Two years living in a cozy hut in the middle of the forest, caring for your herbs and plants, felt peaceful to you. Here, your past would not catch up with you; no one would force you to be something you aren't. However, this peace lasts only until the exiled and severely wounded Prince of Noxtus appears right outside your hut and you are drawn into a game filled with intrigue, vengeance and (to your horror) love.
Pairing: alpha! choi seungcheol x omega! reader
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut
WC: 11,137
Warnings: mentions of war, wounds, cussing, violence, murder, mentions of knives and weapons, reader is being overcautious and somewhat paranoid about being discovered, fighting, mention of parental death, grieving, nightmares, mentions of herbs supressing the needs of readers omega, a/b/o dynamics, reference to abusive parental figure, lying, i dont know I think this is all? let me know if i missed something!
Notes: ahhhhh it's here! part one of orbiter is here and let me tell you, i was flashed from all of your likes, reviews and comments alone from the teaser. It made me so incredibly happy that I wrote the first chapter in two days and lord, did I had fun. Daisy and Seungcheol already have my whole heart and I hope you all will love them just as much as I do! I intented for it to be more of a slow burn but I think I failed miserably lmao. But nevertheless this is probalby part one out of estimated three parts because its too much to put it just in one part and I want to give myself enough time to write the parts with angst and smut so it does justice to the story! This is also more angsty and fluffy, the smut will come soon enough hehe. Like I mention i'm farely new to the whole writing game and especially to the omegaverse au so I just made my own concept and I hope it makes sense lmao. English is not my first language and this is not read by an beta, so forgive me for possible mistakes. I hope you enjoy reading and I would be happy to read some reviews and feedbacks! This is just the start hehe.
A/N: This story is intended for + 18 only; Minors do not interact!
Series M.List | Part 2
There is a man laying in your front garden - bleeding to death.
What’s even worse, he is an alpha who is bleeding to death.
The sight made you freeze mid-motion, and your eyes did not let the man leave your sight for a single second.
The scent radiating of him made you dizzy because you didn’t had an encounter with anyone in a really long time. Especially not with an damn alpha.
You forced your breath to calm itself and the omega in you roared furiously because it longed for attention and care. But that didn’t matter. It never mattered to you. You had more important things to focus on.
Panicked, your gaze darted left and right to see if anyone else could have found you—which, in reality, shouldn't be possible. You had managed to stay undercover for two whole years. Was everything you had endured now simply going to be over?
Your heartbeat only slowly calmed down as you realized the bleeding man was the only person around.
You thought about going into your hut again, forgeting about him in your front yard and continuing your peaceful day like nothing happened. But you knew already that it was a lost case.
"We always have to help for those in need, my dear." Your mothers voice rang in your ears and you feel like you will suffocate right here and now just thinking about her.
You really are your mothers daughter so you approached the man with quick steps, claiming your future with this decision.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
You left him lying with his fresh stitched up wound in your front yard.
At least he wasn't bleeding out anymore, though every few minutes you glanced out your window to see if he was still lying there and that you didnt imagine him in your head. Everytime you looked out he was still there, his chest going up and down with each breath he took.
A hard reminder that this wasn't just a sick dream.
But after all, your daily routine had to go on, didn't it? You had your plants to tend to; you would probably be sadder if one of them died than you were about the man in your front yard.
As you were out in your backyard, watering your plants and home-grown vegetables, your thoughts swirled inside your head, so loudly, in fact, that you failed to notice the pained, groaning sounds. It wasn't until you went back inside your cottage and saw the man who was supposed to be lying in your front yard instead leaning against your front door, that you let out a startled scream.
Without a second thought, you grabbed the nearest available weapon and now stood facing him—armed with a weed puller. It seemed rather ridiculous, but you were certain you could inflict significant damage with it, should the man even entertain the idea of attacking you.
He, however, breathing heavily, leaned against the doorframe. And would your heart not pound so wildly again, you might have thought that an amused glint flickered in his eyes. Yet he merely raised his hands slowly, his face contorted in pain.
"I’d rather you didn’t skewer me with that thing there."
"Have you ever heard of knocking?!" you demanded indignantly, not daring to lower your weed-whacker.
"I would have knocked if I wasn't one hundred percent sure that you were the one who probably put me back together.", he looked at you and your weapon of choice in your hand and nodded towards it, "If I had known that you want to kill me now after saving my life I would rather leave now."
Your eyes immediately went to his injured side and thousands of emotions swirled inside you. To your misfortune, the omega buried deep inside you purred in delight at the sight of the Alpha and you breathed in annoyed. You ignored his remark and the stupid omega inside you and wondered how the hell he is able to stand with this kind of wound he has.
The wound you tended to was deep, and… you took a closer look at him.
It took every ounce of his strength to remain upright. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his hands repeatedly clenched into fists as if the mere thought of lying helplessly on the ground again would cause him even greater pain.
Slowly you lowered your „weapon" and eyed him cautiously before nodding your chin towards a chair. He was still hurt, you reminded yourself and that thought alone calmed you down even a little bit. "Sit down. You’re about to collapse again."
A scoff escaped his lips. "It takes a lot more than that to knock me out."
You stared at him, your expression completely blank. "Bold words coming from someone whose life I saved just today." You gestured toward the chair once more. "Do us both a favor and sit down, so my efforts aren't wasted and your wound doesn't reopen."
His gaze darted back and forth before—presumably—the logical part of his brain won , and he slowly walked over to the chair and let himself sink into it. His face relaxed almost immediately, and you couldn't help but scoff. "So it doesn't take that much after all," you muttered, and with the weed-puller in your hand, you took a few steps closer.
"Whoa, get away from me with that thing!" he breathed out and looked at you with wide eyes and you rolled your eyes annoyed.
"I need to look at your wound so it doesnt get infected!" you argued and held up your weed-puller, "this is just for my own protection."
"And who is that thing supposed to protect you from?" He asked while looking at you like you’ve became insane for even pointing with it at him.
"You. I dont know you." you answered defensively and crossed your arms in front of your chest. He didnt respond, only looked at you with slightly widened and confused eyes.
"What?"
"You dont know me?" He asked carefully and his eyes told you everything you needed to know. He doesnt believe you.
"Should I?" Sarcasm dripped in your voice and gestured at him to lift up his shirt. But he didnt move, his eyes still sceptically on you and you had the feeling you'll loose all your nerves with this man in front of you.
„Do I have to know you to see your wound?“ The annoyance inside you was clearly on the table now and to your dismay, an amusing glint appeared in his dark eyes.
„Demanding little thing, aren‘t you?“
Your eyes shined with anger and wordlessly you held up your weed-puller and even if it’s just for the joke or if he’s really scared you‘ll stab him with it, he sighed and lifted his shirt up.
„Well, thank you“ you sighed and let the weed-puller fall down on the floor while your eyes examined the neat line of stitches. You did a pretty well job for such a big gash and it didn’t seemed to be infected. At least one good thing that worked today.
„I‘ll make you a compress with some plants that will help the healing“ you mumured and made your way to your little kitchen sink. „That way you‘ll heal faster“ And with that leave faster.
You pretended to didn’t notice the way his eyes stare at the back of your head or how they wandered through the room. You tried to focus on making the compress until a question from him made you freeze.
„Whats your name?“
„I‘ll tell you mine if you tell me yours“ you said without thinking much and almost immediately cursed yourself out internally. You didn’t want to know him. And you certainly don’t want him to know your name.
Maybe it was the starved omega in you that made you behave like that. You made a note for yourself to drink a fresh tea of cyperus leaves later to suppress your omega needs again. The cyperus plant was a lifesaver to you. It help you with your heat, suppressing it until you almost had no problems with it at all, but it seemed the presence of the alpha brings everything down to zero.
Another reason why he needs to leave as soon as possible.
„I don’t think that’s a fair deal“ he only muttered and laid his head back against the wall.
„Are you a wanted criminal or something like that?“ You asked with a scoff.
He hummed tiredly and just shook his head. „Worse.“
You turned your head around and looked at him, truly looked at him for a few seconds. His dark eyes shined in a devastating sadness as he stared up the wall and the empathy in you screamed to help him.
That’s also a trait from your mother like the saying that you‘ll need to help someone who truly needs it.
And this man almost screamed quietly for help.
You blame your dead mother for your next words.
„You can call me Daisy.“
It wasn’t your real name but it was not nothing. His eyes immediately went back to yours and a glitter of peace appeared in them.
„Thank your for saving me, Daisy.“
The nickname on his tongue made you shiver and before he could notice you quickly turned around again, finishing up the compress. You just wanted to turn around to attach it to him, when his voice mumured again in your little hut.
„Seungcheol.“
„Huh?“ You looked at him confused.
„Call me Seungcheol.“
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
Seungcheol went through a lot in his not so long life. Being the only heir of the empire of Noxtus was one thing filled with countless duties, endless expectations and the constant pressure to become a king that is worth to rule its kingdom.
It wasn't necessarily hard for him. He had his loving parents and with that the perfect example how a kingdom should be ruled. He had his closest friends, always having his back and besides their mischieves in their younger days they've all become respecatble men and Seungcheol could see the bright future of him and his loved ones living happily in Noxtus.
Until Lunaria striked at them.
Seungcheol was incredibly lucky that he happened to be training with Mingyu at the time of the ambush. This allowed him to use his sword to take out a considerable number of charging soldiers—and he was truly naive enough to think that they would all make it out unscathed and put the enemy to flight.
That was seconds before he went up to the castle wall to see actually how many soldiers were attacking his kingdom. Before he saw how his father fought bravely against the intruders and failed. Before he saw how the head of his father rolled across the stone and the eyes of his murderer locked onto Seungcheols.
Lee Sinyoung. New King of Lunaria, previously a significant ally of Noxtus.
A fucking traitor.
Everything happened fast after that. He felt hands tugging at him and he saw the frantic eyes of Joshua while voices screamed at him to flee.
Seungcheol was never more confused in his life. How could he flee? How could he leave his people behind - his responsibility?
His friends were lucky that he was still in shock seeing his beheaded father because in no world he would allow them to seat himself onto his horse and force him to flee. He would rather die defending his country than flee like a coward.
"Seungcheol, listen!" Jeonghans hissed and the screams of dying soldiers bleeded in Seungcheols ears. He had to force himself to listen to one of his best friends.
"You are going to die if you stay here.", Jeonghan argued and looked over his shoulders. Joshua and Seungkwan stood before the two of them, guarding them so no one would intervene.
"You all will be dead if I leave" Seungcheol argued back and the damn screams of pain didnt stop-
Jeonghan shook his head and Seungcheol wondered if the day has come that his best friend truly had lost his mind. "We'll be hiding. All of us. You know they wont find us."
A pained expression filled Seungcheols face and Jeonghan smiled up to him while patting the back of Salute, Seungcheols loyal horse. "We'll be fine. Hide and we'll make a plan to get your kingdom back."
"Jeonghan-"
"Go!" His friend screamed at him as new invaders reached them and his friends immediatly striked against them. Seungcheol had to force himself to look away and what was even more important, to not look back as he made the decision to flee. He never hated himself more.
Fate, too, seemed to have something against his decision; for just as he reached the forests of Fyndor, two soldiers from Lunaria emerged, men who had evidently taken up the pursuit.
So, right here, Seungcheol had another chance to prove himself. After all, he was now the King of Noxtus—whether he was within his kingdom or not. He would be damned if two mere foot soldiers from Lunaria were to be the reason he ended up dying.
He chose to fight and the years of training with Mingyu and Hansol by his side had paid off. They were hardly worthy opponents for him, two Alphas who repeatedly attempted with sloppy movements to inflict the greatest possible damage upon him. They didn't fight with their heads; they didn't think the way Seungcheol did.
Minutes later, they laid half-dead on the ground before him, and Seungcheol trembled with barely contained rage. With a swift motion of his hand, he wiped his opponent’s blood from his cheek; then, with powerful hands, he took the helm of the shirt of the man before him and dragged him closer.
"What is he planning?" Seungcheol didn't even have to utter a name before the dying man spat out blood with a grin.
"King Sinyoung spoke of the great empire of Lunaria—and he mentioned you spineless wimps from Noxtus. You aren't worthy of leading an entire nation."
Satisfaction played out in the eyes of the man before him, and Seungcheol couldn't help but scoff, gritting the words through his teeth: "Your king will die. I don't care how long I have to hunt him down. He will pay for what he did to my people."
The man before him seemed as if he could not possibly be any more satisfied. He let out a raspy laugh, even as blood continued to trickle from his mouth. His teeth no longer appeared white; with a bloody grin, the man looked up at Seungcheol and simply whispered, "For that, you’ll have to survive today first."
Seungcheol had no time to react to the words, for a searing pain coursed through his right side. He immediately released the man, who tumbled to the ground laughing, and Seungcheol spun around just as a third soldier withdrew his sword from Seungcheol’s side, the blade glowing red with his blood.
"Does a king bleed any differently than we soldiers do, your highness?", the beta asked with a grin and wielded his sword against Seungcheol again. They both tripped into the direction of Salute and the poor horse was cut from the blade of the men before it turned away and ran into the woods, leaving his owner alone fighting for his life.
Seungcheol hoisted his own sword just in time with the attacks of the enemy, clutching his bleeding right side the whole time. He had to ignore the pain and then somehow stop the bleeding immediately. But first, he had to get rid of this runt.
He must have been guided by some higher power. Seungcheol truly could not explain otherwise how he was able to fight with such a wound and withstand the strong blows of his opponent.
But Seungcheol had always been good at enduring. Discipline had been a virtue of his father—one he had always placed great value upon.
"A king does not simply give up, Seungcheol," he reminded himself of his father's words. "He stands tall and defends his people. For they are our entire pride."
So Seungcheol stood tall, even with a life-threatening wound. His efforts were rewarded by fate, it seemed. In a moment of carelessness of the beta Seungcheol managed to slash his blade across his throat. Gasping for breath, the beta collapsed onto the forest floor and wasted his final words with false hopes: "Long live King Sinyoung."
Seungcheol stared at the three dead men laying before his feet and he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars that he would unleash hell on earth upon everyone who had taken everything from him today.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
Seungcheol leaned unconsciously against the wall, sitting uncomfortably in the chair, and for exactly one second, you wondered whether you should go though the trouble of somehow dragging him into your only bed. A glance at his wound, however, settled the matter relatively quickly. You had absolutely no desire for it to reopen in any way—his stumbling around earlier had been risky enough as it was.
It was no wonder at all that he had fallen back asleep almost immediately after your conversation. He must have been in unbearable pain, and his body now needed a period of recovery. The thought of how long that might take troubled you immensely.
You wanted him to leave. You didn't need a wounded Alpha here in your little hideout. That would only bring you the kind of trouble you had steadily managed to avoid for the past two years. But you wouldn't kick an injured person out the door and leave them to fend for themselves. And apparently, he was all alone, with those dark, sad eyes of his, and that damn desperate look from before just wouldn't leave your mind.
So you made the decision to get him back on his feet as quickly as possible. Every hour, you changed the compresses on his right side and kept the tea—steeped with basil, chamomile, and thyme—warm so that he could drink it the moment he woke up. You knew that healing required time and patience—qualities you didn't exactly possess. As far as you were concerned, he could drink two liters in one go if there was even a chance that doing so would make him disappear just as quickly as he had arrived.
The sun was just setting, and you stood in the kitchen, gently stirring your mushroom soup, when a pained groan sounded from behind you. You slowly turned your head towards Seungcheol, who was slowly propping himself up a little, grimacing as he slowly rotated his head to work out the stiffness caused by his uncomfortable position. Your hand immediately reached for a warm cup of the tea you had brewed for him before you strode quickly to stand before him, in your other hand the weed puller, which still served as your safe anchor against this stranger. "Here. Drink this," you commanded, holding the steaming cup up to his face.
His eyes drifted from the weed puller to the cup in your hand and with raised eyebrows. He looked up at you clearing his throat and then carefully took the cup from you. You gave it to him in such way that your hands definitely wouldn't touch, and the stupid Omega inside you growled angrily because of that. It was already hard enough for you when you were changing these damn compresses, his skin burning under your finger tips and you had to stop a few times because it was just too much. You hadn't touched another soul in two years and now this.
Another mental note to drink an extra portion of your cyperus tea. You've already drank one a few hours ago but your omega just wont shut up.
Seungcheol took a cautious sip of the tea, and just as you turned around to continue stirring the soup, he immediately spat out the tea you had brewed yourself.
"Hey! I spent hours brewing that specifically for you, you moron!" you cried out indignantly, glaring furiously at him as he stared at the tea with a look of utter disgust.
"What is this?" he asked, coughing, and you shook your head disdainfully. "Herbs to help you recover faster. Drink it—now."
Only after he had completely drained the cup and took a deep breath, you nod in satisfaction and took the cup back from him. "Dinner is almost ready," you murmured, turning back around—now acutely aware of just how small your cabin actually was. For one person, it was perfect; but for two? Where was he even supposed to sleep? He was injured; naturally you would give him the bed. That meant several nights for you in your reading armchair, which stood in the back corner of the room. Great.
Seungcheol too seemed to be hyperaware of the situation he is in, as he stayed quiet and said nothing to you while you were preparing dinner.
A few minutes later, you set the soup down on the small table and sat down across from him, letting the weed puller drop beside your plate. Seungcheol’s eyes immediately locked onto it, and this time, you could clearly make out the amusement on his face.
"Don't you think I would have attacked you long ago if that were my intention?" he asked in a raspy voice; you merely shrugged, your cold eyes fixed on him.
"Better safe than sorry." You began to eat, but he simply continued to stare at you, not even glancing down at his soup. Letting out an annoyed sigh, you turned your gaze back to him. "Do I fascinate you so much that your brain has stopped working? Eat. You need to get well." You nodded toward the soup sitting in front of him.
"You haven't spoken to anyone in a long time, have you?" he asked suddenly, and, caught off guard, you narrowed your eyes.
"How would you know that?" you retorted defiantly, tilting your head. "Maybe I get visitors every week."
"You only have one proper plate." Seungcheol nodded toward his own plate, where his soup remained untouched, and then his eyes shifted to your mug. "You're eating soup out of a large mug, and I watched you spend nearly three minutes searching for a second spoon."
Caught red-handed, you pressed your lips together, then shrugged. "Okay, you've got me. But why should you care?"
"I want to know who the person is who saved my life today." His dark eyes fixed upon you, and were you not so stubborn, you would flee into another room right now and simply barricade yourself in. But this was your house. Your right to defend yourself—to protect yourself.
"There is nothing you need to know about me," was all you replied, taking another spoonful of your soup.
Seungcheol scoffed. "You really know how to hold an conversation." Sarcasm dripped in his voice. "Isn't there always something interesting to know about other people?"
"Not in my case." Your voice was colder than you intended, and you felt a strong urge to change the subject.
"Maybe you could tell me something about the person whose life I saved today." A shadow crossed his eyes, and you smiled at him triumphantly. He wanted to talk about himself just as little as you wanted to talk about yourself.
His teeth bit his lower lip for a few seconds, and your gaze flickered towards it before you swiftly looked away and finished your soup.
"So you don't get many visitors. I guess I'm the first. How long have you been living here?" Seungcheol tried again and finally began to eat his soup. You poured him another cup of tea, pondering whether or not you should answer him. After all, he would be staying here for some time, and apparently, he truly had no intention of attacking you, nor did he have any idea who you were. That was something you could work with.
It didn’t help that you were curious about his situation, too. How did he even got his wound? And who exactly is the man who is sitting here and now in your safe little hut?
"A question for a question," you proposed, setting the fresh cup of tea down beside his plate. Seungcheol nodded, and you gave him the answer to his first question: "Two years."
He nodded thoughtfully and continued eating. You sank back into the chair opposite him. "Who inflicted that wound on you?" You gestured toward his right side.
"Enemy soldiers," was his reply, and you studied him thoughtfully. That could mean many things. Nothing about him suggested any connection to a kingdom. He wore no armor, and nowhere was an emblem to be seen and the sword that he carried with him (and you hid) also showed no belonging to a specifical kingdom.
"Are they dead?" you asked with a quiet voice and Seungcheol's eyes landed on you again.
"Yes."
You nodded, relief flooded your veins. "Good."
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
Seungcheol couldn't figure you out. To begin with, there was your scent. You smelled of nothing. The Alpha within him was extremely restless, practically commanding him to find out what was wrong with you—why he couldn't classify what you were.
Then there was your manner. You looked after him, regularly changed his compresses, and refilled his tea every minute. But as soon as he spoke to you, your only responses were short and cold.
Seungcheol wouldn't exactly describe himself as charming, but he wasn't actually bad at dealing with new people. After all, he was a prince—now a king—so he had to be good at getting along with strangers. But with you, there was a towering wall, and he could practically feel you shutting him out. He just didn't understand why.
You could have simply let him die. But you didn't. And now he was bound to you in this hut, and he had to write a secret letter to find out how his kingdom was doing, how his friends were doing. Had everyone escaped? Had everyone truly managed to hide? Is Salute alright? These thoughts nearly drove him mad.
The only distraction available is a conversation with you—and that turned out to be more impossible than expected.
One question in exchange for another had been enough for you; you likely didn't want to know anything more from him, for you changed his compress once again, your body rigid with extreme tension, without even meeting his eyes.
The Alpha within Seungcheol stirred restlessly, and Seungcheol wondered what the hell was going on.
At least one thing was clear to Seungcheol: You didn't have the faintest clue who he was. If you had even the slightest inkling, you never would have allowed him to stay in your cabin for so long, not with how guarded and cautious you were.
So he simply had to remain quiet about his true identity, wait until he was healthy again, and then return to Noxtus as quickly as possible.
Once you were finished, you threw away the bloody compress and nodded towards another room.
"Lie down and sleep. You won't recover if you sit in that chair the whole time."
His eyes followed yours and confused he asked, "And where will you sleep?" He couldn't take a woman's only bed away from her.
"You don't have to worry about that," you merely murmured—and Seungcheol had never encountered a person as stubborn as you. And that was really saying something; after all he had often debated fight strategies with Minghao, and that too was anything but easy.
"I can just stay here-"
"Seungcheol." The sound of his name on your tongue made the blood freeze in his veins, and his Alpha stirred restlessly within him, as if he couldn't quite gauge whether he wanted to hear his name from your lips once more, or would rather never hear it again. Confusion coursed through Seungcheol as he tried to focus on your words.
"Please just go to bed now and sleep. You look like you're about to collapse again, and rest is what your body needs most right now." you argued with what almost seemed like a soft voice and the unspoken words filled the room. I dont need your worry. I can fend for myself.
Even though he found it difficult, Seungcheol knew when a battle was over and when not to push things too far. He saw the exhaustion on your face; after all, you had spent the entire day looking after him. That only made him feel more guilty about taking your bed now.
"One night", he croaked out and cleared his throat. "I'm not taking it longer than needed."
He saw how your nod and then gathered all his strength to rise carefully to his feet. It took him a moment to find his balance before he began walking slowly and cautiously towards the other room. Pain racked his entire right side, and beads of sweat were already glistening on his forehead once again, when suddenly the weight on his left side was slightly lifted and it became easier to walk. He looked down at you in astonishment, saw that you were now supporting him with your delicate hands, your gaze fixed intently straight ahead.
Wherever your skin touched his, his flesh seemed to burn and for at least a brief moment, the searing pain from his wound was somehow forgotten. Seungcheol’s alpha perked up with curiosity, and his entire attention focused on the places where your skin touched, as if it would leave visible marks.
