holding himself back by a thread, the heat in his eyes exposing him for all the times he’s imagined crossing that line. There’s tension in the set of his jaw, restraint in the way his gaze lingers just a second too long on your lips. Behind his eyes is a storm of unspoken, messy, reckless thoughts, wondering what you’d do if he gave in.
His voice cracks a little, “Do you think it'd be okay if I'm selfish just once, and ask you for something I want?”
You nod, releasing a slow, held breath.
“A hug.”
You blink, surprised. “A hug?”
“I haven’t had one in a really long time. And I just really want one. From you.”
Your heart clenches. Slowly, you open your arms.
Jisung steps forward, hesitant at first, but then he wraps his arms around your middle, and your arms naturally drape around his neck. It's subtle, but it's there, the way he scoops you up and brings you closer. He pulls all of you into himself tightly, every part of you held preciously.
The embrace isn’t rushed, isn’t laced with anything but quiet vulnerability. His head dips slightly to reach you, his breath fanning against your shoulder as he just…holds you.
Your fingers tighten in the excess fabric of his shirt as his head tilts into your neck, a heart wrenching nuzzle into your skin that has your lungs spasming. At some point, you realize you forgot to breathe and take a sharp inhale. The sound must alert him because he gives you a gentle squeeze, as if silently acknowledging it.
You don't let go until you feel him loosen his grip. Even then, he lingers a second too long and too close, his nose brushing yours as he pulls away.
Something urges him forward, bringing him to the cusp of your lips, just close enough to breathe you in and feel the lightest brush of your lips against his. But then he pauses – inhaling as his hands squeeze your hips, grounding himself so as not to completely fall over the line.
He steps back, fingers brushing over his lips like he’s trying to fixate and save the gentle feeling of almost having you.
His breath fumbles out of him, shaky and uneven, and his eyes flick to yours with something raw behind them. Like he’s desperate to selfishly ask you for more, but too afraid. So, he swallows the words instead.
“Thanks,” he says instead, voice low, almost too soft to hear, “for the hug. I guess, umm, I'll see you at work. I hope the case with Chris goes well, and you can be done soon. It may sound a little weird, but I miss sitting across from you, and—”
He’s interrupted. In a single moment, you're in his space, heart pounding, and pressing a single kiss to his lips. Just a whisper of contact. Just the daintiest of touches. The lightest of pecks. The smallest press of your lips to his, but it was there.
His breath catches, and he goes utterly still. Like the ground beneath him became ice, and one wrong move will send him plummeting into the depths. Like he’s afraid to move and break the spell.
So, your hands find his, guiding them back to your hips because they belong there, silently asking him to take charge. You lean in slower this time, letting the moment stretch and melt as your mouth meets his again, deeper, firmer.
And then something in him breaks.
He kisses you with a kind of desperate precision he’s been holding back for far too long. He's passionate, a little messy, almost bruising, but it’s real. His hands tighten on your waist, twisting your body to fit his and gripping the material of your clothes with disregard.
Your fingers run into his hair, tugging just enough to turn him into a beautiful disaster, strands sticking out in every direction, his careful layers undone by your reckless touch.
He’s a wreck when you pull back, chasing after you with a low whine, lips pink, eyes glazed with the aftershock of pure, helpless desire. You don’t say a word. Just slide your fingers around the knot of his tie, letting it run through your fingers until the very tip, and then tugging gently as you step back toward your door.
You open it behind you, still holding his gaze, still holding him.
And when you pull, he follows silently and obediently, hypnotized and completely yours. He should have known you would render him powerless. He should have known he belongs to you.
When his vest and shirt land somewhere on the floor and your back lands on the mattress, he knows he has no way of ever finding the line again.
ⓘ ..where you and your boyfriend slow dance in your apartment, before reminiscing about your great relationship with him.
𝑔enre : 𝒻luff and.. 𝒻luff ! bit of 𝒸omedy, only a bit. some 𝓈uggestiveness if you squint (or dirty-minded, either will do)
𝒷f.ᐟhan jisung × 𝒻em.ᐟreader
💌 — YANI’S LOVE LETTER
hi! i just wanted to post this small drabble before i go on holiday for the weekend! love you guys 🤍
han has always been a lover boy — always been soft for you. you too were basically friends since birth. you grew up together, went through so many phases together. he was never interested in making too many friends, rushing into a relationship. why would han let anyone else get close to him when he had you?
the painfully obvious pinning towards each other lasted years, your friends were sick and tired of hearing about han. finally in your senior year of high school, han asked you out, and it went well.
it went so well that you two moved in together, in a small, but homely, apartment. now adults, you two stand in the middle of the living room, swaying together in each other’s arms as slow jazz played on the record player.