All of this made absolutely no sense at all, why his alpha, or furthermore he, reacted that way considering he didn't even know what you were. An Omega hiding behind a massive protective wall? An Alpha freely asserting her dominance? Or perhaps a Beta who simply wanted to live in peace and solitude in her cabin?
Yet Seungcheol recalled that his inner alpha had never been so curious about another person before; and a few minutes later, as he laid in your bed, completely enveloped by your sweet lingering scent, peaceful sleep finally claimed him for the first time since the attack.
(While he laid in bed, sleeping peacefully, you rushed to your small, hidden drawer in the kitchen and quickly brewed yourself a fresh tea made with Cyperus leaves; and even though it was still scalding hot, you downed it in a flash—hoping that the screaming Omega within you would finally fall silent.)
Seungcheol woke up the next morning feeling much better than he had the day before. Apparently, you had already changed his compress; a glance at his bandaged wound told him everything he needed to know. Carefully, he sat up and, with soft steps, left the room, only to find the cabin empty. His gaze swept searchingly across the windows, and there you were, standing in the backyard, harvesting some vegetables.
It didn't take long before you noticed him. You regarded him with an appraising look, then nodded back toward the cabin. "Freshen up. I'll make us some breakfast in a moment."
Then you turned back around; apparently, your resolve not to speak to Seungcheol remained unchanged.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
"Is there a village nearby?" Seungcheols voice cut through the quietness of your garden as you tended to your herbs and plants while he sat on a chair, enjoying a few minutes of fresh air before you would tell him to lay down again.
That was your established routine the last week. Eat with him, change his compress, force him to drink the tea and them command him to sleep. You could feel his restless energy but the first signs of improvement were already becoming apparent.
He was now able to stay awake for much longer, and short walks no longer took a toll on him. Bad for you, because he started seeking conversation with you much more often.
"Yeah, about half a mile to the west," you murmured back. Perhaps this was finally the first sign that he wanted to leave. Although his wound was already improving, his general condition still gave you cause for concern at times—especially when he tossed and turned in your bed while sleeping, constantly murmuring various names. Nightmares plagued him day in and day out; and even if it seemed as though he was slowly but surely recovering physically, the same could not be said for his state of mind.
By now, you had started giving him tea with special herbs in the evenings to help him get a better night's sleep. It worked only moderately well.
"I would like to go there. I have to write an important letter."
Your piercing eyes bored into him. "To whom?"
"Why do you need to know?" He asked calmly.
"Because I don't need anyone to come here," you shot back, turning back to your plants.
Seungcheol remained silent for a few seconds before his quiet voice once again broke the silence. "No one will come. I just want to let someone know that I'm alive."
Feelings of guilt stirred deep within you, and with a sigh, you closed your eyes for a few moments. You would do anything to preserve your own safety, but Seungcheol had just barely escaped death. He had the right to let someone know. You couldn't take that away from him.
Your eyes turned back to him, and for the first time in days, you allowed yourself to truly look at him. And he looked broken. Dark circles ringed his handsome face, his dark hair fell into his brown eyes, and everything inside you screamed that an Alpha—any Alpha—should not look like this. Most likely, it was your hormone-driven Omega screaming this at you but you allowed yourself to listen to it for the first time. Helping, that is something you could do.
So you muttered softly to him: "Give yourself enough time to rest and then I'll show you the village."
And apparently, that was enough for Seungcheol, for a deep sense of calm now radiated from him.
He joined you more and more in the garden. Three days after your conversation about the village you found yourself planting new herbs to your collection and a shadow laid itself over you. You felt his eyes watching you and while you tried to ignore his presence behind you it became harder and harder to do exactly that.
You sat back and looked up to him from the ground. His eyes didnt leave the herbs and he nodded to your bed full of your goods. "I also had many beds at home but none of them looked even close like yours."
"Is that an compliment or an insult?" you asked with a scoff and continued to look up to him.
A mischivious glint appeared in his eyes. "It depends how confindent you are in your doings."
"Then its clearly a compliment."
Seungcheol huffed amused and then, to your suprise, he slowly lets himself down beside you in the grass. You pressed your lips lightly together and before you could even think what the hell you were doing, you took the herb you just wanted to plant in in your hands and rambled: "This is vervain. It has fever-reducing and antispasmodic effects."
When Seungcheol responded nothing a red veil of shame settled on your cheek. What the hell? Where did that come from now?
But Seungcheol nodded encouragingly with a faint smile, then gestured with his chin toward the herb in your hand. "Does it have a meaning?"
"Good fortune," you murmured, and you were just about to plant it when the question burning on your tongue already escaped your lips: "Do you want to give it a try?"
Seungcheol looked at you with feigned surprise. "I don't want my wound to reopen.", a sarcastic undertone laid on his words and you rolled your eyes amused.
"I'll get a medal for you if you manage to do"
Seungcheol grinned in amusement, then carefully took the herb from your hand and looked somewhat helplessly down at the garden bed below him. "I've never done anything like this before…" he confessed hesitantly.
With raised eyebrows, you looked at him with amusement. "Just set it in the hole, pile some soil around it so it stands firm, and then pat the earth down. It's not magic."
"You say so. It always looks so easy when you do it," he remarked as he carefully placed the Vervain in the ground. You watched every of slightest movement, letting his words race through your mind. Had he been watching you plant every single time he sat outside recently? And why did that thought alone make you shy and restless? Gardening was your element. You knew how to handle your plants, and just because someone was watching you that shouldnt throw you off balance.
Seungcheol asked you a question that snapped you out of your thoughts in an instant. Caught off guard, you stared at him, tilting your head slightly in a questioning manner. Seungcheol nodded toward the planted vervain and repeated his question: "Is this okay?"
You looked down at it, and an amused scoff escaped your lips. "You buried it a little too deep." Carefully, you shoveled some soil aside to set the herb a bit higher.
Seungcheol snorted and leaned back again. "Well, seems like I'm a lost case."
"Now you’re exaggerating," you replied with amusement, gazing at the plant with a smile. "Gardening isn't about right or wrong. It’s about effort, patience, and gentleness." You gestured toward the many blooming flowers all around you. "It’s a give-and-take."
He followed your gaze and surveyed all your flowers, herbs, and vegetables.
"Except for the weeds," he remarked then with a knowing grin, and a laugh escaped your lips; grinning, you nodded. "Except for the weeds, yes."
He continued to watch you as you planted the remaining plants, before asking softly: "And Daisys?"
"What about them?" you asked back without looking at him.
"Whats their meaning?"
You froze for a few seconds before continuing and then you muttered softly: "Purity. Innocence."
You hoped that he wouldn't pick up on the sadness in your voic, but that was likely a lost cause. Especially given the pensive look Seungcheol cast your way when you murmured, "New beginnings."
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
The days passed, and Seungcheol’s physical condition steadily improved. He moved around significantly more and even helped you carry soil a few times—though each time, you scolded him to be careful about his wound.
He even started arguing with you that you should sleep in your own bed again and he would take the armchair, something you immediately refused, and it was only when you threatened him once more with the weed puller that he finally let it rest.
That really should have reassured you. The sooner he got back on his feet physically, the sooner you would have your peace and quiet back—though, in truth, you had to admit that a comfortable rhythm had slowly but surely crept into your daily routine. Apparently, after two years of solitude, it took only a few weeks to get used to having another person around again; and your Omega was happier than ever.
Usually, you never felt its presence due to the suppression caused by the Pyperus herbs; yet here, while the Alpha lived in your home and recovered, the herbs seemed to be only half-effective. It practically purred beneath your skin all day long, and whenever he was even just in your vicinity, your Omega would be happier than it had ever been before, much to your dislike.
While his body steadily recovered, his mind remained stagnant. You could clearly tell that normal, everyday conversations helped distract him from whatever was weighing on him. But whenever the two of you weren't talking—and you merely cast him brief, furtive glances—you would find him either lost deep in thought, wearing an expression so sad and desperate that it took your breath away, or watching you, as if trying to suppress the very thoughts that were driving him to the brink of madness.
One day, in particular, seemed to weigh heavily on him. He barely spoke a word, drinking the bitter tea without so much as a grimace, and slowly you found yourself teetering on the brink of despair because his gaze was so damn empty. You didn't know how to handle it, and you cursed yourself for being unable to simply ignore that damn worry gnawing inside you. You were responsible for the well-being of his body—not his soul.
But your mother’s words played like a steady melody through your mind, and you couldn't shake the thought that healing is a holistic process—and that, unfortunately, the psyche is an inseparable part of it.
It was evening, and you were just clearing away the dishes when you broke one of your own rules.
"Do you want to talk?"
His dark eyes slowly turned toward you, and you stood uncertainly in the room, unable to take back the offer now.
"I mean…" you struggled for words, then sighed in frustration. "You're having nightmares. I hear you murmuring names at night," you confessed softly.
His cold eyes shifted back to the floor. "Sorry to disturb your sleep."
"No!" you argued immediately, grimacing. God—what was wrong with you? "I just mean… if you want to talk. About the people. Then I can listen," you tried again, and this time, Seungcheol apparently understood your intention.
He was silent for a few minutes, long enough that you thought he was going to turn down your offer. Which was fine, too. If you knew nothing about him, he couldn't expect to learn anything about you.
"My father was killed right before my eyes, shortly before I ended up here with you."
Your heart stopped for a few seconds and sorry filled you, as you slowly approached the table and you sank down on the chair on the opposite of him.
"I don't know if my mother is still alive," he murmured, "or if my friends managed to escape."
„Was your village attacked?“ you asked carefully and Seungcheol nodded after a few seconds.
„Something like that.“
You pressed your lips together troubled in loss of words. Because there were none. Expect only a few.
„I’m sorry, Seungcheol. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing if they‘re alright or not“
His eyes shined while he looked at you and maybe it was this screwed situation or that damn omega inside you that the next words flooded out of your mouth.
„I‘ve lost my mother too some time ago“, a sad smile appeared on your lips and you shrugged helplessly with your shoulders.
„I thought I‘ll die right there and now but I’ve survived it. I had to. The thought of continuing to live and to be a daughter she would be proud of helps me going on“
That was the whole reason why you allowed Seungcheol to stay with you. It puts you at risk but it would have made your mother proud.
„When did she die?“ he asked with a low voice.
„Almost three years ago“
You saw how he did the math in his head. That you disappeared into the woods after almost a year after your mother died.
"What about your father?" he suddenly asked and dread filled your whole body und you needed to remind yourself to breath, to remind you that he isn't here. That youre safe.
If Seungcheol noticed any trace of fear within you, he didn't mention it. So you gave him a strained smile and shrugged your shoulders with feigned nonchalance. "He's an asshole."
For your own sake, you had to quickly change the subject again, so that your thoughts wouldn't get caught in a spiral of panic once more. You already shared too much informations.
„Do you want to tell me about your friends?“ you asked carefully. „How are they like?“
Relief flooded you when you saw a smile form on Seungcheols lip at the thought of his friends and just the sight of him smiling again was enough for you.
Then he started talking. Started with a men called Jeonghan and went through them one by one. He told you about the mischiefs in their younger days and how the thirteen of them had an incredible strong bond. Even of Chan, whom he hadn't seen in a very long time, he spoke with deep affection, telling you how proud he was, as a friend, to see what respectful and kind-hearted men his friends had become.
You listened to him the entire time. Laughed with him and smiled with him when he remembered.
That evening, Seungcheol left the room with a smile to go to bed.
The nightmares returned a night later.
You were shifting back and forth in the armchair, trying to find a damn comfortable position, when you heard his pained moan. Almost immediately, you freeze mid-movement, waiting with a pounding heart for another sound, because perhaps you only imagined it?
But then it came again—sounds filled with pain and despair—and you didn't hesitate for a moment. You couldn't; you could still vividly see his sorrowful eyes, or that empty gaze of his, staring into the void right before you. You didn't hesitate. With cautious steps you walked into your bedroom, only to find that while Seungcheol was indeed still asleep, he was visibly tormented by nightmares. Nightmares that made beads of sweat break out on his skin and caused his head to jerk slightly back and forth.
You bit your lower lip uncertainly as worry filled your heart, nearly strangling the air from your lungs. Seungcheol murmured countless names—names that now seemed all too familiar to you. The thought of his friends, of his mother and father, gave him no peace, and you had to wake him before some frantic movement of his would cause him to reopen his wound. That would have meant the entire last weeks would had been for nothing.
"Seungcheol," you called out cautiously, taking slow steps toward the bed. He didn't react. So you tried again, softly calling his name over and over; and when he still didn't wake up, you took the plunge and gently touched his shoulder to give him a soft shake.
Not a second later, strong hands seized you, and the air was forced from your lungs as you were slammed against the mattress with crushing force, with Seungcheol looming over you, his hands pressed firmly against your shoulders.
You didn't even have enough time to utter a single sound and, breathless, with panic in your heart and eyes wide open, you stared at the man who was pressing you firmly against the mattress and who was likely still trapped in a nightmare.
While you were just fearing for your life, your Omega purred contentedly—and you wondered if life was really trying to screw with you, because of course he slept without a shirt. But right now, you couldn't focus on his well-built torso, not when his fingers were digging painfully into you.
"Seungcheol," you said in a harsh voice, letting out a slight whimper as his fingers dug into your shoulder, leaving behind a faint, stinging pain from the pressure. You had to get him out of this damn nightmare; he had no idea what he was doing right now.
Okay, harsh words apparently aren't getting anywhere. An idea crossed your mind—one that went completely against everything you stood for, and the mere thought of it made shame bubble up inside you—but perhaps now was the right moment to listen to your instincts? Your Omega was obviously feeling at ease, so perhaps his Alpha was present as well? Maybe you shouldn't speak to Seungcheol, but rather to the being slumbering deep within him.
So you allow yourself to close your eyes for exactly one second, before opening them again and murmuring in a trembling voice, "You're hurting me."
His grip on your shoulders loosened slightly, yet Seungcheol’s eyes remained glassy, and his gaze did not focus on you; instead, he continued to stare into the void, simply right through you.
"I know it hurts," you continued in a trembling voice. "I know what it’s like to lose someone—someone you thought would be by your side for a long, long time." You took a deep breath. "But you aren't alone." You looked deep into his eyes, and when you noticed a faint flicker—barely visible—it gave you the confidence to keep speaking.
"You are here. Safe. And soon you can go back and see all your friends again, but please, come back to me first." Your voice was still trembling, and summoning all your courage, you placed a hand on one of his arms. "I'm here."
A second later, Seungcheol stood upright a few steps away from the bed, breathing heavily as he braced himself against the wall.
You were still lying on the bed, your Omega disappointed that the sudden skin-to-skin contact had now been interrupted once again, and trembling, you exhaled one last time before slowly sitting up and staring uncertainly over at Seungcheol, who closed his eyes in pain and clenched his hands into fists only to open them again.
You stood up carefully, but instead of going to him, you went into the kitchen and leaned exhaustedly against the counter. You allowed yourself five seconds to close your eyes and catch your breath, giving your pounding pulse a chance to settle, before preparing a tea with soothing herbs.
The tea warmed your hands as you slowly walked back into the bedroom with two cups, where you saw Seungcheol sitting exhaustedly on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. As you entered the room, his tired eyes lifted to meet yours, and he opened his mouth but before he could say a word, you shook your head. "Just forget it," you whispered to him, your expression tense, and handed him his tea.
Doubting eyes sought yours, and when he finally took the teacup, you carefully, maintaining a respectful distance, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the bed and took a sip from your own cup as well. You needed that calming tea at least just as much as he did.
You leaned cautiously against the bed, and—finding you really couldn't think of anything better to break the silence—you asked in a tentative voice: "A question for a question?"
It sounded like an amused snort coming from Seungcheol, though you could have been mistaken. Then he hummed in agreement, and you looked up at him seriously. "But only trivial questions."
"And what would those be?" he mumured with raised eyebrows, the cup of tea still undrunk in his hands.
"What's your favorite color?", you suggested and when he didn't answer for a few seconds you turned around slightly to look up to him, "Dont you have a favourite color?"
"Who doesn't have a favourite color?" he asked back and you shook your head confused.
"Youre the one who's not answering the question."
"Because you could ask anything and you chose to ask about my favourite color" he scoffed back.
"It says alot about a person!" you argued and placed your mug down on the floor.
Seungcheol only looked at you with raised eyebrows, as if he can't believe about the topic you both are arguing about. But then he gave up.
"Black."
"Thats not a color", you immediatly replied and shook your head and he closed his eyes and sighed excessively loud, but you saw the suspicious forming of an amused smile on his lips.
"And why is that not a color?" he asked as he repositioned himself in bed, now leaning against the headboard. And you had to grudgingly admit that you once again had a perfect view of his bare torso. Seungcheol certainly noticed this as well—but even so, it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.
You quickly averted your gaze again and took a sip of your tea—which was still far too hot—and choked so violently that you had to cough several times, bringing tears to your eyes.
You looked at him again and saw only his amused gaze as he watched you, and you quickly cleared your throat. "Because black is merely the absence of light. And I asked you for your favorite color, not whether you prefer dark or light."
"What's your favorite color then, smart-ass?" he asked with a hint of a smile and a challenging gaze settled in his dark eyes.
You couldn't help but grin up to him. "White."
Whether it was the sheer absurdity of the situation or something else, you both burst out laughing at the exact same moment. Seungcheol closed his eyes with a grin on his face and leaned his head back against the rest. "You're really one of a kind, Daisy."
A smile spread across your lips, and you were glad he didn't notice your cheek turn slightly red as you held up your tea mug and took another sip.
You spent the next few hours asking trivial questions. You learned about his favorite animal, his most embarrassing moment, and countless other things that didn't reveal too much about either of you.
Eventually, however, fatigue caught up with you once again, and it was only a matter of time before you drifted off to sleep on the floor, leaning against the bed.
You were already deep in the realm of dreams when Seungcheol slowly and carefully climbed out of your bed, gently lifted you up with his strong hands, and laid you down in your bed.
One might think that a whispered "Thank you, Daisy" still reached you through your dreams—though that was something you would no longer remember.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
After that night, something visibly changed between you and Seungcheol—and if Seungcheol was honest, he liked this side of you much more.
You talked to him much more now, no longer giving answers that consisted of just a single word. You shared countless facts with him about your various flowers, and Seungcheol quickly realized that he enjoyed listening to you. He liked it when your eyes lit up with enthusiasm, or when you bit your lip in concentration while working in your garden or experimenting with herbs in the kitchen.
Seungcheol would let you explain which specific herbs were good for what, and one time, you even let him create his own tea blend from scratch. It tasted absolutely dreadful—and you tried your best to convince him that it wasn't actually that bad for a first attempt—but in the end, you both spat it out after taking just one more sip. You both laughed so hard that you had to steady yourself against the kitchen counter, while Seungcheol had to be careful not to strain his throbbing wound.
These were the moments Seungcheol liked the most.
But it wasn't just your behavior and state of mind that had changed; Seungcheol, too, was now sleeping much better and finding more peace. The reason for this was—once again—you; the words spoken that night sometimes played on a continuous loop in his mind.
Come back to me first. I'm here.
The words had a grounding effect on him and his thoughts; yet, apparently, they had also burrowed deep into the needs of his Alpha. The latter, it seemed, was taking an ever-growing interest in you, throbbing brazenly within him. By now, he felt an increasingly intense urge to discover what you truly were—even though Seungcheol was astute enough to surmise that there was likely a good reason why you kept it hidden. To his Alpha, however, that didn't seem to matter much at all.
But Seungcheol said nothing, nor did he ask any questions. The days passed in peaceful tranquility, and he wanted to preserve that calm. By now, the two of you took turns, one sleeping in the bed at night, the other spending the night in the armchair.
It was a sunny day and Seungcheol had just freshened up when a sweet yet panicky scent forced him to stop, and the alpha within him howled demandingly. Seungcheol's eyes turned to your figure, which frantically opened all the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, searching for something but apparently finding nothing.
And then, finally, he caught your scent.
Finally smelled what you truly were.
An Omega - a sweet scented Omega had saved his life and helped nurse him back to health.
Seungcheol forced himself to hold his breath for a few seconds and rein in the demanding Alpha within him, but everything inside him screamed at him to help you, to dispel the panic coursing through your limbs and clinging to your scent.
You let out a sound of sheer desperation, leaning against the kitchen counter as you let your head hang, then ran your hand over your face.
That sound nearly brought Seungcheol to his knees, while his alpha pleaded him to help you shake off your despair—to take care of his sweet little Omega.
But he forced himself to pull himself together and carefully cleared his throat. "Daisy?"
You spun around to face him, leaning your back against the counter as if you wanted to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.
Seungcheol’s heart gave a slight pang, and he tried to ignore the hurt—but he wasn’t your Alpha. He had no right to feel offended.
Then you cleared your throat, and the look of desperation vanished from your face so quickly that Seungcheol’s concern only deepened. "M-Morning!" you chirped in an overly cheerful voice, turning back around to reach with trembling hands for whatever random herbs you could find to make tea.
But this time, Seungcheol wouldn’t let it go. Not when he could still clearly see how you were shaking. "Daisy, what’s wrong?" he asked in a firm voice, taking a cautious step toward you.
"N-Nothing!" you replied quickly, nodding toward the table. "Go ahead and sit down; I'll bring you some tea in a moment and change your compress!" You turned back around, and Seungcheol furrowed his brows.
Something was terribly wrong.
This time his alpha won. He stood before you with quick steps and gently grasped your shoulders, quite unlike the night you rescued him from the nightmare. He carefully turned you around to face him, and with wide eyes you looked up at him, tensing up and seemingly not breathing.
"Let me help you" he breathed softly and your lips trembled. "Tell me what's wrong and we'll find a solution."
He didn't take his eyes off you for the few seconds you were thinking before you quietly said: "My Pyperus herbs are nearly finished and I thought I still had some in here but I can't find them."
Seungcheol looked around the kitchen, which looked like utter chaos, before nodding. "Do you urgently need the herbs?"
"I have some today and tomorrow, but then they'll all be gone." You pressed your lips together, and Seungcheol didn't ask what kind of herbs they were or why you needed them so badly. He nodded and released your shoulders, but remained standing in front of you. "Do you think we can get some from the village? I think I have enough strength again to cover longer distances."
After a few seconds, you nodded weakly, and Seungcheol brushed a loose strand of your hair away from your face and murmured, "Lie down again, rest. I'll clean up here."
You offered no resistance, and the Alpha within Seungcheol purred at your obedience, before Seungcheol once again ignored it, watching as you left the room and closed the door behind you.
And so, here he was; with his Alpha, who seemed to have fixated on an Omega who wanted anything but companionship.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
Tears welled in your eyes as you laid in bed, reflecting on the situation that had just unfolded in the kitchen.
You had taken such great care to ensure you had a massive stockpile, spending days gathering these very herbs back then, long before a gravely injured Seungcheol had landed on your doorstep. Precisely so you would never again face the problem that was now slowly rearing its head once more.
You had known the moment you opened your eyes this morning that your Omega instincts were more restless than usual. Far too restless. Your pulse had quickened the instant you rose from bed; you had hurried to the kitchen with rapid strides, feeling such immense relief that Seungcheol wasn't in the room at that moment, thinking you could simply down your tea laced with the suppressant herbs, and then everything would be fine again.
Until you saw that you had only two left. Two. Which was far too few.
You racked your brain, trying to figure out how the hell you could have failed to notice that your supply was running low. After all, didn't you take the herbs every single day? Had Seungcheol used some when he first tried his hand at brewing tea? Had you been so utterly consumed by life these past few days—so distracted by the joy and inner peace you felt—that you had lost the ability to think logically and simply repressed the fact that your damn stockpile was nearly depleted?
And now he knew what you were, exactly what you had been trying to avoid from the very beginning. You squeezed your eyes shut in desperation, trying to drown out your father’s words; words that had been relentlessly swirling through your mind ever since earlier.
"Be a good girl and do what Omegas do—obey him. You will ensure that your stepmother and I can live a good life; isn't that what you want? Be a good Omega, Y/N."
Angrily, you bit down on your lower lip, and when you tasted the metallic tang of blood, you buried your face even deeper into the pillow. By now, it smelled far too strongly of Seungcheol—a scent that worked in direct opposition to the effects of the herb. Your Omega refused to be still. Refused to be suppressed. She wanted him. Her Alpha.
It’s a shame that you would never allow things to go that far, no matter how much you might suffer in the process.
⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
The next day, the two of you set off for the village.
Early this morning, you used up your very last leaf and drank your tea with trembling hands. You constantly evaded Seungcheol’s gaze, ceaselessly fighting against your hammering pulse and surging blood.
Seungcheol had no idea how to help, what to say to make you feel at least a little bit better, or which words would help you calm down.
So he said nothing and walked silently beside you through the forest.
You had pulled up the hood of your jacket, and the closer you drew to the village, the more tense you—and he—became. What if Sinyoung soldiers were there and recognized him? How should he protect himself with this wound and more imporant, how should he protect you in that process?
His gaze drifted toward you.
You, too, apparently wanted to avoid being recognized at all costs—though Seungcheol did not know the reason why. But it wasn't his place to know, anyway.
They each had but a single objective: you were to buy your herbs, and he was to write his letter.
Just before you stepped out of the forest, you nodded in a specific direction. "Keep to the right at the marketplace and go into the pink building. You can write your letter there."
Seungcheol followed your gaze and nodded in agreement before turning his eyes back to you. "Where will I find you?"
You pointed toward the center of the marketplace, where a massive tree provided shade for the market. "I'll be waiting for you under the tree. It shouldn't take long with the herbs." You adjusted your basket on your arm once more.
Then you looked up at him with a sad smile, and Seungcheol’s heart skipped a beat at your next words. "I know how important your letter is to you, but…" you hesitated, then looked at him pleadingly, "please don't mention my home, okay?"
Seungcheol nodded and murmured, „I'll just write that I'm alive."
"Promise?" you asked with a soft whisper and Seungcheols heart clenched.
"Promise."
You nodded in relief and then set off toward the herbs. Seungcheol watched you go for a few seconds, his heart already heavy with the weight of the promise, and then made his own way to the post station.
He did not address the letter by name. He knew exactly what he had to write, or to whom he had to address it, to ensure it reached his friends.
Seungcheol stood facing the wall, penning his letter in rapid strokes. He wrote that he was alive; he asked if everyone was well and if they had all managed to find a hiding place. He asked if they had heard anything from Chan. He wrote that he wanted to return soon, but that they needed a plan, and—
Seungcheol squeezed his eyes shut in despair. He was a king. He had a kingdom to save from this tyrant, yet he had also made a promise to you. And your eyes—god, your pleading eyes when you begged him not to mention anything about your home—how could he possibly do that to you?
But he did not know if his mother was still alive. He did not know if his friends were safe.
He remembered the screames from the day they were attacked; the blood filling the ground and the lifeless eyes staring up to the sky. The head of his father, rolling across the floor.
"A king does not simply give up, Seungcheol. He stands tall and defends his people. For they are our entire pride."
The words of his father ringed and his ear and Seungcheol made a decision.
He had to face his responsibility as a king. Even if it meant letting you down.
He wrote one final sentence and then handed in the letter.
pairing - non idol ! seungcheol x f.reader [fluff/angst]
summary → you and seungcheol became best friends freshman year of college, drifting into something softer and unspoken by junior year when you became roommates. now, after graduating, he has one week left before enlistment— a countdown tied to his future at his father’s company and the life waiting for him after completing service. but between a simple haircut in your shared bathroom and the weight of leaving, everything he’s kept buried finally spills out, because what he’s really afraid of isn’t enlistment… it’s leaving the person he’s been secretly in love with for years
word count - 3.7k
warnings! → friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, mutual pining, love confession, yearning, seungcheol being devastatingly in love, military enlistment mention, pre-enlistment emotions, kissing/making out- no smut, years of repressed feelings, bathroom confession scene, soft/domestic intimacy, suggestive ending, happy ending, two idiots finally communicating
The bathroom smelled like vanilla, clean laundry, and Seungcheol’s cologne. The one he always wore without thinking. That warm, slightly spicy scent that clung to his hoodies and lingered in the apartment long after he’d walked out of a room.
It mixed with the softness of vanilla melting through the air in slow, comforting waves, trying to wrap the moment in something gentler than what it really was.
Clean laundry hung nearby from the rack beside the shower, still faintly warm from the dryer, fabric softener folding itself into the air every time you moved. It made the space feel lived in, like any other night, like nothing was about to change.
Like he wasn’t leaving in a week.
You’d lit the candle earlier to keep things feeling normal. Because to you, this wasn’t goodbye.
Not really.
It was just something difficult he had to get through before coming back home again.
But sitting in front of the mirror while strands of dark hair fell steadily around him, Seungcheol felt every inch of this moment settling into his chest with terrifying finality.
The low buzz of the clippers sounded too loud in the small bathroom. Every pass against his scalp stripped away another piece of familiarity, and with each lock of hair hitting the tile floor, the reality became harder to ignore.
One week.
One week before he left behind the apartment that had become more his home than any place ever had before.
One week before leaving you.
Meanwhile, you stayed focused carefully behind him. Occasionally brushing loose strands from his shoulders and chatting softly about completely ordinary things. The grocery list for tomorrow, your cafe manager finally fixing the broken espresso machine, and which of your friends would inevitably cry the most dramatically at the enlistment send off.
Like this was temporary. Like the two of you would naturally fall back into this exact rhythm again once he returned.
And maybe that should’ve comforted him. Instead, it only made the ache in his chest worse.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat and focused on the careful motion of your wrist.
One more pass.
The clippers hummed over the back of his head, leaving behind soft dark stubble. You stepped back slightly, examining your work before flicking the power off. Silence settled heavily between you.
“There,” you said quietly.
You brushed the loose hair from his neck before running your palm gently over the freshly shaved skin. The texture made your chest ache unexpectedly.
“All done.” A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned down into his line of sight through the mirror. “Wow. Okay, it definitely looks weird.”
His brows lifted faintly.
“Not bad weird,” you corrected quickly, laughing softly. “Just.. you’ve never had your hair this short before.” Your fingers rubbed over the top of his head again playfully. “You actually look really cute.”
You moved around the stool until you stood between his knees, his legs naturally parting to make room for you in the cramped bathroom. Your hands stayed on his head, thumbs brushing along his temples while you grinned down at him.
It was the smile that always ruined him.
The one that crinkled your eyes slightly. That he’d watched across lecture halls and grocery aisles and lazy Sunday mornings in your shared apartment kitchen. The one that had slowly, disastrously made him fall in love with you years ago.
But instead of smiling back, his expression only seemed to sink further.
Your own smile faltered.
“Cheol?”
He looked away. His gaze dropped to the floor instead, landing on the ridiculous fuzzy green house slippers covering your feet.
The pair he bought you two winters ago after you’d spent twenty minutes dramatically mourning them in the middle of a department store because you couldn’t afford “unnecessary purchases” until your next paycheck from the café.
You’d worn them nearly every day since.
“Seungcheol,” you said again, softer this time, but still nothing.
You reached down, fingers curling around his chin until you gently tilted his face back toward you.
“Earth to Cheol?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes still locked downwards.
“I don’t want to go.”
The words came out rough, and your chest tightened immediately.
“I know,” you said carefully. “It’s not exactly an easy thing.”
You tried to give a reassuring smile again, thumb brushing along his cheek.
“But you’ll be back before you know it. And then you’ll start at your dad’s company and everything’ll work out.” You shrugged lightly. “Unless you can convince your dad to rearrange the plan somehow?”
He shook his head once.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
His eyes finally met yours fully, and it nearly undid him.
Because you were looking at him the same way you always did. Soft, patient, worried for him before yourself. Standing between his knees in those stupid fuzzy green slippers, your fingers still warm against his skin from where you’d rubbed over his freshly shaved head, completely unaware you were holding his entire heart in your hands.
God. How was he supposed to leave this?
How was he supposed to pack up two years of shared mornings, late night convenience store runs and you humming in the kitchen while making coffee half asleep and just, walk away from it? From you?
His chest tightened painfully. All he could think about was time.
A week from now, he’d be gone, and life would keep moving without him.
You’d still go to the café on weekends. Burn pancakes every Sunday morning because you refuse to turn the heat down, and still laugh so hard at dumb movies you’d snort without realizing it.
But eventually, someone else might be there to see it. Someone else might start memorizing the little things about you the way he had.
Someone else might carry your grocery bags, and sit in his spot beside you at bars. Walk home with you at night, or hear you call their name from another room instead of his.
The thought made him feel sick.
Because Seungcheol had spent years pretending what existed between you was enough. Pretending friendship didn’t already feel dangerously close to love. Pretending he could survive watching you belong to somebody else someday.
But now there was an expiration date looming over him, and suddenly every second with you felt fragile. Temporary.
His throat tightened before speaking again.
“I don’t want to leave you.”
The words came out quieter than he intended. Not because he was unsure, but because saying them out loud made everything terrifyingly real.
Your heart stumbled at the words, a sharp, disorienting skip you immediately tried to dismiss. No, that wasn’t what he meant. It couldn’t be.
You latched onto the thought almost instinctively, like a reflex. Like you’d done a hundred times before whenever something about him felt like it tipped too close to something you weren’t supposed to look at too long.
He’s Seungcheol. Your best friend. Your roommate. The person who had been woven into the shape of your days for four years until it didn’t even feel like separate lives anymore.
That’s all this was. It had to be.
So you laughed softly anyways, a little too quick, a little too light, as if you could smooth the moment over before it had time to turn into anything else in your mind.
“You’re such a baby,” you teased gently. “I’ll still be here when you get out.” You squeezed his shoulders. “Plus, you’ll get leave sometimes, right? We’ll still hang out.”
He shook his head again, sharper this time.
Before you could say anything else, his hands suddenly wrapped around your wrists, stopping your movements against his shoulders. Slowly, he slid his hands down until his fingers intertwined with yours. And when he spoke again, his voice had changed completely.
Serious. Low. Almost trembling.
“I don’t want to leave you,” He repeated, his tone vulnerable and bare.
The air shifted. Your smile faded entirely now.
“Cheol..”
“I don’t want to leave and come back and..” He exhaled shakily, eyes squeezing shut for a second before reopening. “Be replaced.”
Confusion flickered across your face.
“Replaced? Seungcheol, what are you talking about? You’ll always—”
“I don’t want another guy taking my place in your life.”
The words hit you so hard you went completely still. For a second, your brain genuinely couldn’t process them. Not because you didn’t understand what he was saying, but because some terrified hidden part of you had spent years convincing yourself you imagined all of it.
The lingering looks, the way his hand always found the small of your back in crowded places. How naturally the two of you moved around each other like you’d built a life together without realizing it. The quiet domesticity of him bringing you home your favorite snacks without asking. Falling asleep together on the couch, sharing inside jokes, or tying his tie for him when he has to visit his fathers company building.
Like he belonged in every crevice of your daily life.
You had spent so long forcing yourself not to read into it. Because Seungcheol was Seungcheol. Your best friend, Your roommate, the person who had become home so slowly you never even noticed it happening.
And loving him had always felt dangerous. So instead, you suppressed it.
Buried every flutter in your chest when strangers mistakenly called you his girlfriend. How much you loved hearing him laugh from another room. Locked away the embarrassing ache you felt whenever he looked especially handsome before going out somewhere. Ignoring the way your heart would sink anytime another woman flirted with him in front of you.
You told yourself it was safer that way. Better to keep him as your best friend than risk losing him entirely. But now he was sitting in front of you looking terrified of losing you, and suddenly every moment over the last four years came crashing together so violently it almost made your chest hurt.
Your throat tightened painfully as you stared at him, your pulse pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
Meanwhile Seungcheol looked seconds away from unraveling completely, like he already regretted saying it out loud.
And somehow that made it worse. Because all this time, he’d been carrying the same feelings you had.
He laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amusing about it.
“We live together,” he said quietly. “We cook together. We grocery shop together. We do laundry together. We spend every stupid Sunday rotting on the couch watching movies neither of us actually likes because we’re too lazy to change them.”
Your lips parted slightly.
“And somewhere along the way my feelings stopped being normal.”” He shook his head, his thumbs rubbed nervously against your knuckles.
“I like when strangers think we’re together.”
Your breath caught.
“I like when we argue over ramen flavors in the store and old women smile at us like we’re married already.” His eyes flickered up to yours finally. “I like when we go out drinking and some guy starts trying to flirt with you, but the second I walk back over beside you he leaves because he thinks I’m your boyfriend.” His voice softened painfully. “I like taking care of you.”
Your chest felt impossibly tight now, every feeling you had spent years carefully locking away had suddenly cracked open all at once.
It hurt. Not in a bad way, not really. Just, too much.
Too much affection. Too much relief. Too much longing you’d trained yourself not to touch because wanting Seungcheol had always felt like standing too close to the edge of something dangerous.
Your eyes burned as you stared at him. At the boy who had unknowingly become the center of your entire life, and now he was sitting here looking at you like losing you would ruin him.
The realization nearly knocked the air from your lungs. Because all this time, you thought you were the only one aching quietly through all those little moments.
All those nights lying awake in your room wondering what would happen if you reached for him first. All those mornings watching him half asleep in the kitchen, thinking with painful certainty that someday another woman would get this version of him instead.
But he was looking at you now with the same fear.
“I like knowing how you take your coffee.” He laughed quietly. “I like that you steal my hoodies and leave hair ties everywhere and sing badly when you clean the apartment. I like that you always save me the last dumpling even though it’s your favorite food.” His eyes glistened slightly. “I like coming home to you.”
The room felt too small, too warm.
The tiny bathroom that had always felt ordinary suddenly seemed intimate in a way it never had before. His knees brushing against your thighs, your hands still trapped in his, the soft buzz of the overhead light filling the silence between every shaky breath.
You could hear everything. The uneven rhythm of his breathing. The faint drip of the faucet. Your own heartbeat pounding violently in your ears.
And Seungcheol was close. So close enough that you could see the nervous swallow in his throat. Close enough to notice the slight tremble in his fingers where they held yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward even an inch, both of your foreheads would touch.
It made you dizzy.
Because suddenly every little domestic moment you both shared in this apartment over the years felt charged with something you’d spent too long pretending not to notice.
Late night conversations in this same bathroom while brushing your teeth. Him standing shirtless in the doorway after showers with wet hair dripping onto the floor while you complained at him to clean it up. You sitting on the counter while he shaved, talking about absolutely nothing for an hour because being near each other had always been enough.
How had you both survived living like this for years without combusting?
The warmth crawling up your neck had nothing to do with the bathroom anymore. It was him.
The way he was looking at you now, open and terrified, aching with love he could barely contain made the entire room feel suffocatingly small.. and he still wasn’t done.
“I love how excited you get over stupid little things,” he whispered. “Like finding books at thrift stores or those ugly ceramic frogs you keep collecting for some reason—”
“They’re vintage,” you muttered automatically through the overwhelming emotion building in your chest.
He huffed out a broken laugh. “See?”
And there it was again. That ridiculous, earnest defensiveness over something objectively stupid. Even now, standing in the middle of a life altering confession, both of you seconds from emotionally unraveling, you still couldn’t help correcting him about the ceramic frogs. It hit him with such painful affection he thought his chest might split open.
Because that was you.
You cared so deeply about little things, threw your whole heart behind harmless, ridiculous things without embarrassment. You made ordinary moments feel alive simply because you existed inside them so fully, and Seungcheol had spent years helplessly falling in love with every tiny piece of it.
The way you argued passionately about thrift store finds. How you got distracted halfway through serious conversations because a dog walked past the window. The way you always, always found something to love in things other people overlooked.
Even now, with tears gathering in your eyes and his confession hanging heavily between you, your instinct has been to defend your stupid frog collection.
God. How was he ever supposed to leave someone like you behind?
Your eyes burned.
“I’m in love with you,” he finally admitted.
The words hung between you, raw and terrifying.
“And I’m horrified that while I’m gone, somebody else is gonna get all of this instead.” His voice cracked slightly now. “Somebody else gets to live with you and cook with you and hear you laugh at two in the morning and hold your hand in public and–” He stopped to breathe shakily. “I had to tell you before I left,” he whispered. “Even if you don’t feel the same. Because I think it would actually kill me if I came back and you belonged to someone else.”
Silence. Complete silence. Seungcheol’s heart pounded so violently he thought he might actually throw up.
Then suddenly, you laughed.
His brows furrowed immediately.
“What?”
You laughed harder, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as tears filled your eyes now.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked, completely bewildered as you breathed between laughs.
“We are two huge idiots.”
He blinked at you.
“What?”
You shook your head, smiling so brightly it nearly knocked the breath from him.
Then you leaned down and kissed him.
Seungcheol froze. For one stunned second, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
But then his hands were suddenly at your waist, gripping tightly as he kissed you back with years of buried longing crashing into the moment all at once.
The kiss deepened instantly. Messy, desperate, relieved.
You could feel the shaky exhale leave him as he pulled you closer between his legs, your fingers sliding over the newly shaved sides of his head as you kissed him again and again.
When you finally pulled apart for air, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours in disbelief.
“You idiot,” you whispered fondly, still smiling like you couldn’t quite believe him.
“You love me?” he asked, quieter this time, like saying it wrong might make it disappear. Like he still couldn’t fully trust it was real.
You hummed, pretending to think about it as your fingers absently traced the back of his hand.
“Unfortunately for you,” you said lightly, “yes.”
His breath caught just slightly. Then, like something finally clicking into place behind his eyes, his expression shifted.
“Since when?”
The question wasn’t playful anymore. It was careful and serious.
Your teasing smile softened at the edges, but you didn’t look away. “Junior year,” you said simply.
His brows pulled together immediately. “Junior year?”
You nodded once, like it should’ve been obvious, but it wasn’t. And you let him sit in it for a second longer before you added, softer now, just a little less teasing.
“You came back to the apartment at like 1am during midterms week,” you said. “And I was on the kitchen floor because I’d completely given up on studying.” Something in his expression shifted instantly.
“Oh.”
You nodded, watching him remember it piece by piece.
“I wasn’t sick,” you continued. “I wasn’t anything dramatic. I was just.. exhausted. Like, the kind where you feel stupid for crying but you can’t stop anyway.” His thumb tightened slightly against your hand. “And you didn’t try to fix it,” you said, voice quieter now. “You just sat down next to me on the floor like it was the most normal thing in the world and started going through my notes with me.”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile flickered on his lips. He remembered now, too. Especially how pretty you still looked when you sat in front of the kitchen stove covered in a sea of notebook paper.
“And you didn’t say anything about it being late, or how tired you were,” you added. “You just stayed until I stopped crying.” You shrugged slightly, like you were trying to make it sound small.
Seungcheol went quiet. Really quiet. Like he was realizing something he’d never considered before, that for him it had just been another night of taking care of you, showing up for you, but for you, it had been the night you started loving him.
A disbelieving laugh escaped him.
Then you grinned suddenly, mischief returning to your expression.
“So while you’re gone,” you said casually, “which room should I combine our stuff into?”
He blinked.
“Huh?”
“You know,” you continued innocently, in a way only you could. “Since obviously one room becomes ours and the other becomes a spare room.”
He let out a loud scoff laugh, shaking his head in disbelief before suddenly standing up. You squealed as he grabbed your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.
“Wow,” you laughed breathlessly, your arms sliding around his shoulders while your legs wrapped around his waist. “Someone got confident really fast.”
Seungcheol looked up at you with a grin that was equal parts smug and completely lovestruck.
“You kissed me first,” he pointed out.
“You confessed first.”
“And now I’m making up for lost time.”
Heat rushed to your face instantly at the way he said it, low and certain, like something in him had finally snapped after years of holding himself back.
You tried to laugh it off anyway. “Oh, so this is who you are now?”
“This,” he said, tightening his grip slightly beneath your thighs, “is who I’ve been trying not to be around you for four years.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“Cheol–”
“I’m serious.” His eyes flickered down to your lips again. “Do you know how hard it’s been living with you looking like that all the time?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Looking like what?”
“Like my girlfriend,” he answered immediately.
The bluntness of it made your breath catch.
“And now you actually are. No take backs,” he murmured, sounding a little stunned by the realization himself. Then his mouth curled into something more teasing. “So yeah,” he said softly, stepping closer until your back brushed the bathroom wall, “I’m gonna be confident for a minute.”
Before you could recover from that, he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like now that he finally had permission he never wanted to stop touching you.
Butterflies exploded in your stomach.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
“We can figure the room thing out later,” he murmured. “But we only have one week before I leave.” Your breath caught at the look in his eyes. “And there are a lot of things I’ve been fantasizing about doing with you.”
Heat rushed to your face instantly.
“Choi Seungcheol!”
He grinned for the first time all night. Then he carried you out of the bathroom and down the hall toward his bedroom while your laughter echoed through the apartment the two of you had unknowingly turned into a home together years ago.
Summary: The prince crown was supposed to get married this morning. But, where was he now?
Part 1 out of 2
Morning came with no softness.
It arrived loud—alive—with the sharp echo of hurried footsteps striking against stone, overlapping voices rising and falling in urgency, the rustle of silk dragged too quickly through narrow corridors. Orders were called from one end of the hall to the other, servants bowing mid-run, hands full, heads lowered, never stopping long enough to catch a breath.
“Careful—those are for the main hall!”
“Hurry, the ritual begins at sunrise—move!”
Everything felt on the edge of spilling. Servants moved like a tide—restless, unstoppable—flowing from one hall to another. Arms filled with folded silk, trays of polished gold ornaments, ceremonial wine, hairpieces, incense burners still smoking from preparation. A sleeve brushed against another, a tray tilted for a second too long before being steadied, a quiet gasp swallowed before anyone could notice.
The day the Crown Prince would be wed.
Prince Wonwoo, a man known not for warmth, but for stillness. Measured in every step he took. Precise in every word he allowed himself to speak. Unreadable. It was that very restraint that earned him unwavering respect, not only within the palace walls, but across the Silla military. No one could recall the last time they had seen him hesitate.
Including for today's agenda.
Incense burned in every corner, thick and fragrant, the smoke coiling slowly upward before dissolving into the cold air of dawn. The scent clung to everything—fabric, skin, breath—heavy and ceremonial, as if the palace itself was being dressed for the occasion.
Outside, the sky remained pale, washed in the faintest hint of gold. But inside, time had already surged forward. It felt like midday. Too bright. Too loud. Too alive. Everything was in motion.
Everything—except him.
Chan, his personal court maid, walked quickly down the corridor, his steps measured out of habit but betraying a quiet urgency beneath. The fabric in his hands shifted with each movement, heavy and layered, brushing softly against his arms.
The Crown Prince’s wedding attire. Deep crimson. Threaded with gold so fine it caught even the weakest light, shimmering with every step he took. The embroidery was intricate—dragons coiled along the sleeves, symbols of power and legacy stitched with precision that spoke of weeks, months of preparation.