“do you ever get tired of me, nessa?”
han asked in a whisper. he worried that he’d annoy you sometimes. he absolutely loved slow dancing with you in his arms. it soothed him.
you looked up at him in curiosity, raising your eyebrow. you mumbled softly,
“of course not.”
han pulled back a little so that he could see your face. his eyes searched yours, looking for any trace of a lie but he saw nothing other than pure love. he smiled softly, pulling you back against him and burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“i’m glad.”
he breathed out, pressing his body flush against yours as a shiver ran down his spine.
“i love you so much.”
“i love you more, darling.”
you replied, wrapping your arms tighter around han’s neck, before reaching up to give his cheek a peck. han chuckled quietly, shaking his head with a soft smile. he pulled away slightly again, cupping your face with his hands and bringing his face closer to yours.
“impossible.”
he whispered, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“i love you so much more.”
you opened your mouth, about to protest, but han took this moment as a perfect opportunity to steal a kiss. his fingers found their way through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against your bottom lip. his other hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. he needed you as close to him as possible.
after an eventful kiss, han quickly runs out the room, after giving you a cheeky grin. what was he up to now? a rustle. a slight.. crash?
“that was nothing!~”
he called out. after a few more concerning sounds, he walked over to you, before he sits down next to you, placing the photo album on your lap. he smiles widely at you, unable to hide his excitement. he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer to him and points at the first photo in the album.
“remember this?”
he asks softly, tracing his finger over the picture with a fond smile on his face. it was a picture of you both, about three or four, hugging eachother while smiling at the camera with wide grins, you in a cute little sun dress and han in shorts and a striped shirt. you could see how han’s goofy smile was still the same as it was all those years ago.
“your smile stayed the same,”
you pointed out,
“that’s so cute.”
han turned to the next page, a photo of the two of you in the sandbox at the park. you both were making a sandcastle together, matching wide smiles on your faces.
“you always made the best sandcastles.”
han chuckled softly, tilting his head fondly at the photo.
“and yours would always topple over,”
you replied, jabbing him in the side.
“hey! i’ve gotten better over the years.”
han protested with a pout, leaning his head on your shoulder and looking up at you from below with a childish expression. he had indeed gotten much better, but nothing compared to how good you were at building sandcastles.
“and then you would cry.. and your mom would have to make your sandcastles for you.”
han huffed, lightly nudging you with his shoulder and mumbling out a “shut up” under his breath. he wasn’t proud of his sandcastle building skills back then, but he was too impatient to pay attention on the details like you.
“you’re mean.”
he spoke with a slight pouting tone, wrapping his arms around your waist again, giving you a light squeeze.
“but you love me for it,”
you teased, yet again. oh, how you loved to rile han up like this, his face when he got annoyed was so adorable, his cheeks would puff up, and his bushy brows would furrow.
yet, han hummed in agreement; he couldn’t deny it. gently taking the photo album from you, he flipped it to a few weeks ago. it was a polaroid of you on han’s lap, smiling as he took the picture while he was burying his face in your neck, a loving gleam in his soft eyes.
“you’ve barely changed.”
han mumbled, nuzzling into your neck and planting a kiss on your skin.
“how so?”
you asked, planting a kiss to the top of his head. his hair smelled of.. your shampoo? but, you didn’t want to lecture him right now, you would do that later on.
“still as beautiful as when we first met. still as cute. still everything i love.”
han mumbled against your skin, his hands now resting on your hips. his head was still buried in the crook of your neck, and he was just gently brushing his lips against your soft flesh. you pulled away and looked at han with a cheeky smirk, saying,
“you thought i was beautiful when were toddlers?”
han chuckled softly, pulling himself away from your neck to look at you with a soft look in his eyes.
“yep. always have, always will,”
he cupped your face with his hands, rubbing his thumbs against your cheeks. he was in awe of your beauty all these years.
“can’t believe you’re mine,”
“you’re such a lover boy, han.”
you teased with an even larger grin now. you ruffled his hair playfully and pinched his cheek.
han smiled, rubbing your cheek softly a couple more times before pulling his hands away and wrapping them back around your waist. he pulled you in his lap, moving the album to the side and settling you in. he laid his chin on your shoulder with a comfortable sigh, closing his eyes as he continued to speak.
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