It was heavier than usual. Not just in weight but in meaning. This was not simply attire. It was a transformation. From prince to king.
Chan adjusted the layers carefully, lifting them slightly higher so the hem wouldn’t graze the floor. His fingers smoothed over a crease that didn’t exist, more out of nervous energy than necessity.
A small smile found its way onto his lips.
“His Highness will look… magnificent,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice softer than the chaos surrounding him.
He had served Prince Wonwoo for years. Long enough to know the quiet gravity the prince carried. The way he walked without haste. The way he spoke without wasting words. The way his presence alone could still a room.
Unreadable. Unshakable. Distant, even.
Chan reached the chamber doors.
The noise of the palace dulled here, like it knew better than to intrude too loudly. The guards straightened immediately, bowing as Chan approached.
“Is His Highness awake?” Chan asked, his tone respectful, though anticipation lingered beneath it—subtle, but there.
“He has not called for anyone yet,” one of the guards replied.
Chan paused. Just for a second. A faint crease formed between his brows. That was… unusual.
The Crown Prince was not one to linger in bed. If anything, he woke before the sun itself, already dressed, already prepared, already waiting for the day to begin. Especially today.
Chan shifted the garments slightly in his arms, adjusting his grip as if the weight had suddenly changed.
But perhaps, today was an exception. A wedding day. Even a prince was allowed a moment.
He exhaled quietly, steadying himself, before pushing the doors open with care.
“Your Highness, I have brought—”
The words stopped. Mid-air. Cut cleanly by something unseen.
The room was quiet. Not the quiet of rest. Not the quiet of early morning. But something else. Something… empty. Too empty. No movement. No sound. No presence.
The curtains swayed gently from the open window, the breeze slipping inside without resistance, brushing against the walls, the furniture—untouched, unbothered.
The bed remained perfectly arranged. Sheets smooth. Pillows untouched. As if no one had laid there. As if no one had returned the night before.
Chan blinked. Once. Twice. “…Your Highness?” His voice sounded smaller in the space. Unfitting.
He stepped inside. Slowly. Each step softer than the last, like he was intruding on something he didn’t understand. Like the room might reveal something if he didn’t disturb it too much.
Nothing answered.
His gaze moved—carefully, searching. The low table. A cup of tea, long untouched, the surface of the liquid still. The garments from the night before, folded neatly where they had been placed. No disruption. No sign. Everything was in place.
Everything, except him.
Chan’s grip tightened around the wedding robe, the fabric bunching slightly beneath his fingers.
“…Your Highness?” he called again, louder now. The sound echoed faintly against the walls.
A strange feeling crept up his spine. Cold. Slow. Unfamiliar. He moved toward the bed, almost without thinking, setting the garments down with less care than before. His hand reached out, pressing lightly against the sheets.
Cold.
“GUARDS.”
And the palace broke
*
“CUT!”
The director’s voice tore through the set, sharp enough to make everyone freeze in place.
It wasn’t just loud, it was furious. The kind of fury that didn’t care who was watching.
“I said emotion, not recitation!” he snapped, stepping forward with enough force that the staff closest to him instinctively moved aside. “What was that? Are you even listening to your own lines?!”
Silence fell fast. Heavy. Uncomfortable. All eyes turned to you.
You stood in the middle of the set, frozen under layers of traditional hanbok—silk draped perfectly, hair styled intricately, every detail crafted to turn you into someone from another time.
A princess. A woman in love. Someone who was supposed to be breaking at the thought of losing the Crown Prince.
But right now, you were just… empty. The script still sat in your mind, the lines memorized down to each breath, each pause, and yet when it came out… it felt like nothing. Flat. Disconnected. Wrong.
“Tell her to fix her line, study it, grasp it—I don’t care,” the director continued, voice laced with sharp impatience. “I want it ready in ten.”
He yanked off his headset and threw it toward the assistant director. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it didn’t need to be. It was meant to be seen. And it was.
The assistant director caught it clumsily before immediately rushing toward you, already lowering his voice but not nearly enough.
“Y/n!” he hissed, stopping just short of grabbing your arm. “What’s wrong with you?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“I mean it,” he pressed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You know this is the last thing that should be happening right now. After everything—seriously?”
That word lingered. Everything. You didn’t need him to explain. The whispers around set had already done that for him.
The scandal. Your name, dragged across headlines, twisted into narratives you didn’t recognize but couldn’t escape. Every glance from the staff, every hushed conversation that stopped the moment you walked by, you felt all of it.
Even now. Especially now.
“I—I know,” you managed, though your voice came out quieter than you intended. Unsteady.
The assistant director exhaled sharply, glancing back at the director before leaning in closer.
“Then act like it,” he said, urgency bleeding into every word. “You were perfect during rehearsals. What happened? Where did that go?”
You swallowed. Your fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of your hanbok, grounding yourself in its weight.
“I just need a moment,” you said.
But even to your own ears, it sounded like an excuse.
He clicked his tongue softly, clearly unconvinced. “You don’t have a moment,” he replied. “You have ten minutes. And if you mess this up again—”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Your eyes flickered past him, toward the set.
The palace backdrop stood tall and convincing, painted skies and carved pillars recreating a world that didn’t belong to you.
Servants in costume moved quietly now, resetting props, avoiding your gaze. Some of them weren’t even pretending not to stare. You could feel it. Judgment. Curiosity. Pity.
Your chest tightened. “I’ll fix it,” you said, this time more firmly, even if your heartbeat betrayed you.
The assistant director studied you for a second longer, then nodded once.
“You better.” He turned and walked away, already calling out instructions to the crew as if nothing had happened.
You found yourself crouching in a narrow alley just behind the set the next hour. Discarded props were scattered nearby—forgotten, like everything else that no longer mattered—silent witnesses to the way you cursed yourself under your breath, over and over again.
One line. Just one line. And you couldn’t deliver it.
Your hands pressed against your temples, as if you could force the words back into place, as if you could rewind the moment and do it right this time. But all you could see were their faces. The staff, the actors, the director—the way they looked at you. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… disappointed. That was worse.
Those looks clung to you, heavy and suffocating, like something you couldn’t peel off no matter how hard you tried. They followed you here, into this cramped alley, into the quiet where your failure echoed louder than any shout.
You had nothing to hold onto. Not when the director had called it for the night—his voice sharp, final—demanding a meeting with the production team.
You knew what that meant. Or at least, you thought you did. Maybe they were discussing reshoots. Maybe they were discussing damage control. Or maybe, they were discussing replacing you.
The thought should have terrified you. But it didn’t. Not anymore. Because the moment he yelled cut—you had already run. Away from the set. Away from their eyes. Away from whatever was left of your dignity.
You hid here instead, curling into yourself, clutching at the fabric of your hanbok like it could shield you from the weight pressing down on your chest.
The scandal from two days ago gnawed at you relentlessly. It hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened. Every headline. Every comment. Every accusation thrown carelessly under your name—they replayed in your head like a script you never agreed to perform.
Deaf. Ignorant. Difficult. Words people used so easily, as if they knew you. As if they had ever tried to understand you. And the worst part— you almost wished it were true. Because at least then, you’d have an excuse.
This role, you had worked so hard for it. Everyone around you had. Late nights. Endless rehearsals. Sacrifices stacked quietly behind every scene. It was supposed to be your turning point.
Your last project before signing with a new agency—one you had been carefully negotiating with, step by step, trying to secure something better. Something stable. Something that would finally place you somewhere you belonged. But now—that conversation was as good as over. No agency would risk taking you in after this. Not when your name had already started to crumble under public scrutiny.
Unavoidable. Your life had already begun to fall apart.
A sudden clatter broke through your thoughts. You flinched. One of the stacked props—a wooden frame carelessly leaned against the wall—tilted, then slipped, crashing onto the ground with a dull, hollow sound.
You turned instinctively, breath catching and stilled. There, half-hidden beneath the fallen prop, a figure stirred. A man. Dressed in thin, traditional clothing—far too delicate for the cold concrete beneath him, the fabric wrinkled as if it had been slept in. He jolted awake, pushing himself up with a sharp inhale, eyes darting around like he had been dropped somewhere he didn’t recognize.
Disoriented. Alert. Lost. For a moment, you just stared.
Someone missed his chance too. He must have been part of the production. An extra, maybe. Or one of the background actors who didn’t matter enough for anyone to notice when he disappeared between takes. He probably found a quiet place to rest, thinking he had time and ended up missing his cue.
You huffed faintly under your breath, the irony not lost on you.
“Rough day?” you muttered, voice dry, not really expecting a response.
The man didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked around again—slower this time, more deliberate. His gaze moved from the narrow alley, to the unfamiliar walls, to the objects scattered across the ground… lingering on each detail like he was trying to make sense of something that refused to align.
His breathing hadn’t settled. Not yet. Then his eyes landed on you. And stopped.
Your brows knit slightly. “…Hey,” you called, a little more cautious now. “You okay?”
He didn’t respond right away.
His gaze flickered over you—taking in the hanbok, the styled hair, the traces of makeup still intact under the harsh alley light. His eyes lingered, just for a second too long, like he was trying to place you somewhere.
“…Where is this?” His voice was low. Steady. But laced with something you couldn’t quite name. Not confusion. Not entirely. Something… off.
You blinked.
“…The set?” you replied, half a question, half disbelief. “Did you hit your head or something?”
Silence followed. He looked past you again. At the alley. At the buildings towering just beyond the narrow gap. At the faint hum of the city bleeding into the quiet.
“And who are you?” he asked, rising to his feet in one smooth motion.
The thin fabric of his clothes shifted as he straightened, posture instinctively rigid—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. His hands moved behind his back, folding neatly as if the gesture had been ingrained in him long before this moment.
“Are you a member of the palace?” he added, his gaze fixed on you.
Your first thought was simple. This man is crazy… and he hasn’t snapped out of it yet.
“I’m sorry, but the shooting just wrapped,” you said, brushing the dirt off your clothes as you pushed yourself to your feet. “You can stop practicing your Silla-era lines now.”
You stepped closer, still half-annoyed, half-exhausted—expecting him to break character, laugh it off, something.
He didn’t. His eyes moved over you instead. Slowly. Carefully. Taking in the details of your attire—the hanbok, the styling, the way it sat on you—not with admiration, but with scrutiny.
“You do not resemble a palace maid,” he said, almost to himself.
His gaze lingered a second longer, like he was searching for recognition in your face.
“…Yet, if you stand within the palace grounds, you must belong to a noble family.”
The way he spoke was measured, formal, distant. It struck something oddly familiar. Your brows furrowed. It reminded you of Choi San, your co-star—the one playing the Crown Prince in this very production. The same tone. The same controlled delivery.
But even he — even he — knew when to drop the act.
You let out a short breath, crossing your arms slightly. “Okay, method acting is great and all,” you muttered, tilting your head at him, “but this is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“And also—” you added, folding your arms across your chest, head tilting slightly as your gaze dragged from his face down to his posture, then back up again. “I’m your senior. How are you talking to me like that?”
A small scoff slipped past your lips. “What are you—an extra? I’ve never seen you around before.”
The two of you stood facing each other, a few steps apart, the narrow alley suddenly feeling too small for the tension settling between you.
Before he could respond—
“Y/n!”
You turned at the familiar voice. Your manager—Chan—was already striding toward you, slightly out of breath, irritation clear on his face.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. The producing team wants to talk to—”
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes shifted. “…who’s this?”
The man beside you didn’t hesitate.
“Jimil-gungnyeo,” he said, his gaze fixed on Chan with the same unsettling certainty.
Silence fell. You blinked. Chan blinked. Then both of you turned to look at each other. “…Do you know him?” Chan asked slowly.
You shrugged, already stepping away. “I don’t know,” you said, dismissive, brushing it off like it wasn’t worth your time. “Probably a fan.”
You glanced over your shoulder briefly before adding, “I’ll go to them.”
Chan stayed where he was for a second longer, his eyes lingering on the man. Assessing. There was something about him—his posture, his face, the way he carried himself without trying—that didn’t feel like an extra. Didn’t feel like someone random who wandered onto set.
This one…
His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against his business card. “Call me if you’re interested in signing with a label,” Chan said casually, holding it out with a practiced smile.
The man didn’t take it. Didn’t even look at it. Chan paused—just for a second—before letting out a quiet breath and pulling his hand back.
“…Right.”
“Y/n!” he called again, turning quickly. “Let’s go together—we need to discuss something first!” The card fell as he jogged after you, leaving the man standing alone in the alley.
And for the first time since he woke, he was truly alone. In a place that spoke a language he understood—yet made no sense at all.
*
The producing team agreed to let you continue the shoot. That was what you heard—what you held onto—during the quick meeting before you were rushed off to your next schedule. And now, on the way home, it was the only thing left replaying in your head.
You sat silently in the passenger seat while Chan drove. Your thoughts rewound their words like a broken cassette. They wanted you. The director said it has to be you.
“The director was upset,” one of them had said carefully. “He has a lot on his plate. But he realized… you might have more, with everything going on right now.”
A pause. “He wants to give you one more chance. And so do we.”
You remembered waking up that morning to your phone ringing endlessly. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Missed calls. Notifications. Messages that came too fast to read. And then Chan—bursting into your house without warning, panic written all over his face.
Your father. Money laundering. His name tangled with businessmen, investigations, headlines. And yours dragged along with it. The narrative had been easy to build. Too easy. People didn’t need proof. They needed a story. And you were convenient.
They said you knew. They said you were involved. They said you supported him. That you were no different. The media didn’t report anymore. They crafted. And your name, your life was something they could burn for attention.
“We’ll talk to your label,” they had continued. “We’ll demand a response. We’ll find people willing to support you.”
A reassurance. A promise.
“Don’t worry, Ji Y/n. We know you’re not wrong.”
That was enough.
We know you’re not wrong.
It should have been enough.
Chan’s phone started ringing. Once. Twice. Again. You didn’t react. Didn’t even notice. Your mind was still stuck in that room, replaying every word, every look, every subtle shift in tone.
Even when the car slowed suddenly, even when Chan’s hand tightened on the wheel a little too hard. You stayed there. Spiraling quietly.
“Y/n!” His voice cut through. Sharp. Closer.
“Y/n!” You blinked, your gaze lifting slightly.
“Y/n!” The third time pulled you back.
You turned your head, catching his eyes through the rearview mirror. “What?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
Chan exhaled, something unsettled lingering in his expression. “That man in the alley,” he said. “You remember him?”
You nodded faintly.
“Are you sure you don’t know him?”
A pause.
You nodded again. “I’m sure.”
Chan frowned, eyes shifting back to the road. “That’s… weird.”
Your brows pulled together slightly. “Why?”
He hesitated for a second before answering. “The police station called,” he said. “They said someone turned in my business card.”
You blinked.
“…Your card?”
“I remember I offered it to him,” Chan continued, slower now, like he was piecing it together as he spoke. “But he didn’t take it.”
Silence settled for a beat.
“And?”
Chan glanced at you again. “He mentioned your name.”
“Police station?” you repeated, the words coming out sharper this time.
Chan nodded. Your stomach dropped.
No.
No, no—
not again.
Another problem. Another headline waiting to happen. Another thing you didn’t have the energy to deal with.
You leaned back against the seat, closing your eyes briefly.
“Son of a—”
You didn’t finish. You didn’t need to.
*
Wonwoo was certain that the man who had just jogged away earlier was Chan—his jimil-gungnyeo, his court maid. They had met just last night.
Chan had helped him into his sleeping robes, hands careful and practiced, before withdrawing quietly to prepare his sleeping mat. Wonwoo remembered it clearly—the stillness of the room, the familiar routine, the quiet certainty of everything being in its place.
And yet, he had woken up here.
His back ached faintly, a dull reminder of the ground he had been lying on moments ago. That, too, was wrong. Stone had always been familiar. He had trained on it, knelt on it, bled on it.
But this was not stone. Too smooth. Too lifeless. Too… foreign. Everything beneath his feet felt unfamiliar—so unfamiliar that his mind could not even reshape it into something known.
Wonwoo slowly lifted his gaze. The light above him was white. Flat. Unnatural. For a moment, he did not move. Because nothing—nothing before him made sense.
The sky was wrong. Too narrow. Broken by towering structures that cut through it like blades. No curved rooftops. No carved beams. No familiar lines of architecture shaped by history and tradition. Only height. Endless, suffocating height.
His breath slowed, though his thoughts did not.
Where… is this?
“Are you an extra? The shoot has wrapped for today—you should go home and change!”
The voice came from a distance. Wonwoo’s gaze shifted. A man stood there, dressed in a way that made no sense to him—strange, improper, entirely out of place.
No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not directly. Not loudly. Not without restraint. They never dared. Words meant for him were always delivered through Chan—measured, filtered, appropriate. Never like this.
His eyes lingered on the man’s clothing. Foreign. That was the only word that came close. The cut, the fabric, the way it sat against the body—it lacked the structure he was used to. No indication of rank. No clear sign of status.
…From abroad?
Why else would he dress like that—like those distant western envoys he had only heard of in passing?
Wonwoo’s gaze lowered. The object—the paper-like thing the man resembling Chan had offered him earlier—rested in his hand now. He must have picked it up without realizing.
Light. Too smooth to be ordinary paper. His fingers turned it slightly. There were markings on it. Words. Familiar—yet not. He narrowed his eyes. He could read them. Barely.
He began to walk. Slowly, at first. Each step was deliberate, controlled—though there was no longer a path to follow, no structure to guide him. The ground stretched endlessly beneath him, smooth and unyielding, unlike anything he had known. No gravel. No carved stone. No sign of wear shaped by time or discipline.
His gaze moved as he walked. Studying. Absorbing. The world around him refused to settle into reason. People passed him without pause. Without acknowledgement. Their movements were quick, careless—unbound by order or awareness. They spoke loudly, freely, their voices overlapping without restraint.
No one lowered their gaze. No one stepped aside. No one recognized him.
Wonwoo’s fingers tightened slightly around the object in his hand—the card. Its edges pressed faintly against his skin, grounding him in something tangible amidst the unfamiliar.
They began to approach. Not with caution. But with curiosity.
“Photo?”
“Picture?”
The words came one after another, different voices, same intent.
Wonwoo stilled. His gaze shifted from one face to another. He understood the sounds. But not the meaning. Photo. Picture. They repeated it, some gesturing with small, glowing objects in their hands—thin, rectangular, unnatural. They raised them toward him, expectant, as if waiting for permission.
Asking something of him. Wonwoo did not respond. Did not move. And eventually, they left. Just as easily as they had come.
More approached after. Some lingered longer. Some spoke faster, as if repetition would force understanding. Others simply stared—openly, without restraint—before moving on.
Then came something else. Cards. Objects similar to the one he held. Offered with practiced ease, extended toward him with both confidence and intent.
Wonwoo’s gaze lowered briefly to his own hand. Then back to theirs. Before he could respond—They noticed. The card already in his grasp. Their expressions changed. Interest faded into something quieter. Measured. Almost… cautious.
And just as quickly as they had approached. They withdrew. One by one. Without explanation.Wonwoo watched them go. Silent. Still. His fingers curled more firmly around the card.
…So it holds meaning. Value. Authority. Not spoken. But recognized. A symbol, perhaps. Of rank. Of affiliation. His assumption settled, not with certainty—but with enough weight to accept, for now.
His steps slowed. His gaze lifted. And for the first time since he arrived, something familiar entered his sight. Fabric. Movement. Color. Hanbok. Not one. Many. Figures dressed in garments he knew—layers, silhouettes, lines shaped by tradition. The structure was there. The familiarity is undeniable.
His breath stilled. Recognition struck before reason could interfere. People of this world who would understand. Who would recognize. Who would know him.
Wonwoo straightened instinctively, posture aligning with practiced precision. Shoulders set. Chin lifted slightly. Presence restored, as it had always been. Jeon Wonwoo. Crown Prince. Heir to the throne.
He stepped toward them. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Because for the first time since waking, he believed he had found something that belonged.
Wonwoo came to a stop before them, his gaze steady, posture unwavering despite the unfamiliar surroundings.
“State your origin,” he said, his voice low but firm. “And your affiliation within the palace.”
He expected hesitation—perhaps confusion—but ultimately, recognition. At the very least, an attempt to respond properly.
Instead, there was silence. Not the respectful kind. Before he could repeat himself, one of them stepped aside and raised a small object to his ear. The man began speaking rapidly, his tone urgent, the words flowing too quickly for Wonwoo to fully grasp. The language itself was not entirely foreign—but the speed, the structure, the casual delivery made it difficult to follow.
Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed slightly. The others did not step forward. They did not bow. They did not lower their gaze. They simply… watched him. Carefully. Cautiously.
As though he were something unfamiliar. Or unpredictable. The shift unsettled him—not visibly, but internally. In the palace, roles were always clear. Rank dictated behavior. Even strangers knew how to act in the presence of authority. Here, there was no such order.
When the men finally approached, Wonwoo turned his attention to them without moving from his place. Their clothing differed from the others—more uniform, more structured. Not traditional, but purposeful. They carried themselves with a certain authority, though not the kind he recognized. It lacked refinement, but not control.
They spoke. Quickly. Directly. Without formality. Wonwoo focused, catching only fragments of their words.
“Are you okay?”
“Where are you from?”
“Do you have identification?”
He understood the individual words—but not their intention when combined.
Identification.
The term lingered in his mind.
A form of recognition, perhaps. Something used to establish identity or status. But if that were the case, why would they ask him for it? His presence, his attire, his manner of speech—these should have been more than sufficient.
Unless, this place operated under entirely different rules.
Wonwoo remained silent. Not because he had nothing to say, but because he lacked the necessary understanding to respond correctly. Speaking too soon, without grasping the structure of this world, could place him at a disadvantage.
One of the men exchanged a glance with the other. A silent communication. A decision. Then one stepped closer.
His movements were careful—not aggressive, but deliberate. As if approaching someone unstable. Wonwoo noticed. He did not react outwardly, but the observation settled in his mind.
“Sir,” the man said again, this time slower, as if adjusting his speech for clarity. “We’re going to take you with us. Alright?”
Take.
The word registered immediately.
Wonwoo’s gaze sharpened. In his world, no one used such language toward him. He was not someone to be taken. Orders involving him were phrased differently—carefully, respectfully, often indirectly. This was neither.
For a brief moment, tension rose—not in his posture, but in the air between them. He considered resisting. Measured the distance. The number of men. The lack of weapons—at least none visible. But more importantly, the lack of understanding. He did not know where he was. He did not understand their authority. He did not know the consequences of refusal.
Acting without that knowledge would not be strength. It would be recklessness.
Wonwoo exhaled slowly, the decision forming with quiet certainty. For now he would observe. Learn. Adapt. His jaw tightened slightly. Then, without protest, he allowed them to take him.
*
“I think he hit his head,” Chan whispered to you while questioning the man who introduced himself as Prince Wonwoo—Crown Prince, first son of King Yeok.
“I know King Yeok. I meet him every day,” you mumbled from the couch, referring to Lee Byunghun, the actor playing the king in your current project.
“No one refers to the King by his name.”
Wonwoo’s voice cut in, calm but firm. There was clear disapproval in his tone—the kind that didn’t need to be raised to be felt.
For a second, you just stared at him. You weren’t even sure that was his real father’s name. At this point, you were too exhausted to care. You let out a quiet scoff, leaning back against the couch. You were done—completely done—with whatever this man was trying to prove.
Chan, on the other hand, seemed… invested. Of course he was. The man was handsome, carried himself well, and had a face that could easily sell a drama. In Chan’s eyes, that alone was potential—something that could be shaped, marketed, turned into profit.
But you? You had no patience left. After the situation at the police station, bringing him here had been a last resort—mainly to keep your name from getting dragged into yet another issue. Chan had agreed immediately, probably already thinking three steps ahead.
He even offered Wonwoo food. Clothes. Basic things. Normal things. And yet, Wonwoo refused. Flatly. Claiming that both of you might be trying to harm him.
That was it. Whatever thin thread of tolerance you had left snapped.
“Listen, Crown Prince,” you said, your voice sharper now as you straightened from the couch. “I don’t have the energy to deal with whatever this is.”
You gestured vaguely toward him. “I need rest. So when I wake up tomorrow—” you paused, meeting Chan’s eyes, “—I better not see him here. You understand?”
Chan let out a small sigh. “Don’t be too hard on—”
You stood up before he could finish. “Don’t tell me what to do,” you cut in, your voice quieter but heavier. “Everyone’s been hard on me too.”
And with that, you turned and walked toward your bedroom, not waiting for a response before shutting the door behind you. The sound echoed slightly in the apartment. Silence followed.
Chan blinked once, then let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing at Wonwoo.
“She’s… a bit sensitive these days,” he said, half-apologetic, half-explanatory.
A pause. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression shifted—lighter, more curious.
“So,” he continued, clapping his hands softly as he leaned forward, “where were we?”
His eyes scanned Wonwoo from head to toe again, assessing. “Right. You’re the Crown Prince.”
He tilted his head slightly. “And why are you here, man?” he asked, this time more genuinely. “I mean… shouldn’t you be in a palace or something?”
Wonwoo did not answer immediately. But he did not look away either.
And that was how the night stretched on. Questions. Half-answers. Silence where clarity should have been. Until eventually, fatigue won. Morning came quietly. And you woke up to find two grown men asleep in your living room.
“He could be useful.”
Chan said it like a conclusion, quickening his pace as he tried to keep up with you. You didn’t slow down.
The gravel crunched under your steps as you made your way toward the car, your grip tightening slightly around your bag. Behind the two of you, Wonwoo followed in silence.
He had changed. Into something closer to modern clothing—something Chan had insisted on. It fit him. Too well. But the way he wore it didn’t. There was a stiffness to his posture, a subtle discomfort in every movement, like the fabric itself didn’t belong on him. Like he didn’t belong in it.
“He could be a great help.” Chan added, a little more insistently this time.
That made you stop. Abruptly. Chan almost walked past you before catching himself. Wonwoo halted a step behind, his attention shifting between the two of you.
You turned. Slowly.
“For my production,” you asked, voice calm but edged, “or for your ambition?”
Chan blinked. “What do you mean?”
You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “I know you’ve been trying to scout a new artist,” you said. “My contract ends in six months.”
A small pause. Your gaze sharpened. “Are you replacing me, Chan?”
The question landed heavier than your tone suggested. Chan’s reaction was immediate.
“What? No—no, of course not!” He shook his head quickly, almost frantically. “You know I wouldn’t do that. I’ve been with you for ten years—ten years, Y/n.”
His voice softened slightly at the end, almost pleading. “You’re not just a client.” A beat.
But you didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
Chan exhaled, trying to steady himself before continuing, this time more carefully.
“I’m just saying… Wonwoo—” he gestured lightly toward the man behind you, “—he knows things. A lot of things.”
Your eyes flickered briefly toward Wonwoo. He hadn’t moved. Still standing there, composed, observing—like he always was.
Chan leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I mean it,” he said. “The details he mentioned last night? About Silla? Court structure, rituals, even small things like etiquette—those aren’t things you just… memorize.”
He shook his head, almost in disbelief. “I don’t know how he knows all that. I’m not saying I believe his whole ‘Crown Prince’ story,” he added quickly, “but he’s not making things up either.”
You didn’t interrupt. Which only encouraged him more.
“And think about it,” Chan continued, a spark of excitement slipping through. “The director’s been complaining about historical accuracy this whole time. If Wonwoo stays—just for a bit—he could help. Like, actually help.”
A pause. Then, his expression shifted. Subtly. That familiar look. The one you knew too well.
“I think the director would love him,” Chan said, a small grin forming as he wiggled his brows.
There it was. You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Right,” you muttered.
Of course. Always thinking ahead. Always calculating.
Your gaze slid back to Wonwoo. He stood there in borrowed clothes, posture still too straight, too composed for someone in his situation. His eyes met yours briefly—steady, unreadable. Not desperate. Not defensive. Just… waiting. Like this conversation didn’t decide his place here. Like he already had one.
You looked away first. “…Fine,” you said finally, though your tone made it clear you weren’t convinced. “But if he causes any more problems—”
Your eyes snapped back to Chan. “He’s your responsibility.”
Chan didn’t hesitate. “Deal.” Too fast.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. Then turned toward the car again, pulling the door open. Behind you, Chan let out a breath of relief.
The car door shut with a dull thud.
You slid into the passenger seat without looking back, already reaching for your script. The pages were slightly crumpled at the edges—evidence of how many times you had gone over the same lines without getting them right.
Chan took the driver’s seat.
Wonwoo hesitated for a brief second before getting in.
The movement itself was unfamiliar to him—awkward in a controlled way, like he was carefully studying each step before committing to it. He lowered himself into the back seat slowly, his posture remaining far too straight for someone sitting in a car.
The door closed. A pause. Then the engine started. Wonwoo’s eyes shifted immediately.
The sound alone was enough to draw his full attention. Low. Mechanical. Alive in a way that made no sense. His gaze moved to the front, then to the sides, watching as the world outside began to move or rather as they moved through it.
His hand pressed lightly against the seat beneath him. Not wood. Not woven mat. Soft. Structured. Unfamiliar. His brows pulled together slightly. He did not speak. But it showed.
Chan noticed through the rearview mirror. “You okay back there?”
Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still fixed outside the window—buildings passing too quickly, people blurring into motion, everything shifting without warning.
“…What force moves this carriage?” he asked finally.
You didn’t look up from your script. “It’s a car,” you said flatly. “It runs on an engine.”
A pause. Then, without thinking, you added, “Modern transportation.”
Silence followed. Wonwoo absorbed the words, though the explanation clearly did not satisfy him. Still, he did not press further. Instead, he watched. Observed. Memorized.
You flipped a page. Your eyes scanned the lines again. The same line. The one you had failed. Again. Your grip tightened slightly around the paper. You inhaled. Then tried.
“…If Your Highness leaves, then what becomes of this kingdom—”
You stopped. The words felt wrong. Again. Flat. Disconnected. You exhaled sharply, leaning back against the seat.
“Say it with more emotion,” Chan said lightly, glancing at you. “You sound like you’re reading the news.”
“I know how it sounds,” you muttered.
Wonwoo’s gaze shifted. From the window to you.
He had been listening.
“…Your tone is incorrect,” he said.
You froze. Slowly, you turned your head. “I’m sorry?”
Wonwoo met your gaze without hesitation. “If you are addressing the Crown Prince,” he continued, calm and precise, “your words should not carry accusation.”
Chan blinked. You stared at him.
“…What?”
Wonwoo’s expression didn’t change. “In such a situation,” he went on, “your concern would be expressed with restraint. Not confrontation.”
He paused briefly, as if organizing his thoughts. “You would not question his decision so directly. It would be seen as overstepping.”
The car went quiet. Chan’s eyes flickered between the two of you through the mirror.
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh.
“…It’s a script.”
“Yes,” Wonwoo replied simply. “But it is inaccurate.”
That made something in you snap slightly. You turned fully in your seat now, facing him.
“Inaccurate?” you repeated. “Do you know how much research goes into this production?”
“I do not question your effort,” Wonwoo said. “Only the result.”
Chan let out a quiet, “Oh—” under his breath.
You ignored him.
“Then enlighten me,” you said, crossing your arms. “How should it be said?”
A brief pause.
Wonwoo held your gaze. Then he spoke.
“If the Crown Prince were to leave,” he said slowly, “you would first acknowledge his position.”
His tone shifted—subtle, but noticeable. More formal. Measured. Controlled.
“‘Your Highness,’” he began, voice lower now, "'I do not dare question your decision…’”
He paused, just slightly.
“…‘but if you depart, I fear for what will become of the people who depend on your protection.’”
Silence filled the car. Not heavy. But… different. You didn’t respond immediately. Because for the first time the line didn’t sound wrong. It sounded right. Natural. Like it belonged to something real.
Chan broke the silence first.
“…That’s actually better,” he said, almost impressed.
You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed on Wonwoo. Studying. Searching. Because that wasn’t just a correction. That was understanding. Detailed. Instinctive. And a little too precise to be guessed.
“…Where did you learn that?” you asked, quieter now.
Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. “I have lived it.” The answer came too easily. Too confident.
You held his gaze for a moment longer then looked away. “…Right,” you muttered, though your voice lacked the earlier bite.
But your fingers tightened slightly around the script. Because for the first time you weren’t entirely sure he was wrong.
The set was already alive when you arrived. Staff moving quickly. Equipment being reset. Voices overlapping in controlled chaos.
The moment you stepped in, a few heads turned. Not as many as before. But enough. You ignored it. Chan didn’t. He stepped forward immediately, already slipping into his professional tone.
“Director-nim,” he called, guiding Wonwoo slightly forward. “I brought someone who might be helpful for the production.”
The director turned, clearly not expecting that. His gaze moved from Chan, to you, then to Wonwoo.
A brief pause.
“…And this is?”
“Think of him as a historical consultant,” Chan said smoothly. “He’s been helping Y/n refine her understanding of Silla-era etiquette and dialogue.”
You shot Chan a look. Historical consultant? Really? Chan ignored you completely.
The director’s attention sharpened slightly, interest piqued.
“Oh?” he said, stepping closer. “That’s unexpected.”
His eyes studied Wonwoo more carefully now. “Your name?” A beat.
Wonwoo answered without hesitation.
“Jeon Wonwoo.”
Silence. Not heavy, but noticeable. The director blinked once. Then let out a short, surprised breath.
“…That’s funny.”
Chan frowned slightly. “What is?”
“The Crown Prince in the script,” the director said, glancing at you, then back at Wonwoo. “His name is Jeon Wonwoo.”
Another pause. Chan turned immediately.
“…Wait,” he said, looking between the two of you. “Isn’t his name just Prince Woo?”
Wonwoo’s gaze shifted to him. Calm. Certain. “Members of the royal family do not commonly use their full names,” he explained. “They are addressed by title or by the final syllable of their given name.”
He paused briefly.
“‘Wonwoo’ would be reserved for formal records or specific contexts.”
The director went still. Not confused. Not doubtful. Thinking. Then a slow smile formed.
“…That’s correct,” he said, almost to himself.
Chan blinked. “…Wait, seriously?”
The director didn’t answer him. His attention was fully on Wonwoo now. Interest, unmistakable. Then he turned to you.
“Well,” he said, a hint of approval slipping into his tone, “it seems you’ve been working harder than I thought.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Your fingers tightened slightly around your script. Because for once, that statement didn’t feel like pressure. It felt earned.
*
“Places!”
The call echoed across the set, cutting through the controlled chaos of preparation.
You took your mark. The weight of the hanbok settled over your shoulders again—heavy, layered, familiar. This time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt… grounding.
Across from you stood Choi San, already in position as the Crown Prince. He glanced at you briefly. Not questioning. But checking. You caught it. And for the first time today, you didn’t look away out of doubt. You held it. Just for a second. Then lowered your gaze, shifting fully into character.
Princess Seonhwa.
“Camera rolling!”
A beat.
“Action.”
The world narrowed.
Not gone—but quieter. Focused.bSan stepped forward first, his presence steady, measured in the way he had practiced countless times. And this time, you didn’t try to match him. You responded to him. You stepped forward. Slower. Controlled.
“Your Highness…”
Your voice came softer. Lower. Not flat. Not forced. Your gaze didn’t meet his directly—you let it fall just enough, holding the boundary between rank and emotion.
“I do not dare question your decision…”
You paused. Not because you forgot. But because you understood where the pause belonged.
San’s expression shifted—subtle, but real. He adjusted with you, reacting instead of leading. Good. That meant it was working.
“…but if you depart…”
Your breath caught slightly. Not exaggerated. Just enough.
“I fear for what will become of the people who depend on your protection.”
Silence followed. San didn’t interrupt it. Didn’t rush his next line. He held the moment with you. And that was new.
“Cut.”
The director’s voice came, but softer this time. No frustration. No edge.
You stayed in position for a second longer before slowly lifting your gaze. The set was quiet.
Then—
“…That’s it.”
The director nodded once, decisive. “That’s the tone. Keep that.”
A small wave of movement returned to the set, but the energy had shifted. Lighter. Certain. From the corner of your eye, you saw Chan practically deflate in relief.
“Told you…” he muttered under his breath, though it sounded more like he was telling himself.
San stepped slightly closer as the crew reset. “…That was different,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. Not accusing. Not surprised. Just… noticing.
You didn’t answer right away. Because your attention had already moved. Instinctively. Toward him.
Wonwoo stood just beyond the set, exactly where he had been before. Still. Unmoving. Watching. His expression hadn’t changed—but his gaze was fixed on you. Steady. Evaluating. Not impressed. Not surprised. Just acknowledging. As if this was what should have happened all along.
You held his gaze for a moment. Something quiet passed between you. Not gratitude. Not yet. But something closer to trust. You looked away first.
Behind the cameras, the director’s voice carried again, more energized now as he spoke with the crew. And somewhere in that movement, Wonwoo remained still. But no longer out of place.
*
Wonwoo remained where he was, slightly apart from the set. From this distance, he could observe without interruption. That, at least, was familiar.
He had always been taught to understand a situation before acting within it. The explanation Chan gave him the night before returned to him, though not all at once.
At the time, it had sounded inconsistent. A “different era.” A “future.” A world that had continued long after his own.
Wonwoo had not rejected it outright, but he had not accepted it either. There had been no immediate proof—only unfamiliar surroundings and unfamiliar behavior. But now, after seeing more of this place, he began to reconsider.
He compared what he knew to what he had observed so far. The structures around him did not resemble any region he had studied or encountered. The materials were different. The scale was different. The way people moved within the space—without strict hierarchy or visible order—also did not match any court or territory he knew.
If this were simply a distant land, there would still be some overlap. Language. Custom. Architecture. But here, the differences were too consistent across every detail. That made a single explanation more likely than the others.
Not a different place. A different time.
Wonwoo did not react outwardly to that thought. Instead, he continued observing. If this truly was a future era, then the people here would have knowledge of the past—of his time—but only in a limited, reconstructed form.
That aligned with what Chan had said about “movies.” Wonwoo tried to understand that concept again, more carefully this time.
A movie was described as a way to tell a story. Not through written text. Not through spoken narration alone. But through people acting out events, with the intention of capturing them so they could be seen again later.
“Recorded,” Chan had said. Wonwoo considered that word.
If something was recorded, it meant it no longer depended on memory. It could be repeated. Reviewed. Preserved beyond the moment it occurred. In that sense, it was not entirely unfamiliar.
Court performances had existed for similar purposes—ritual dances, reenactments, formal recitations of historical events. But those relied on memory and repetition.
This “recording” removed that limitation. It fixed the performance in place. That meant what he was watching now was not happening for the first time.
It was being created to be viewed again. Possibly many times.
His attention returned to the scene being rehearsed. The Crown Prince.
“Prince Woo,” they called him. Wonwoo noted the difference in naming, but did not dwell on it for long. Naming conventions could change over time.
What mattered more was the role itself. The man playing the Crown Prince was following a structure—lines, movements, expressions that had been decided in advance.
Not spontaneous. Not lived. Constructed. And yet, the people around him treated it seriously.
They adjusted lighting, positioning, timing—everything arranged to present the scene in a specific way.
Wonwoo watched this process carefully. If this was how the past was being represented in this era, then it was not a direct reflection. It was an interpretation.
That meant inaccuracies were possible. Expected, even.
Then his attention shifted to you. Princess Seonhwa. The name had stood out to him the moment he heard it. Not because of the script. But because it corresponded to something in his own life.
The marriage. He had been prepared for it. Not personally—there had been no need for personal attachment—but politically. Structurally. He knew her name. He knew the alliance it represented. He knew the timing.
That part of the story was not invented. It existed.
Wonwoo considered that carefully. If the story being performed here included real elements from his life, then the source of that information had to come from somewhere.
Records. Documents. Accounts passed down over time. But those sources would not be complete. They would contain gaps. Interpretations. Possibly errors.
Which meant, what he was watching could not be fully trusted. But it also could not be dismissed.
He adjusted his thinking slightly. Instead of asking whether this world was real. That question was no longer useful. He shifted to something more practical: What information here is accurate? What is assumed? And what has been changed?
His gaze returned briefly to the script in your hand. That, more than anything else, drew his attention now. Because if this “movie” was based on recorded knowledge of the past, then the script would be its foundation.
A structured version of events. Organized. Accessible. Something he could examine.
Wonwoo did not move toward you. Not yet. But the conclusion had already formed. If he wanted to understand this world and his place in it then he needed to understand how this world understood him.
And the closest source for that was not the people. Not Chan. Not the director. But the story they were trying to tell.
The director didn’t move on right away.
Instead, he lingered. His attention stayed on Wonwoo longer than necessary, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to something more deliberate.
“You said you’re familiar with Silla court structure,” he began, tone casual but probing. “How about the military?”
Chan straightened slightly beside you. “Oh, that’s good,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see…” You didn’t say anything. But your eyes flicked briefly toward Wonwoo. Watching.
Wonwoo did not hesitate. “I am.” The answer was simple. Direct.
The director nodded once, as if expecting that, then continued.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ve been trying to structure the Crown Prince’s authority over the army. There’s some debate about how much control he realistically had before ascending the throne.”
A pause. Then—
“What would you say?”
Wonwoo considered the question briefly. Not because he lacked the answer, but because he was adjusting it. Choosing what to say.
“The Crown Prince does not command the military directly,” he said. “Not in the way a reigning king does.”
The director’s brows lifted slightly. Wonwoo continued.
“However, he is not without influence. His authority depends largely on the trust of the commanding generals and his position within the court.”
He paused, then added more precisely, “in particular, the Hwarang and high-ranking military officials would play a significant role. Their loyalty is not given automatically. It is established over time.”
Chan blinked. “…Okay,” he murmured quietly.
The director nodded slowly. “That aligns with some records.” But he didn’t stop there. “What about structure?” he pressed. “Command hierarchy?”
Wonwoo answered without pause this time. “The central command is organized under appointed generals who oversee regional forces. Beneath them are officers responsible for smaller divisions. Communication flows upward, but decisions—particularly in times of conflict—can be delegated depending on circumstance.” He spoke clearly. Calmly. Like he wasn’t recalling information but describing something familiar. Lived.
The director’s expression sharpened. “Names?” he asked suddenly. A test. More specific. Harder to answer without preparation.
Wonwoo’s gaze shifted slightly. “General Kim Yushin,” he said first. “His influence over both military and court affairs is… difficult to overstate.”
The director nodded quickly. “That one we know.”
Wonwoo continued. “Alcheon,” he added. “Though less documented in some records, his position within the Hwarang and his role in internal security should not be overlooked.”
The director’s pen paused mid-note. “…Alcheon?”
Wonwoo didn’t react to the surprise. “There are others whose names may not appear consistently,” he went on. “Commanders who held temporary authority during specific campaigns. Their contributions are often omitted in formal records, particularly if they did not remain in favor.”
Silence followed that. Not confusion. Not disbelief. Something else.
The director slowly lowered his pen.
“…Where did you learn that?” he asked. This time, the question wasn’t casual. It was careful.
Chan glanced at you. You didn’t look back.
Wonwoo answered the same way he had before. “I was present.” The words were steady. Unchanged.
No one spoke immediately. The director studied him for a moment longer. Not dismissing him. Not accepting the answer fully either. But reconsidering.
“You’re either,” the director said slowly, “extremely well-prepared…” A small pause. “…or very convincing.”
Chan let out a small, awkward laugh. “We’ll go with prepared, right?”
The director turned slightly, pacing once as if organizing his thoughts. Then he looked back at Wonwoo.
“…If what you’re saying is even partially accurate,” he said, “then we’ve been simplifying too much.”
He glanced toward you.
“Which explains why the dialogue hasn’t been landing properly.”
You felt that. But you didn’t react.
The director made a quick decision.
“You,” he said, pointing lightly at Wonwoo, “stay close during rehearsals.”
Chan’s head snapped up. “Wait—really?”
“I’m not rewriting the entire script based on one conversation,” the director added quickly. “But if he can point out inconsistencies—”
He looked at Wonwoo again. “—we’ll use it.”
Chan broke into a grin. “Oh, this is good,” he said under his breath.
You exhaled quietly. Not annoyed. Not convinced. But processing.
Wonwoo remained still.
But his attention had already moved forward. If their understanding of his world was incomplete then this “movie” would reflect that. Which meant it could be corrected. Not entirely. But enough. And for now, that was sufficient.
*
The space had grown quieter as the night deepened. Wonwoo noticed it gradually.
Not all at once—but in the way the distant sounds thinned, the movement outside lessened, and the rhythm of the room settled into something slower. This world never truly stilled, but compared to the hours before, it was… restrained.
He remained seated across from you. He had learned not to move unnecessarily in this place. Movement drew attention. Attention invited questions. Questions, in this world, often required answers he could not yet frame in a way they would accept.
So instead, he observed.
You had been repeating the same line for some time now. Wonwoo had noticed the pattern before he understood the purpose. Your voice would begin steadily, then falter. You would stop, adjust something on the paper with the object Chan had called a “pen,” then begin again. Each repetition carried a slight variation, as if you were searching—not for the words themselves—but for the correct way to deliver them.
Wonwoo’s gaze shifted more deliberately to the script in your hand.
He had been listening. Not to interrupt, but to understand. Yet the more he listened, the more the inconsistency became difficult to ignore.
“Is there a reason for her to dwell on his departure?”
He spoke without raising his voice, but the question cut cleanly through your repetition. You paused. The movement of your hand stilled. Then you looked at him. There was something in your expression—fatigue, perhaps. Or restraint. He had not yet determined which.
“…What?” you asked.
“Princess Seonhwa,” he clarified, maintaining the same tone. “Why does she grieve so heavily when the Crown Prince leaves?”
Wonwoo watched you carefully as he spoke. Not just your reaction, but the timing of it. The shift in your posture. The way your attention moved from the script to him. You exhaled, leaning back slightly.
“Didn’t I tell you?” you said. “Because she’s worried.”
He nodded once. He remembered. But remembering did not resolve the issue.
“That is insufficient.” He saw the change immediately.
A slight tightening in your expression. Not surprise—more like resistance. “…Insufficient?” you repeated.
Wonwoo did not adjust his tone. “Their marriage was not formed from personal attachment,” he explained. “It was established for political alignment.”
He gestured subtly toward the script. “If that is the case, then such a display of emotion is disproportionate.”
He expected disagreement. He did not expect the reasoning to change.
You sat up slightly now, your attention fully on him. “It’s not a historical record,” you said. “It’s a story.”
Wonwoo considered that. A story. He had heard the term multiple times since arriving here. It seemed to allow for alteration—adjustment—something less rigid than recorded history. But even then, “the foundation remains the same,” he replied. “Otherwise, it loses consistency.”
You responded more firmly this time. “Princess Seonhwa loves her husband.”
Wonwoo paused. Not because the statement was difficult, but because it required evaluation. Love. He understood the concept. But understanding was not the same as accepting its likelihood.
“It is unlikely,” he said. The words came without hesitation. He watched your reaction closely.
There. A brief stillness. Not agreement. But disruption. He continued, more precisely this time.
“Royal upbringing does not prioritize emotional attachment. It prioritizes discipline, duty, and continuity. Affection is not cultivated as a necessity.”
As he spoke, something shifted internally. Not doubt. But awareness. That his explanation, while logical, did not align with what you were trying to achieve. Still, he did not retract it.
You placed the script down. The motion was controlled, but deliberate enough to signal a change in direction.
“Be honest with me,” you said.
Wonwoo met your gaze without hesitation.
“You’ve been delusional.”
He repeated the word silently. Delusional. He understood its definition. But its application was incorrect.
“Delusional?” he asked.
You explained it, though with less patience than before. He listened. Then responded.
“I understand the meaning. I do not agree with its application.”
Your reaction was immediate. Predictable. Dismissal. Wonwoo observed it without responding to the tone itself. Instead, he focused on the structure of your reasoning.
“You might fool Chan,” you said, “but you’re not fooling me, Jeon Wonwoo.” There again, his name used incorrectly.
“It is ‘Prince Woo,’” he corrected.
“I don’t care.”
Wonwoo did not respond to that. Instead, he shifted his focus. Not to the title, but to the core issue.
“Why do you not believe me?” he asked.
You answered quickly. “Because no one would.”
Wonwoo analyzed that. It was not evidence-based. It relied on assumption.
Collective agreement.
“That is not a reason,” he said.
“It’s the only one that matters.”
Wonwoo held your gaze. There was a flaw in that logic. But correcting it directly would not change your position.
So he adjusted.
“If I can prove it,” he said, “will you believe me?”
You did not dismiss the question immediately. That was… notable.
“It depends,” you said.
“On what?”
“Show me something real.”
Wonwoo registered the shift. You were no longer rejecting the possibility outright. You were setting conditions.
“Show me that you’re actually a Crown Prince.”
He answered truthfully. “I am.”
Your reaction suggested that truth alone held no value here. “Not here, you’re not.”
That was correct. Context mattered.
“Then where?” you asked.
“Silla.”
“That’s in the past.”
“Yes.”
“I am from there.” Wonwoo did not waver. Because from his perspective—
there was nothing to waver from. You watched him for several seconds. Longer than before. Evaluating. Searching. He did not interrupt that process. If belief required observation, then he would allow it. Eventually, you leaned back. Dismissal returned.
“And I’m the President of South Korea.”
*
You were on your knees. Your hands were tied behind your back, the rope rough against your skin, pulling tighter every time you shifted even slightly. Your neck was pressed forward against the wooden frame—solid, unmoving, far heavier than any prop you remembered working with before.
This was the scene. The persecution. The climax of the entire film—Princess Seonhwa’s end.
The atmosphere on set had been tense since morning. Colder than usual. Not just because of the scene, but because everyone knew what it meant. This was your moment. The moment that would either silence everything being said about you or confirm it. And yet, you had improved. Noticeably. No one said it out loud, but you felt it in the way people looked at you now. Less doubt. More attention.
“In position, everyone…” The call echoed across the set.
You inhaled slowly. Your lungs filled, then held. You grounded yourself in the moment. The rope. The weight. The cold. Everything. You were ready. Everyone was.
The set was complete. Extras stood in place, dressed as citizens, officials, guards—each one playing their role, forming the world around Princess Seonhwa as she faced her execution. Their gazes were fixed on you, expressions carefully arranged to match the tone of the scene. Watching. Waiting.
“Action!”
“Your Highness—!” Your voice tore through the space, raw and unrestrained. You didn’t think. You didn’t act. You became.
You called out his name—not as a line, not as a cue—but as if someone had been taken from you unfairly. As if something had been decided without your consent.
“This is unjust—!” Your voice cracked. Not perfectly. Not beautifully. But real.
Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t wipe them away. Your body leaned forward instinctively, straining against the rope as if you could break free from it.
The wood dug deeper into your neck. Too real. Too solid. But you didn’t stop. You cried. You pleaded. You let the desperation sit in your chest and spill out without holding it back. Today you were not Y/n but Princess Seonhwa.
And slowly the set grew quiet. Too quiet. At first, you didn’t notice. Because the emotion was still there, pushing you forward, keeping you inside the moment. But then, something felt wrong.
No footsteps. No shifting equipment. No quiet whispers from the crew. No instructions. Even the director hadn’t called the cut. Your voice began to falter.
Just slightly. Not enough to break the scene. But enough for you to notice.
Why hasn’t he stopped it?
You continued anyway. Because stopping felt worse. Because stopping meant breaking whatever this was.
“…Your Highness…”
Your voice softened, trembling now—not just from emotion. From something else. The air felt different. Colder. Sharper against your skin. A faint sound reached you. Not from behind the cameras. From behind you. A murmur. Low. Uncontrolled.
You froze for half a second. Then forced yourself to continue. Stay in it. Stay in character.
“…even if I must die—”
Your breath caught. Because that line… you didn’t remember saying it like that before.
The murmurs grew louder. Not coordinated. Not directed.
“Traitor’s wife…”
Your body went still. That wasn’t part of the script. Your eyes shifted. Slowly. Carefully.
The extras weren’t standing where they should be. They weren’t holding positions. They weren’t waiting for cues.
They were moving. Whispering to one another. Looking at you, not as an actress. But as—
Your stomach dropped. Your hands flexed instinctively. The rope burned against your wrists. Not controlled. Not safe. Your breathing became uneven.
No.
You looked forward again quickly, trying to ground yourself. Trying to find something familiar. Anything. The camera. The director. The crew. There was nothing. Your chest tightened. Your voice came out quieter this time.
“…Why… hasn’t anyone called cut?”
No answer. Only the wind. Real wind. It moved through your hair, through your sleeves uncontrolled, uneven, carrying with it a chill that seeped into your skin. Your eyes darted to the side. The set— wasn’t a set.
The structures were deeper. The colors were less artificial. The space was wider than it should have been. Your heart began to pound. Louder. Faster. Drowning everything else.
“…This isn’t—” Your voice broke.
A presence shifted near you. Close. Heavy. Authoritative.
You turned slowly. A man stood there. Dressed in royal robes. Gold threaded through dark fabric, layered with a weight that did not belong to costume design. His posture was rigid, unmoving—not posed, but natural. His presence alone pressed into the space, commanding it without effort.
Not an actor. Not Lee Byung-hun. Your breath hitched. Because this man did not resemble the actor playing King Yeok. He was one.
His gaze did not land on you with performance. There was no softness in it. No awareness of cameras. No hesitation. Only judgment.
“We’re not releasing her,” he said.
His voice carried, not loud, but absolute. The kind that didn’t need to be raised to be obeyed.
“Not until Prince Woo presents himself.”
And whatever you had just done. Whatever line you crossed, you couldn’t undo it.
⚜️ pairing: rival!seungcheol x fem!reader
⚜️ genre/content: assassins, rivals, kind of mafia vibes
⚜️ warnings: implied choking, brief descriptions of injuries on the face
⚜️ summary: despite your rivalry, seungcheol wants to know who has hurt you
⚜️ word count: 750
⚜️ a/n: omg i've had this in my drafts for MONTHS and while losing inspiration for other wip, i came across this and somehow wrote this in 30 minutes. i hope you enjoy! this is truly one of my favorite tropes #whodidthistoyou
“Who did this to you?” he whispers.
You can’t look at him. Despite your hatred for one another, you know him like the back of your hand. And he knows you. He will know the second he looks into your eyes.
He will know.
And you have to protect him.
You shake your head, trying to will the tears pooling at the bottom of your eyes away, staring down at your bruised and cut-up hands.
Seungcheol’s hand moves to your knee, the pressure spreading warmth throughout your body.
He’s kneeling in front of you now.
“I can’t. I can’t tell you.” Seungcheol sees something, but he needs you to turn your head towards him to be sure.
“Tell me. I can protect you.” He tries to cup your face in his hands, but you forcefully turn your chin away.
“No, no, I can’t-”
“Please let me help you.”
“I swear on my life, I cannot let you get involved.”
Seungcheol sighs and stands in front of you. He takes your arm in his hand, cradling your wrist gently where the bruise of a handprint remains etched into your skin.
“Please look at me,” he whispers.
“I can’t let them hurt you like this, too.”
“Who? Who will hurt me?” he pleads.
When you don’t answer, Seungcheol pads over to the adjoining bathroom and wets a towel with hot water.
“You have a cut on your lip, will you let me clean it up?” he asks gently.
You’re battling internal demons. You want to accept his help, but doing so will put his life in jeopardy. If what you went through is proof enough, they will kill him. You’ve spent the past six years of your life training to be the most skilled assassin. Choi Seungcheol is the only rival assassin who has managed to stay one step ahead of you. All you’ve wanted was to beat him. But with what you know now, you don’t want anyone else getting hurt.
“I should go,” you say quietly, making to stand, but a sharp pain shoots from your side and you fall back on the bed. Not before Seungcheol catches you by the waist.
“I am not leaving you. Please trust me.”
You haven’t let go of his arm, and he hasn’t let go of you.
“Let me help you.”
You slowly lift your head to look him in the eye.
One look.
Seungcheol sees it. He knows. Just like you knew he would. His jaw clenches.
He was right. The brief mark he saw on your neck was just a small part of a large handprint around your throat.
Gently, he lifts your chin with your thumb to inspect the handprint some more, and his suspicions are correct. Right below your jawline, there is the imprint of a family crest he knows all too well. Two lions facing each other, in between them a shield with one star in the middle- a symbol for the eldest son of the family.
This was your family’s crest.
Your older brother did this to you. He left you there in the woods, half dead.
Seungcheol can’t let this slide. You see the flash of pure anger in his eyes.
“Seungcheol, please, no.”
His eyes flit up to your face, taking in the other injuries on your face. The bruise on your cheekbone. The black eye. The bloody nose.
Your brother wanted to kill you.
Seungcheol might see you as his enemy, as someone he has wanted to beat in this hunting game.
But he would never do this to you. To anyone from his own family. He would never torture anyone like this.
“I’m sorry.”
“Seungcheol, please, I can’t lose you. Please.” You’re crying now, gripping onto his forearm with both hands.
“Please don’t leave me alone.”
Despite the years of rivalry, you don’t hesitate to trust Seungcheol to lift your weak body in his arms and carry you to the bathroom. He helps you take off your bloody clothes, stands outside the shower, waiting for you to finish scrubbing yourself clean. He dresses all your wounds himself, only faltering when it comes time to press a hot compress to your throat.
He watches you fall asleep, nestled under the covers, your hand in his, gently stroking it with his thumb.
When he’s positive you’re asleep, he quietly walks out to the balcony and pulls out the burner phone he keeps hidden in his left sock.
genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))
word count: 25k, deadass.
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warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.
You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.
He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.
You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.
You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.
Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.
Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”
He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.
“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”
You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you.
By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.
You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.
Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.
A shoulder bumps into his.
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”
Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.
══════════════════
Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.
Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.
He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.
You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway?
“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”
He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”
“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”
“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”
Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.
“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”
He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”
“Yeah, you got it.”
Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.
“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”
A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.
“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”
The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.
“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”
“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”
You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”
Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.
“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”
“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”
Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”
Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.
“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”
You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.
══════════════════
True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.
At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.
You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.
It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.
You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”
You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”
“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”
Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”
“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”
Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”
Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”
The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.
“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.
“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”
You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.
“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”
Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”
“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”
“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”
“I’m serious, Mingi.”
“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”
You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.
As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.
Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?
══════════════════
You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.
At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”
You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”
He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”
The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.
“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”
For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for.
“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”
“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”
He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”
A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”
“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.
You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”
“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”
“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.
“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”
As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.
“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.
Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.
“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”
His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.
“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.
You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”
Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.
“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.
“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”
He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”
The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.
“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”
Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”
You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.
“You don’t have practice on Friday?”
“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”
As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”
You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.
“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”
“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”
He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”
You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”
“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.
His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.
You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.
As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.
Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”
“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”
Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”
You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.
“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.
As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.
══════════════════
The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.
You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”
“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.
“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”
Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”
You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”
His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”
The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.
“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.
Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.
“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.
His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“
“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.
The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.
“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”
He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”
“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”
You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.
“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”
“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”
You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”
“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”
“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”
His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”
“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”
“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”
The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.
“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”
“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.
“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”
The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.
══════════════════
As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.
“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.
“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.
He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.
The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?
You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.
His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.
You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.
“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.
“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”
You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.
I will, doll. Thank you.
On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.
When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.
“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.
“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.
“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”
You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”
“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.
“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”
You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”
“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”
When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.
“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.
“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”
He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”
“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”
“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”
“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”
His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”
“Mingi—”
“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”
You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope.
“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”
His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”
As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled.
Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.
“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”
“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”
You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”
“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”
“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.
“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”
══════════════════
On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.
“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”
You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”
Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.
“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”
You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.
“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.
She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”
You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.
You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.
“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.
You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.
You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.
You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.
He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.
You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.
The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”
You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.
The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.
“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”
You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”
“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.
“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.
“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.
“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.
You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”
“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”
The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.
“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”
Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”
“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.
“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”
You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”
Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.
“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”
Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.
The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.
After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”
You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”
He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.
“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”
“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.
You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.
“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”
He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”
You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.”
Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”
His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.
“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”
That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”
You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”
And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance.
“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”
“In your dreams.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.
“You just did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”
You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”
“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”
“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”
He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”
Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”
“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.
You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”
He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”
“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”
“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”
“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You freeze. “I do not—”
“You do,”
You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.
“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.
“Is it, doll?”
There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.
“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”
The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.
“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.
He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—
“Yo! Mingi!”
The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.
“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”
Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”
Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”
You hesitate. And Mingi notices.
His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”
You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.
“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”
His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”
“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”
“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.”
There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.
“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.
“I will.”
You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.
Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.
Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”
You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”
“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.
“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”
“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”
“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”
“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”
“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”
You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“
“Like what?” she prompts.
“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”
“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.
“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”
“That sounds like a start.”
You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”
You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”
“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”
“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”
You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.
The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?
Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?
Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.
She grins. “See? Not ruined.”
You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.
His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”
“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”
You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.
══════════════════
Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.
“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?
Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.
“Still nothing?”
You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”
“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”
“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”
“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”
You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”
Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.
“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”
“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.
After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Just ice cream, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”
“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.
Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.
“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”
You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.
He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”
The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.
“I got scared,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “Of me?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The plan?” he echoes.
“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.
The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.
Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.
“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.
The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.
“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”
You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”
The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”
That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.
“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”
Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.
“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”
The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”
“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”
Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.
You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.
“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.
“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”
You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips. “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”
“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.
“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”
You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”
The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.
“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”
He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”
“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”
“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“
“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”
You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.
“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”
There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.
“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”
“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.
“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”
You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy.
A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.
“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.
You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.
Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.
══════════════════
The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.
It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.
Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”
“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”
“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.
Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.
“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”
You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”
“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”
Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.
One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.
“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk.
Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.
Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”
His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”
The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.
Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.
You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.
You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.
“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.
You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.
That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.
The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.
“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”
“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”
As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.
══════════════════
The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.
“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”
You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”
“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”
You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”
He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”
“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“
“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”
“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”
Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.
The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.
When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.
“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.
“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”
“See? I told you.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”
Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.
Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.
Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.
“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“
His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”
Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist.
“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“
“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”
You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”
The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.
“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.
“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”
You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”
The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.
As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.
“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”
“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”
“Good surprised?”
“Very good surprised.”
He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.
“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.
“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”
By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.
“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“
“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.
Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”
You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.
“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”
“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”
“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”
The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.
Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.
“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.
“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.
You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”
“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.
“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.
He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”
The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.
The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.
“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”
“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”
“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”
The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”
He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”
“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”
You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”
The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere, “I know.”
The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.
“Of course.”
“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”
You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”
He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”
“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”
His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”
“Really? That early?”
He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”
As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.
“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”
“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.
He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”
“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.
Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”
There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.
You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.
Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.
“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”
He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.
The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.
“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.
His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”
In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.
“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.
The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.
“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.
His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.”
══════════════════
When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.
His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.
“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”
He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”
“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.
“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”
You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.
His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.
“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”
The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.
“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.
Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.
You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?
You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.
“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.
He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”
He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”
You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.
“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”
You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.
You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists.
“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.
“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”
Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.
“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows.
You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“
He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.
“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.
“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“
“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.
“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”
You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.
When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.
Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.
“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“
You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.
You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing
He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“
Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.
You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face
“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.
“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.”
The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.
You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.
“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.”
He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”
You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.
You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you.
“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”
You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”
He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.
You decide he’s earned it.
“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”
The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.
All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.
Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”
Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold.
“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.
His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.”
You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.
“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”
“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue.
His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”
“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.
“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.
He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”
You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.
“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.
His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.
“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.
“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.
“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.
With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.
“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”
You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“
He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.
You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name.
“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“
“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”
“Yesyesyes—fuck!”
The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.
“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”
He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.
You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.
Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.
“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”
He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin.
You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.
The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.
“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.
“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”
You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”
“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.
“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.
“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”
Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”
You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”
“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.
His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”
“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.
“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”
He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.
═══════════════════
Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?
Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.
Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.
When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”
“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”
You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”
“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”
You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.
“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”
You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:
According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?
It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.
“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”
The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.
“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”
“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.
Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.
|genre: ex-husband! mingi. ex-wife! reader. angst.
|mentions: divorce (mingi and reader). accident. temporary amnesia. seonghwa appearance in this. it mentions a lot of rain-- aftermath of the rain.
summary: After a tragic accident, Mingi's life inexplicably rewinds six years into the past. Believing he is still living in those days, he calls out to you—his ex-wife—convinced that you're still by his side as his partner.
word count: 19.8k
Your days dragged like a snail navigating barbed wire—slow, agonizingly slow and painfully. Each moment felt stretched thin, a painful reminder of the life you used to know.
Placing your bag down on the couch as you make your way towards the kitchen and pull out the wine from the cabinet. Taking your favorite glass as you returned back to the living room.
Time had lost its meaning, blending one day into the next like an endless gray fog. Tonight was no different. You found yourself perched on the windowsill, a half-filled wine glass balanced between your fingers. The city outside pulsed with its usual rhythm—lights flickering on and off in distant buildings, traffic lights cycling from green to yellow to red and back again. It was all so mindlessly repetitive, yet you sat there, watching as if the monotony might somehow offer solace.
But it never did.
Your eyes, hollow and unfocused, stayed fixed on the scene outside as you took another slow sip. The wine, bitter and stale, barely registered on your tongue. This nightly ritual had become an empty habit—a way to pass the hours until sleep claimed you. Most nights, you didn’t even finish the glass before slipping into bed, leaving it abandoned on the windowsill like an afterthought.
Tonight was no exception. With a sigh that felt heavy in your chest, downing the last bits of your wine before you stood and shuffled to the kitchen. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet as you rinsed the glass, the coldness of the tap biting at your fingertips. It was only as you placed it on the drying rack that you heard it—the shrill, invasive ring of your phone coming from the bedroom.
Your head snapped toward the sound, your brows knitting together in faint confusion. Phone calls this late were rare, and never good. Reminding you of what happened six years ago. A simple sigh, still, you dried your hands on your pants as you made your way to the nightstand. Titling your head to read the caller.
Unknown number.
Your stomach twisted, a subtle unease creeping into your chest. With a hesitant swipe, you answered, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hello?"
Your voice sounded foreign to you—raspy, unused, and weary.
"Is this Mrs. Song?"
The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you froze, the air in your lungs turning cold. You blink several times, clearing your throat in the process. "You must have the wrong number," you said quickly, your voice tight. "Look, I’m not in the mood—"
"Is this number 010242018?"
A chill ran down your spine. Your heart stuttered, then picked up in an erratic rhythm. "Yes... Yes, that’s my number. Who is this?" There was a pause, a moment heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—comforting, desperate, yet utterly unsettling.
"I’m sorry for the sudden call, ma’am, but we’d like to formally address this at Medic Hospital."
Your breath caught. The glassy haze of your evening shattered as your mind raced. "What? What happened? Who’s hurt?"
"One of our patients woke up just today and is asking for you. They gave us your name and number."
For a brief moment, you considered ending the call—brushing it off as a mistake or a cruel prank. But something in the caller’s tone, in the way your name had been spoken, compelled you to stay on the line.
"Who is it?" Your voice wavered, your grip on the phone tightening.
The answer came, cutting through the air like a blade, regret washes over you as soon as you heard who it was.
"Song Mingi. He said you’re his wife."
The words slammed into you, knocking the breath from your chest. Your knees felt weak, your stomach churning as if the ground had fallen out from under you. The name that haunted your dreams, the one that turned your days into an endless loop of heartbreak, was suddenly back—alive and demanding your attention.
And just like that, the numbness shattered, leaving only the raw ache of everything you had lost.
You could have told the caller that you were no longer his wife—ex-wife, to be precise. That he had remarried and moved on, leaving behind the pieces of what once was. It would have been easier, cleaner—a way to shield yourself from the storm of heartbreak you knew was waiting to engulf you.
You could have told them to call someone else his best friend since middle school, or band mates, his family—anyone who had more right than you to be by his side now.
But you didn’t.
Somewhere between the logical protests of your mind and the aching emptiness in your chest, your body betrayed you. Your feet moved, your heart thudded, and your brain chose silence over sense. Before you knew it, you were standing at the hospital’s reception desk, a name on your lips that felt foreign and bitter, like a taste you hadn’t revisited in years.
“Song Mingi,” you murmured, the syllables trembling as if they carried the weight of every sleepless night and unspoken thought. The name that brought has opened so many wounds that you have soullessly stitched back, how many times you closed your eyes and his crescent smile appeared before you, and the amount of tears you’ve cried silently that night he decided to step out of the door. Without looking back.
The nurse at the desk looked up, her face a mixture of concern and relief. She exchanged a glance with the doctor beside her before both of them rose to meet you.
“Mrs. Song…”
The title hit you like a knife, sharp and precise, cutting through whatever composure you had managed to muster. You raised a hand quickly, shaking your head as if to ward off the name. “No. No, that’s not me. I’m just… I’m just a friend.” The words felt heavy, a weak shield against the truth pressing against your ribs. “Call me Tulip.”
The nurse’s brows furrowed, glancing at the doctor as if silently questioning your response. But she didn’t pry. Instead, she nodded and gestured for you to follow.
“Let’s discuss the situation in my office, Miss Tulip,” she said, her voice calm and professional.
You followed her through the sterile hallways, your pulse pounding in your ears with every step. The name you’d chosen—Tulip—felt like a flimsy mask, a desperate attempt to separate the person you were now from the woman you had been when the name Mrs. Song was yours.
But no matter how hard you tried, the memories surged forward.
Each step toward the nurse’s office felt heavier, as if the weight of the past was dragging you down. And yet, some stubborn part of you carried on, pushing through the pain, the questions, and the overwhelming sense of dread.
Because no matter how much it hurt, you had to know.
“…So, he’s suffering from retrograde amnesia due to the impact on his brain, and his memory only stretches back to six years ago?” you repeated, your voice strained with disbelief.
The doctor nodded, adjusting her computer screen to show you the MRI results alongside the CT scan evaluation. The bright, clinical display only deepened the pit forming in your stomach.
“What about his…” The words clawed at your throat, desperate to escape yet refusing to form. Your lips parted, trembling as if even uttering the phrase would break you further. The doctor, noticing your visible struggle, finished the sentence for you, her tone gentle but firm, “His wife is still unconscious. There’s no telling when—or if—she will wake up, unlike Mr. Song.”
The room felt like it had shifted, tilting slightly, leaving you grasping for something to steady yourself. That word—wife—hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. You blinked rapidly, your throat tightening as you tried to suppress the surge of emotions rising within you.
“I see,” you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and barely audible. The phrase was hollow, void of meaning, as if saying it would distance you from the gravity of the situation.
The doctor continued to watch you carefully, her face a mask of professional composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy. But no amount of sympathy could soften the blow or untangle the knots forming in your chest. Unconscious. His wife. You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of those words lingering on your tongue, a cruel reminder of the distance between what once was and what could never be again.
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your forehead as the weight of the situation bore down on you. “Do his parents know about this…” You waved your hand in a circular motion, grasping for the right word. “…mess?”
The doctor let out a weary sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Yes. His parents are fully aware. They’ve asked if it would aid Mr. Song’s recovery to stay with someone familiar—someone who might help stabilize his sense of self until his memory returns.”
Your brow furrowed, and you crossed your arms, a clear ‘what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me’ expression etched on your face. Silence filled the room, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights.
The doctor took another measured breath, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk. Her eyes met yours with a seriousness that made your chest tighten. “While it’s true that his memory loss is temporary, there’s something else you need to know.”
The pause stretched uncomfortably long, and you felt the air shift—the kind of moment where you instinctively knew what was coming but still prayed you were wrong.
“He could stay with his family, it is every patient's right to choose and that would be more than enough for his recovery,” she continued, her tone careful. “But Mr. Song…” She hesitated, as though the next words would solidify an irreversible reality. “…has specifically requested to stay with you. He acknowledges his parents but insists that he needs you. His wife.”
Your heart lurched violently at the word, an invisible dagger twisting in a wound you’d spent years trying to heal.
“No,” you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady. You clenched your fists, knuckles whitening as you tried to ground yourself. “That’s a mistake. He…he knows I’m not…” You trailed off, the word wife too bitter to say out loud.
The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver. “To him, you still are. His memory hasn’t reached the point where he remembers anything beyond that.”
You felt like the walls were closing in, the carefully constructed defenses around your heart beginning to crumble. The reality of his condition pressed against your chest, suffocating, as the doctor’s words echoed in your mind.
‘He still thinks I’m his wife.’
A low groan escaped your lips as your hands tangled in your hair, the frustration clawing its way to the surface. You had every right to feel this way. Six years ago, life had been entirely different. Six years ago, you and Mingi were a newly married couple, barely a month into your union. It was the first year of 2019, and you both believed tying the knot of a new year would make it all the more special—a symbolic start to a lifetime of shared milestones and growing together.
The memories came rushing back, unbidden and relentless. The dates that turned into adventures, the quiet evenings spent in each other's arms, and the tender, intimate moments that spoke of love deeper than words could ever convey. All of it played out like scenes from a movie you couldn't pause, set within the walls of the house he bought for both of you—a house meant to hold your dreams, your laughter, and your forever.
Now, here you were, forced to relive it all, the continuation of your adventure begins on the month of your marriage and throughout the years left such significant memories to the both of you. Every moment, every memory, was like a jagged shard piercing through the fragile layers of healing you'd painstakingly built over the years. The metaphorical scab that had formed over your wound was being peeled away, piece by agonizing piece, leaving the pain raw and exposed once more.
Your chest tightened as the weight of it bore down on you. How could something so beautiful, so filled with love, now feel like a ghost haunting you with the echoes of what you’d lost?
DAY 1:
The door clicked shut behind you as you stepped inside your small apartment, your movements heavy, like an anchor tied to your ankle. You flipped on the lights, the soft glow illuminating the modest yet warm space. Stepping aside, you gestured Mingi in, giving him room to take in his surroundings.
He lingered in the entryway, his eyes darting around the room. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he noted the simplicity of it all—cozy, unassuming, you. Yet, beneath the surface, his heart twisted, a subtle ache he couldn’t place.
“It’s… nice,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. His steps faltered when he realized what was missing. The walls were bare, the shelves sparsely decorated. No framed pictures of you and him. Not a single trace of the life you had built together.
His heart sank, and a small pout formed on his lips. “Did we move?” His voice carried a hint of sadness, as though the realization was too heavy to mask. You froze for a moment, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. Turning to face him, you forced a casual smile. “Yeah,” you lied smoothly, though your voice wavered slightly. “Yeah, we did. Work, you know? I had to relocate to be closer to the office. I’m still… in the process of unpacking.”
His brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he simply nodded, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his face. “Oh… okay.”
The weight of his gaze followed you as you busied yourself preparing a snack. It wasn’t just the lie that gnawed at you—it was the memories. The house he had bought for both of you, the home that once felt like a sanctuary, now a distant, painful echo of what could have been.
Placing the snacks on the table, you glanced at him. He sat on the couch, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his fingers grazing the armrest absentmindedly. It was as if he was searching for a comfort he couldn’t find. You sat across from him, handing him a glass of water. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending a familiar warmth through your skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quiet yet sincere.
“Don’t mention it,” you replied, your tone light, masking the storm raging inside you. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, searching for answers you weren’t ready to give.You focused on the small moment—sharing a quiet snack, pretending the weight of the past wasn’t suffocating both of you. It was all you could do to hold it together.
A thought hit you like a freight train once you offered to clean up (even though Mingi insisted). You only had a week. A week to help him recover, to guide him through this fragile state. After that, if it felt too much on your plate, his family would step in, as they had promised during that difficult phone call. They had been kind, their gratitude genuine, despite the invisible scars you bore from the past.
The understanding that this arrangement was temporary didn’t bring relief. It only deepened the ache in your chest.
That night marked the beginning of something fragile and undefined—day one.
You had already marinated some pork earlier, intending to have your usual samgyeopsal for dinner, the plans for yourself were last minute change on the sudden changes of event. But knowing how your landlord frowned upon cooking indoors, you decided to take everything up to the rooftop. The cool evening air would help clear your head, or so you hoped.
Mingi, ever the helpful presence, joined you in setting up. His broad hands moved with a quiet purpose as he arranged the small table and chairs beneath the soft glow of the hanging orange bulbs strung across the rooftop. The lights swayed gently in the night breeze, casting warm shadows across the space.
You took charge of the grill, laying strips of marinated pork neatly across the metal grate. Now, the pork sizzled on the grill as you placed the strips carefully next to each other. The faint crackle of fat meeting flame broke the silence, and you used a hand fan to coax the fire higher, the smell of smoky marinade already making your stomach grumble.
Behind you, Mingi moved with quiet determination. You heard the faint click of a portable speaker, and a soft melody filled the air, one that sent a shiver down your spine. It was that song. The notes carried a haunting familiarity, weaving through the moment like a thread tying you both to a time when things were simpler, happier. Your breath hitched, and for a second, the world felt suspended.
Before you could turn around to glance at Mingi, warmth enveloped you—a strong arm wrapping securely around your waist. Your heart skipped a beat as his touch pulled you back into the present.
“Careful,” Mingi murmured, his voice low and steady, as though grounding you. He was close enough that you felt the faint rumble of his words against your back. His other hand lightly grasped your wrist, stilling the fan in your hand. Your mind is clawing at you as the thought of you have to share some dinners with Mingi, cook breakfast with him— and most painfully of all, to reminisce some memories with him.
You froze, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest like a vice. The music played on, and instinctively, he began to sway, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. It was a move from the past—a small, almost imperceptible dance you once shared under different circumstances. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before.
And just like that, the melody pulled you back—back to a morning that now felt like another lifetime.
You could almost see it, the hazy sunlight spilling through the kitchen window, warm against the wooden floor. The smell of fresh coffee and burnt toast lingered in the air, remnants of an overly ambitious breakfast attempt.
Mingi had been there, standing behind you as you flipped pancakes with clumsy precision. The ache of the night before still lingered in your muscles, and in between your legs—a pleasant reminder of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. His arms had wrapped around your waist then, too, steadying you as you nearly dropped the spatula.
“You’re gonna burn them if you keep flipping like that,” he teased, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“And you’re distracting me,” you’d replied, though there was no bite to your words. Instead, you let yourself lean into him, the rise and fall of his chest against your back grounding you. When he swayed you gently in the kitchen, humming the very same song now playing on the rooftop, you laughed, swatting at him with the spatula. “Mingi, stop. The pancakes—”
“Pancakes can wait,” he interrupted, spinning you around to face him. “This? This is more important.”
The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving a dull ache in its wake.
Back on the rooftop, Mingi swayed to the music, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before. The orange glow of the bulbs cast flickering shadows on the rooftop floor, painting the moment with a bittersweet intimacy. You could feel his breath, warm against your neck, as he whispered softly, “This song… it feels important.”
You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest swelling as you managed a faint nod. “It is,” you replied, your voice barely audible over the hum of the music.
In that instant, it was as if time folded in on itself—past and present colliding in the tender pull of his arms and the bittersweet chords of a melody neither of you could forget.
That night, you lay awake.
How could you forget? Of all things, how could you forget that your tiny apartment only had one master bedroom? It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent months adjusting to the space—living alone, needing only one bed. Yet, here you were, stuck with the reality that you’d now have to share it with Mingi. Now, the prospect of sharing the bed with Mingi felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest.
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows that danced eerily on the walls. You could hear the faint hum of city life outside, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. Every creak and sigh of the building seemed amplified in the silence of the night, echoing the unease that gnawed at your thoughts.
The soft rustle of sheets beside you snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turned to glance at Mingi, who was already asleep beside you. His presence was both comforting and suffocating. Memories of your past life together flickered through your mind—late-night conversations, shared dreams, the warmth of his embrace. Each recollection was a double-edged sword, bringing both solace and pain.
You glanced at the edge of the bed, contemplating if you could somehow sleep on the floor instead. The idea quickly felt absurd. You were already here, tucked under the same blanket, with no way out. Your heart pounded in your ears as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Mingi suddenly murmured something, his voice low and muffled. Your breath hitched as you turned your head slightly to look at him. He was still asleep, his expression soft, almost boyish in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
You reached out, your hand trembling as it brushed against his arm. The contact sent a jolt through your system, awakening a longing you had tried so hard to suppress. You pulled your hand back, staring at your own reflection in the mirror across the room. The person looking back at you seemed distant, hollow, as if the vibrant spark that once defined you had dimmed. It has always since the beginning.
Sleep felt like an elusive sanctuary, slipping further away with each passing minute. You buried deeper into the pillow, hoping to drown out the thoughts that refused to let you rest. But even in the darkness, the memories lingered—fragments of laughter, whispers of love, the promise of a future that now seemed like a fragile illusion.
Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared into the void.
Your mind raced with questions and fears. How could you help someone you barely understood anymore? How could you navigate the delicate balance between compassion and self-preservation, when every moment with him felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss of unresolved emotions?
The night stretched on, each hour dragging longer than the last. The minutes seemed to crawl, each second a testament to the fragility of your existence. You lay there, torn between the desire to protect him and the fear of losing yourself in the process.
Then he whispered again, and your heart stopped.
“...Tulip,” he said, your name slipping from his lips like it belonged there.
You froze, the sound of his voice stirring something deep inside you. He hadn’t called you that in years, not since—
You shook your head, willing yourself to forget. This was all temporary. Just a week. That’s all you had to endure.
Turning onto your side, you faced away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. But the heat of his presence, the steady sound of his breathing, and the lingering echo of your name in his voice made sleep feel impossibly far away.
As dawn's first light began to seep through the curtains, you remained wide awake, staring into the new day that mirrored the uncertainty of your heart. The challenges ahead loomed large, but so did the remnants of a love that refused to fade entirely. In that fragile balance, you found a sliver of hope—a determination to navigate the storm, no matter how tumultuous the journey ahead might be.
DAY 2:
When the morning sun peeked through the curtains of your room, it painted the space with a soft, golden glow. The warmth did little to chase away the exhaustion clinging to your body, but you stretched anyway, muscles protesting against the motion.
As the blanket pooled around your lap, your gaze drifted to the figure lying beside you. Your breath caught in your throat as familiarity tugged at your heartstrings. His lips were slightly pursed in a soft pout, his hands curled into loose fists beneath the pillow. For a moment, he looked untouched by the weight of the past, his broad shoulders free of burdens.
A quiet sigh escaped you as you gently pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around his ears, recalling his playful complaints about waking up with frozen ears. "They'll fall off," he'd grumble dramatically, drawing a reluctant smile from you.
Slipping on your fluffy slippers, you padded toward the kitchen. The clink of utensils and the scent of pancakes filled the air as you worked, each flip of the spatula grounding you in the present. But the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, accompanied by the deep rasp of his morning voice.
“‘Morning, love,” he murmured, and your heart stuttered at the endearment. The grip on your spatula tightened, anchoring you back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder, offering him a small, hesitant smile. “M-Morning, Min… Mingi.”
The words felt foreign, a mix of old habits and new hesitations. You could almost smack yourself for the stumble, but he didn’t seem to notice, his expression easy and warm.
You served the pancakes in silence, the clatter of plates and the scrape of chairs filling the space. “Thank you,” he said, flashing you a grin before diving into his breakfast with his usual unhurried pace.
You couldn’t help but watch, your own plate long emptied, as he savored each bite. His methodical movements were endearing—a rhythm you had once known by heart. With your coffee cup cradled in your hands, now cool and untouched, you let the quiet moments of the morning settle over you. The hum of the ceiling fan blended with the occasional scrape of his fork against the plate. But the tranquility wasn’t enough to keep the exhaustion at bay. Your eyelids grew heavy, last night’s restlessness catching up to you.
As your head began to nod, you jolted awake, your coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“You okay?” Mingi’s voice broke through the haze, his fork pausing mid-air as he looked at you with concern. You forced a smile, shaking off the lingering fog. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep much,” you admitted softly.
He tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer than necessary, before nodding. The unspoken understanding in his gaze was both comforting and bittersweet, a reminder of the connection you once shared and the fragile peace of the moment.
“Figured,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone laced with quiet concern. “You kept tossing and turning. Something bothering you?”
You blinked, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Of course, he’d noticed—how could he not when you’d been forced to share the same bed? The situation felt both inescapable and unbearably awkward, every shared breath and subtle movement magnified in the silence of the night.
Your mouth opened, but the words refused to come, faltering under the weight of your swirling thoughts. "It’s been… a while, you know," you finally managed, the words stumbling out clumsily. “You’ve been in the hospital for weeks, and… yeah.” You trailed off, internally cringing at your own awkwardness, your attempt to downplay the turmoil inside you.
He nodded, his gaze softening with something that looked like understanding. Before you could process it, his hand reached out, enveloping yours in a firm but gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with sincerity.
Your breath hitched, the air in your lungs freezing as the word love echoed in your mind. That nickname—it was a relic of your past, a tender reminder of a time when everything felt whole and simple. But now, it was a cruel specter, dragging you back into memories you weren’t ready to face.
The pressure of his hand on yours felt like a burning weight, and the rising tide of anxiety threatened to engulf you. The doctor’s words surfaced unbidden, sharp and unrelenting: Mingi and his wife, their second anniversary, the plans for a getaway in the east province that had been violently interrupted by the highway accident. The knowledge clawed at you, tearing open wounds you thought had scarred over.
“I’ll clean up,” you blurted out, your voice tight as you pulled your hand away, retreating before the walls you’d carefully constructed crumbled entirely. You stood abruptly, gathering the plates in a hurried attempt to escape the suffocating moment.
Mingi was taken back by your actions but Mingi also stood up. “Nope. Sit.” He gently but firmly took the plates from your hands, his expression leaving no room for argument. “You cooked. I’ll handle this.”
“It’s really fine—”
He turned to give you a pointed look, one that felt too much like the old Mingi, the one who had always insisted on splitting chores despite your protests. “Sit,” he repeated, softer this time. You relented, sinking back into your chair as he moved to the sink. Watching him was surreal—his movements so natural, as though he belonged in this space, as though nothing had changed.
He rolled up his sleeves, his tall frame somehow managing to make your tiny kitchen seem even smaller. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the room, a strangely domestic symphony that stirred something bittersweet inside you. The gentle clatter of dishes being washed filled the kitchen, a sound so familiar it tugged at your chest like a forgotten melody.
Mingi was a whirlwind of unconscious domesticity—moving with an ease that made it painfully clear he didn’t just fit into this space. He fits into your life.
It felt wrong. It felt right.
You rested your chin on your hand, observing him. The way he washed each dish with precision, the way he hummed a tune you recognized as one of his favorites, the way he smiled to himself when he caught you staring—it was all so familiar. And yet, the reality of your situation hung heavy in the air. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that every swipe of the dishcloth brought memories flooding back. The mornings you spent together, him insisting on cleaning up while you teased him about his overly meticulous ways. The playful arguments about who made the better breakfast. The laughter, the love, the heartbreak that followed.
He didn’t remember the arguments, the pain, the long nights spent trying to piece together a marriage that had already fractured. All he knew was the version of you that existed in his mind six years ago, the version he still believed was his wife.
And the happily new married life he is in.
Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup as the weight of it all pressed down on you. Of all the people he could have chosen to stay with during his recovery, why did it have to be you? The ex-wife he didn’t even remember leaving behind.
He glanced over his shoulder, catching you staring, and his face lit up with a grin so pure, it almost made you forget how this all ended the first time.
“What?” he asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, averting your gaze.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, leaning against the counter. You forced a laugh, the sound hollow even to your own ears. “Guess I’m out of practice.”
Mingi shrugged, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you. He surveyed the kitchen again, his eyes lingering on the bare walls and countertops. “You’ve really changed things up, huh?”
You tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Just... it doesn’t feel like us, you know?” He gestured around the room, his expression a mix of confusion and longing. “Where are all the pictures? The ones from our trip to Jeju? Or the goofy ones we took on your birthday?”
You scrambled for an explanation, your heart pounding. “I... uh, have asked Seonghwa to come and bring it from your—our house,” you lied, forcing a laugh.
Mingi nodded, accepting your answer without question. “Well, don’t take too long. This place could use a bit of ‘us’ again.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, his words hit you like a freight train, and you had to look away. The difference of “us” is where the fights, the sleepless nights, the way you both unraveled until there was nothing left to hold onto unlike his is somewhere you guess is full of happiness and affection.
As he left the kitchen, whistling a tune, you exhaled shakily. Sharing your apartment with Mingi felt like stepping into a dream and a nightmare all at once—a cruel trick of fate that blurred the lines between the past and the present. Your hand trembled as you set the coffee cup down, the weight of the past and present colliding in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
So when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the city streets. The day had been a whirlwind, filled with moments that teetered between awkward and oddly nostalgic. You barely had time to process any of it when Mingi, with his boyish grin and an eagerness that made your heart ache, suggested dinner at a noodle shop.
Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him. “Why? I mean, I can cook for you—”
He raised a hand, halting your words mid-sentence with a gentle but firm gesture. “You’ve already cooked for me twice today. Why not let me treat you for a change?” He reached for your jacket, draped over the rack, and held it out to you.
You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. It had been a long time since you’d gone out—especially with him. The idea felt foreign, almost surreal.
“I—”
Before you could finish, he sighed, crossing the room to where you sat on the couch. He eased himself down beside you, the sudden proximity causing a jolt of heat to rush through your body. His warmth seeped into the small space between you, igniting a flush that climbed up your neck and settled in your ears.
“Take it as a date,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a playful charm that only made your pulse quicken. “For all the days I missed while I was in the hospital. What do you say, love?”
The nickname cut through your resolve like a whisper of the past, stirring emotions you’d worked hard to bury. Your mind raced with possibilities, weighed down by the unfairness of reliving memories you hadn’t asked to revisit. Was this wise? Could your heart withstand the bittersweet sting of nostalgia?
But when your gaze met his, every carefully constructed barrier began to waver. His eyes held the same spark you remembered—curiosity mingled with unspoken hope, as though he had just stumbled upon something new and couldn’t wait to share it with you. And then there was that smile, the one that always had the power to unravel your overthinking.
A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you felt your body relax against your better judgment. The battle between your heart and mind ended with a truce neither was happy about.
“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
His grin widened, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving only the quiet promise of a single evening.
When Mingi said that he wanted to try some noodles that he just saw some streets up where you both passed yesterday, you weren’t expecting it would be some other ramen house.
Not just any noodle shop—Home Ramen House.
The ramen house that you and Mingi frequently go to whenever he feels like it. You hesitated, the weight of the memories tied to that place pulling at you. But his excitement was contagious, and before you knew it, you were sitting across from him in the cozy little corner booth you both used to claim as your own. Mingi scanned the menu, his eyes lighting up as though discovering it for the first time. “We’ll have the spicy seafood ramen and the dumplings,” he told the waiter, his voice filled with conviction. You blinked, startled.
It was second nature to him, a detail woven so deeply into his muscle memory that he hadn’t even realized it. The smell of broth wafted through the air, stirring emotions you had buried long ago. As the waiter brought out steaming bowls of noodles and a plate of golden-brown dumplings, the atmosphere shifted. The familiar clatter of chopsticks, the hum of quiet conversation from nearby tables, the way the condensation on the glasses trickled down—it all felt like stepping into a memory.
Mingi leaned forward, inhaling the aroma with a satisfied sigh. “This smells amazing,” he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your heart skip.
You nodded, stirring your noodles absentmindedly. “It does,” you murmured, trying to focus on the present. The first bite was pure nostalgia. The flavors exploded on your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. Mingi noticed, grinning triumphantly. “Glad you still love spicy ramens after you let me sleep on the couch for a week.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. Indeed it was true, it was the first time you tasted spicy food and it took you a lot of milk to calm down your tongue that was numb from the intense spice in it. Because of the influence of Mingi and him laughing at your red face, which he thought is cute, you told him to sleep on the couch.
Conversation flowed easily, much to your surprise. He talked about the food, his thoughts on the day. You found yourself laughing at his terrible joke about dumplings being “wrapped gifts for your stomach,” despite the ache in your chest.
You had been too focused on picking up a particularly slippery noodle, and a rogue strand of sauce had made its way onto your cheek. Mingi notices it and chuckles, without missing a beat, Mingi reaches across the table, napkin in hand. “Hold still,” he said softly, dabbing at the spot.
The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it left you momentarily breathless.
His fingers lingered for just a second too long, and you caught his eyes—warm, familiar, and filled with a fondness that felt achingly real. Your pulse quickened, and you quickly turned your attention back to your bowl, muttering a quiet “thanks.”
As the meal went on, you couldn’t shake the sensation of déjà vu. The way he teased you for eating too fast, the way you both reached for the last dumpling at the same time, the shared laughter—it was all too much and not enough, all at once.
When the bill arrived, Mingi grabbed it before you could protest, his lips curling into that familiar playful grin. “I’m your husband,” he said, his tone light but laced with a deeper emotion you couldn’t quite place. “I should be treating you to the greatest things in life.” He added a playful wink that made you roll your eyes, but the warmth in his voice lingered, disarming you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.
Deep down, it was almost too much—the familiarity of the moment, the ease with which he slipped back into old habits. It felt like walking into a dream you knew would shatter the moment you woke up.
As you stepped out into the crisp night air, the world seemed quieter, the stars scattered above like a tapestry of fragile hope. Mingi tilted his head up, his hands buried in his pockets. The glow of the restaurant’s lights illuminated his face, softening the lines of worry and regret you had grown used to seeing since his accident.
“This feels nice,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, as if he were rediscovering something long forgotten. “Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I lost.”
His words pierced through the fragile walls you had built around your heart. You bit your lip, the ache in your chest swelling.
You did.
It was a truth you couldn’t say out loud, one you weren’t sure you were ready to admit even to yourself. Yet in the stillness of that moment, it hung in the air between you—unspoken but undeniable.
DAY 3:
The day began like any other—quiet, unassuming, and unremarkable. You woke early, your mind preoccupied with a client meeting about revisions to a blueprint. The sharp scratch of your pen against paper and the hum of your laptop filled the air as you scribbled down notes, entirely absorbed in the task.
The faint clink of porcelain pulled your attention. A steaming mug appeared beside you, its rich aroma filling the room. Startled, you looked up to see Mingi, holding his own coffee and offering a soft, familiar smile.
“Have a coffee first, love,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to your busy thoughts.
You took the mug, fingers brushing his briefly, and nodded your thanks. The nickname rolled off his tongue effortlessly now, as if no time had passed since he last used it so freely. It wasn’t just the words, though—it was the way he said them, laced with warmth and something deeper, something unspoken.
But the kisses? Those you hadn’t quite grown used to.
There was the time, just last week, when you’d been rushing around before a meeting, juggling your bag, phone, and scattered papers. Mingi had stepped into your chaos like an anchor, hands firm on your shoulders as he steadied you. He’d kissed your forehead so gently, it left you stunned. Without a word, he handed you a brown bag of snacks and ushered you to the car, driving you to work while you sat in quiet disbelief, his thoughtfulness lingering far longer than the ride.
Now, as he left a kiss on the crown of your head and stepped out of the room, your heart did what it always seemed to do around him these days—it stumbled, tripping over feelings you weren’t ready to name.
Yet, beneath the warmth that spread through your chest, a shadow loomed. With a soft sigh, you returned back to your work.
Later, when your meeting concluded, you found yourself sprawled on the couch, half-laying and half-sitting, as Mingi flipped through Disney+. He eventually settled on an Avengers marathon. The easy camaraderie, the quiet moments together—it felt so natural, so right.
And so unfamiliar.
Just as the movie’s opening credits rolled, a knock at the door echoes. Both of you turned toward the sound simultaneously, like startled meerkats. Mingi paused the movie and moved toward the small monitor connected to the doorbell cam.
“Oh, it’s Seonghwa-hyung,” he announced. Your ears perked up. The memory of your impulsive request to Seonghwa came rushing back. After Mingi had offhandedly mentioned that the apartment did not feel like “ours,” you’d acted on instinct, reaching out to your best friend and asking him to retrieve a box of old photos from your attic.
The door opened, and there he was—Seonghwa, effortlessly chic as always, with his silver hair and the familiar box in his hands.
“Hey, babe!” he greeted, his grin infectious as he breezed in. You smiled back, leaning in for air kisses before he set the box on the coffee table.
“I’d stay and catch you up on all the office gossip,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but my baby mama’s in the ER—she’s about to give birth!”
Your eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, Seonghwa! Go, go, go!”
He chuckled, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Mingi with a firm handshake and a knowing smile. As you walked him to the door, he shot you a look—one filled with silent understanding and something unspoken. As you walk Seonghwa to the door, Mingi had caught Seonghwa’s knowing look given to you before he left.
The moment Seonghwa was gone, the apartment felt quieter, but in a strangely comforting way.
You turn around with a small smile on your lips, “Well the picture is here, let’s get started?” Mingi had helped you hang up the picture frames, most of them old photos of trips they had taken together. Mingi holding each of the frames made his hand tremble for no reason or that one reason why he suddenly had a flashback of where the same photo shattered on the ground, glass shards glinting like jagged tears in the sunlight. The arguments. The silences. The distance.
“Mingi, you okay?” Your voice, soft with concern, broke through the haze. He blinked, snapping back to the present. Forcing a smile, he nodded and placed the frame on the shelf. “Of course, love,” he said gently.
But you saw it—the flicker of something unresolved in his eyes. A shadow of a past neither of you dared to name but both still carried. You didn’t press him, though. Instead, you continued working side by side, filling the quiet with small, easy conversations. The unspoken truths could wait for another day. For now, this—rebuilding, frame by frame—was enough.
The golden afternoon light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch beside Mingi, your head resting against his broad shoulder, the toll of the early morning meeting plus the small clean up around the apartment made you tired.
The lingering hum of your morning on-call meeting still played faintly in his mind. He had watched you work earlier, eyes fixed on your focused expression as you scribbled notes and responded to clients, your determination unwavering even through the early hours. Now, it was just the two of you, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant, as if it had been locked away somewhere far beyond the safety of your small apartment.
The silence between you wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful, almost sacred.
Beside you, Mingi shifted slightly. His fingers reached out, adjusting a photo frame on the coffee table without thinking. His gaze lingered on it—a snapshot of laughter frozen in time—before wandering toward the bookshelf by the window. The sight of the cluttered shelves, books stacked without rhyme or reason, brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. Some of those books he recognized as ones you’d read until the pages frayed; others were strangers to him, spines barely creased.
Then, like a wave crashing without warning, the memory hit him.
The bookstore.
His hand froze, mid-movement, gripping the edge of the couch as the vivid recollection unfolded in his mind. He could feel the chill of that rain-soaked day, the dampness clinging to his skin as you guided him through the streets after picking him up from the hospital. The weight of the moment had pressed heavy on his chest—uncertainty, exhaustion, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.
You had found refuge in that tiny, unassuming bookstore. Its wooden shelves lined with worn books and the comforting smell of paper and ink offered a sanctuary neither of you had expected. You’d both lingered there, surrounded by stories belonging to others, as if searching for something in the words you didn’t yet know how to say to each other.
The memory of your hand reaching for his, tentative and warm, surfaced with startling clarity. It was a touch that had pulled him out of his own head, grounding him in the present, in you.
“Hey,” your voice now pulled him back to the room, gentle and curious. He blinked, his grip on the couch loosening as he turned to look at you. The concern in your eyes was subtle but unmistakable. You always seemed to notice when he drifted too far into himself, and for that, he was endlessly grateful.
“Just remembering something,” he murmured, his voice low but steady.
Your head tilted slightly, an invitation for him to share if he wanted to. He didn’t, not yet, but the way you leaned into him, your warmth so close, was enough to soothe the tightness in his chest.
The photo frame sat untouched on the table, a silent witness to the weight of the past and the fragile beauty of the present.
The memory of the rain, the bookstore, and your hand in his still lingered, but now, it felt less heavy. It wasn’t just a memory of pain anymore—it was one of quiet strength, of a moment where everything else had fallen away except for the two of you, finding your way back to each other in the most unexpected places.
Mingi sighed, his hand settling lightly over yours. “Thanks for being here,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your skin in an unspoken promise. The quiet sincerity in his voice hung between you, tangible and real.
Your eyes fell to his hand resting on yours, tracing the way his fingers seemed to fit so naturally. Without thinking, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of your touch sent a flutter through him, “Thank you for letting me stay,” an inexplicable yet familiar feeling, like a forgotten piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.
For a moment, the world seemed to shift, the sunlight filtering through the window growing softer, warmer, as if the connection between you had become the room’s very heartbeat. Quiet. Steady. Unbreakable.
And yet, beneath the tranquility, a faint ache lingered.
Why did he feel like something was missing?
“Do you remember the library we went to?” His voice broke the silence, soft and tentative, as though reaching for something fragile.
You looked at him, noticing the way his gaze wavered, a flicker of something unspoken glinting behind his eyes. Hesitation? Longing? It was hard to tell, but you could feel it—something pulling at him, tethering him to a memory his heart wasn’t ready to let go of.
You sat up slightly, your movements drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. His eyes followed you, searching, waiting.
“Do you want to go to the bookstore, Min?” you asked, your voice gentle, careful.
The nickname rolled off your tongue, easy and familiar, but to Mingi, it was both a comfort and a quiet reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, as his heart reacted before his mind could catch up.
He nodded, almost absentmindedly, his eyes still on you as if the answer lay in the way you moved, the way you spoke. There was a dullness in his chest, a faint shadow of the vibrant emotions he once knew, but even in its muted state, it yearned for something more.
As you stood and moved toward the bedroom to grab your things, Mingi stayed rooted on the couch, watching you disappear through the doorway. His hand lingered on the cushion where yours had been moments ago, his thoughts a quiet storm.
The memory of rain-soaked streets and the quiet sanctuary of the bookstore flickered to life in his mind, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He didn’t fully understand why the thought carried such weight, but the pull was undeniable. He exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. Maybe, just maybe, revisiting that moment would help him find what he felt was missing—something intangible, yet so profoundly important.
The rain caught them off guard. One moment, the sky was a dull gray, and the next, a torrential downpour had them sprinting down the street, their laughter mingling with the sound of splashing puddles. By the time they ducked into a small, tucked-away bookstore, both were drenched, water dripping from their hair and clothes.
The rain stopped a few hours ago and the blue sky was enough evidence to not bring any umbrella yet they should have still brought it. Mingi shook his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere and earning a half-hearted glare from her as she squeezed the water from her sleeves. He grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his damp hair as he took in their surroundings.
The bookstore was charming in an old-world way—creaky wooden floors, overstuffed chairs, and the comforting scent of aged paper. His gaze wandered over the shelves, the rain outside creating a rhythmic backdrop.
“This place…” His voice trailed off as something stirred faintly in the back of his mind. “It feels familiar.” She glanced at him, her expression guarded, but said nothing.
Mingi meandered through the aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of books until one caught his eye—a worn-out copy of a novel that made his heart stutter.
Why this book?
He pulled it out and stared at the cover. A wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over him, but it was laced with something he couldn’t quite name, like trying to remember the details of a dream slipping through his fingers. Turning to her, he held up the book, a small smile playing on his lips. “Didn’t we read this together? I think I remember… something about this story. It’s special, isn’t it?”
Her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t place, but it wasn’t the joy or excitement he expected. Instead, it was heavy, almost bittersweet. “You… you said it reminded you of us,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with a sadness she tried to mask.
Mingi frowned, his thumb brushing the frayed edge of the book’s spine. “I did?”
There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her tone carefully neutral. “You did.”
His gaze remained fixed on her, studying the way her eyes avoided his, the way her smile didn’t quite reach them. Something about her felt different—familiar, yes, but distant. Her eyes, he realized, didn’t shine the way he remembered. There was something missing, a light he couldn’t name but that he was sure used to be there. He had always told her that her eyes were like stars, vibrant and full of wonder. Now, they were like stars lost behind clouds.
The thought sent an uncomfortable ache through his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer. She nodded quickly, too quickly, and busied herself with flipping through the pages of the book. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He wasn’t convinced, but he let it go, turning his attention back to the book. Sitting down in one of the overstuffed chairs, he motioned for her to join him. She hesitated before settling into the chair across from him, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.
The sound of rain against the windows, the scent of old paper, the warmth of the tiny space—it all felt so… intimate. As if they were stepping into a memory.
Mingi began reading aloud, his deep voice filling the space. He didn’t understand why the words felt so familiar, why they tugged at something deep inside him, but he didn’t question it. When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her expression unreadable. He grinned, holding up the book. “You always said I read too slow.”
Her lips twitched, and for a brief moment, there was a spark of something—something that reminded him of the past, of those star-like eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same guarded look.
Mingi leaned back in his chair, the ache in his chest deepening. Something was missing, something important, and it wasn’t just the gaps in his memory.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a serene stillness that seemed to blanket the world in a gentle calm. The two of them stepped out of the bookstore, the sound of their footsteps splashing against small puddles on the cobblestone street. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground and the faint aroma of nearby flowers.
Mingi glanced around, taking in the scene. The streetlights cast a warm, golden glow that reflected off the rain-slicked surfaces, making the entire place shimmer as though it were draped in a thousand tiny diamonds. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that made him feel small and yet deeply connected to the world around him.
He turned his gaze to her. She was walking slightly ahead of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights. The way her hair caught the light and the way her steps seemed to glide over the wet pavement—it all felt so familiar.
A tug in his chest pulled him closer to her. Without even thinking, his hand reached out, his fingers gently brushing against hers. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering, unsure if she would pull away. But then, her fingers curled around his, and Mingi felt a warmth bloom in his chest.
To him, it felt like home.
Her hand in his was soft and warm, fitting perfectly as though it had always belonged there. He squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. There was a comfort in the gesture, a sense of belonging that he couldn’t quite put into words.
For her, the touch was bittersweet. It felt like a memory, distant yet vivid, as though it were something she had dreamed of many times before. She glanced at him, her heart catching in her chest at the way he looked at her. His eyes held a softness, an affection that seemed unguarded, almost innocent.
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. Instead, it was filled with unspoken emotions, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.
The streets around them seemed to come alive in the aftermath of the rain. Raindrops clung to the leaves of the trees, catching the light and sparkling like tiny jewels. The occasional chirp of birds returning to their nests added to the tranquil ambiance. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, watching them, waiting for something to unfold.
Mingi finally broke the silence, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way everything sparkles after the rain… It feels peaceful.”
She nodded, her eyes drifting to the shimmering reflections on the ground. “It does. Like everything’s been washed clean.”
His gaze lingered on her, a small smile playing at his lips. “You always used to say that, didn’t you? That the world looks brighter after the rain.”
She stiffened ever so slightly at his words, the smile on her face faltering for a brief moment before she quickly recovered. “Maybe I did.”
He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her expression. There it was again—that fleeting look in her eyes, as though she were hiding something. It was like a veil had been drawn over her emotions, keeping him at arm’s length.
But then, she turned to him fully, her hand still in his, and smiled softly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Home.
The word echoed in his mind, and he held onto her hand a little tighter. The apartment they were heading to didn’t feel like the home he remembered, but her presence made it feel closer to what he thought home should be. As they walked side by side, the cool breeze brushing against their skin, Mingi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this moment than he could understand. Her hand in his, the glimmer of raindrops on the leaves, the gentle hum of the world around them—it all felt so right, so familiar, yet tinged with an unspoken melancholy.
And for her, each step they took together felt like she was walking through fragments of their past, pieces of a life they had once shared but could no longer fully claim.
The rain had stopped, but the storm within them lingered, quietly shaping the path they walked together.
DAY 4
The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the small apartment. You woke to the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the familiar sounds weaving comfort into the quiet morning. Stretching lazily, you padded out of the bedroom, your footsteps light as you made your way toward the source of the sound.
And there he was.
Your feet slowed, hesitating as your eyes locked onto his figure. For a moment, the world seemed to blur, leaving only him—the man standing in the kitchen, framed by the warm glow of morning sunlight. A wave of nostalgia hit you, so sudden and raw it almost stole your breath. Your throat tightened as memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden yet familiar. How many times have you stood right here, watching him? The way he swayed softly to the music playing from his phone, completely unaware of how the light kissed his side profile, softening his edges and making him seem almost otherworldly. Majestic, yet achingly human.
It was so vividly him. And yet, it wasn’t.
Because now, the unspoken weight of six years—years filled with pain, silence, and the harsh reality of your separation—stood between you. The barriers of divorce and his amnesia loomed like shadows, carving a chasm between what was and what could never be again.
You wanted to step closer, to reach out and shatter the invisible wall that had formed over time. But the ache in your chest reminded you that the past was no longer yours to claim, and the present...
The present felt fragile, like the sunlight itself—beautiful but fleeting, slipping through your fingers no matter how desperately you tried to hold on. And yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, watching him as if the act alone could bridge the gap between your pain and his.
You brought yourself back to reality, sighing as you made your way to the kitchen. Mingi stood at the counter, his back to you as he brewed coffee, his movements unhurried. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of sizzling eggs, creating a symphony of warmth that filled the air.
“Good morning,” you greeted softly, your voice still touched with sleep yet a hint of heaviness in them. He turned at the sound of your voice, his grin easy and familiar. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
You nodded, stepping further into the room. “I did. Coffee smells amazing, by the way.”
“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the counter as he flipped an egg in the pan with practiced ease. “I figured I’d return the favor this morning.”
Your heart gave a small flutter at his words, a sensation that left you momentarily speechless. Grabbing a mug, you poured yourself some coffee, the rich aroma filling your senses as you watched him move around the kitchen. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he carried himself—calm, assured, and so at ease.
“You always wake up this early?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Old habits,” you replied, shrugging. “And someone has to make sure the coffee gets made properly.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and contagious, as he turned to set two plates on the table. “You really do make a great wife,” he said offhandedly, his voice casual yet filled with something unspoken. Your hand froze for a fraction of a second, your heart tripping over itself before you forced a small laugh. “Maybe… I did.”
The two of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing effortlessly between bites of food and sips of coffee. Mingi asked about your day, your work, and the little details you often overlooked. Yet, hearing his interest in the mundane felt oddly comforting, as though he wanted to be a part of every piece of your life, no matter how small.
When breakfast was over, you reached for the dishes, but he stopped you, his grin playful but firm.
“You cooked. I’ll clean,” he said, already gathering the plates before you could protest. Your eyebrow furrowed, “But … you cooked,” You whisper but he ignores your words and proceeds to lean against the counter, you watched as he rolled up his sleeves, his movements unhurried as he rinsed the plates. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune you couldn’t quite place but that filled the space between you with warmth.
And in that moment, something inside you tightened.
He looked so natural, standing there with soap suds on his hands and the morning sunlight catching the curve of his smile. So much like the man you remembered, but lighter now, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Yet, there was a bittersweet edge to it—a gentle ache that reminded you how fleeting these moments might be. You couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, the quiet push and pull of time and memory, weaving something fragile yet undeniably real between you.
As he turned back to you, drying his hands on a towel, his smile reached his eyes, soft and knowing. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.
You offered him a small smile, your chest tightening. “Thanks for being here.”
And for a moment, it felt like the sunlight wasn’t just streaming through the window—it was radiating from the two of you, filling the small apartment with something unspoken yet profound.
Later that day, you find yourself walking through the bustling streets with him— Mingi wanting to walk around to memorize the place— the two of you weaving through the scattered crowd. The sun shines brightly overhead, and the remnants of yesterday’s rain glisten on the leaves and pavement, creating a shimmering path beneath your feet. As you turn a corner, his gaze shifts, locking onto an elderly woman struggling to carry several heavy bags of groceries. You watch as he pauses for only a moment before stepping forward, his long strides quickly closing the distance.
“Let me help you with those,” he offered, his tone gentle and reassuring. The woman looked up at him, surprised but grateful, as he effortlessly took the bags from her. “Thank you, young man. I didn’t realize they’d be this heavy.”
Mingi carried the groceries to her car, his movements easy and practiced. It was as though helping others was second nature to him, something he didn’t even have to think about.
You watch from a few steps away, your heart aching at the sight of him.
He’s always been like this—fiercely kind, endlessly giving. It’s one of the things you loved most about him. Memories flood back unbidden: the countless times he’d gone out of his way for you, fixing a broken appliance late at night, or carrying you in his arms when you sprained your ankle during that unforgettable hike. His kindness was a constant, a thread woven through every moment of your shared life.
When he returns to your side, his smile is radiant, his mood seemingly lighter. “Ready to go?” he asks, his tone so casual, so familiar.
You nod, forcing a smile. But as you fall into step beside him, the bittersweet ache in your chest deepens. The man beside you feels like a dream you once lived in—a beautiful, fleeting thing you can’t quite hold onto anymore.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks suddenly, his brows furrowed in confusion.
You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with concern. “Is something wrong?”
The words catch in your throat. You hesitate, searching for a response that won’t betray the truth. “No, it’s just… you remind me of someone I used to know.”
He tilts his head, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Someone as charming as me?”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes, lightening the heaviness in the air for just a moment. “Maybe,” you reply, shaking your head.
But as the two of you walk on, your smile fades. Watching him help the elderly woman had stirred something deep within you—a longing for the man he used to be, and for the love you once shared. To him, it was just another act of kindness. To you, it was a glimpse of the man you still love, even if the cruel truth of reality says he’s no longer yours to love.
Later, the afternoon sunlight pours through the apartment window, painting everything in a soft, golden glow. He sits cross-legged on the couch, flipping absently through a magazine he picked up from the bookstore. Across the room, you busy yourself at the kitchen counter, organizing the groceries, keeping your hands moving so your mind doesn’t linger too long.
“Can I ask you something?” His voice cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Of course.”
“Back there, when I helped that woman… You looked at me like I’d done something surprising,” he says, his tone light but his gaze steady, searching.
You set down the box of tea bags, turning fully to face him. “I guess I was just reminded of how naturally kind you are,” you say carefully. “You’ve always been like that—helping people without expecting anything in return.”
He tilts his head, his expression softening into something you can’t quite decipher. “I don’t think that’s anything special. Isn’t that what anyone would do?”
You move toward him, settling on the couch beside him. “Not everyone,” you reply, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You’ve always had a way of putting others first, even when you didn’t have to. It’s… one of the things I admire about you.”
He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, but neither of you says more. You wonder if he feels the weight of what you’ve left unsaid. Or if the truth, the one you’ve been carrying alone, will shatter the fragile peace of these moments when it finally comes to light. He watched her carefully, the faintest hint of a frown tugging at his lips.
“You talk like you’ve known me forever. Like we’ve been married for a long time.”
Her breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. Because honestly, it was true—every single word. Way back then, when your love was untainted by time or circumstance, the two of you had been inseparable. Two years of dating felt like an eternity and yet not nearly enough, as if every moment was still just the beginning.
Mingi had been everything—your best friend, your partner, your home. He had this way of looking at you, like you were the answer to every question he didn’t even know he was asking. And on your third anniversary, he did the one thing that solidified the depth of his love.
He proposed.
It wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was perfect. The way his hands trembled, holding the ring box, his eyes shining with a mixture of nerves and joy. His voice cracked when he said, “Across all these universes, may my soul search for yours, destined to find you, to love you in every single one.”
He used to say your love was stronger than gold. To him, it wasn’t just a sentiment; it was a promise. He saw a future so vivid, so tangible—one filled with laughter, shared dreams, and the quiet comfort of growing old together. He had been excited to spend his life in your arms, to build something lasting and unbreakable.
And yet, here you were now, standing in the fragile ruins of what once was. The man who once held your world in his hands now looked at you with the same hopeful eyes, completely unaware of the truth that would break him.
The truth that your love, though still stronger than gold in your heart, had been twisted and reshaped by time. That his future, the one he envisioned so clearly, now belonged to someone else.
The ache in your chest grew unbearable, your breath hitching as the memory of that proposal flashed behind your eyes like a cruel echo. How could something so beautiful, so full of life, turn into this? How could you bear to look at him, knowing what you know?
And yet, you smiled, hiding the storm raging inside you, because this wasn’t about you anymore. This was about him, his recovery, his healing. The sacrifice of pretending, of playing your part, weighed heavily on your soul, but you’d carry it for as long as he needed.
Even if it meant breaking your own heart in the process.
DAY 5
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the weight of yesterday’s conversation still lingered in the air. You moved about the small apartment with a practiced rhythm, avoiding looking at Mingi too directly. He seemed more pensive than usual, his usual chatter subdued, as if he were trying to process something just out of reach.
The knowledge that he’d be returning to his family in just three days gnawed at you. The purpose of his stay was clear—these days together were supposed to help him recover before transitioning back to the care of his parents. But your heart ached at the thought of him leaving, even as your brain screamed at you to protect yourself, to not let him back into the fragile pieces of your heart you’d painstakingly put together after the divorce.
“I’m going for a walk,” Mingi announced suddenly, breaking the stillness of the afternoon.
You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.
“Do you want some company?” you asked before you could stop yourself. He paused, his boyish grin spreading across his face in a way that sent a pang through your chest. “Always.”
You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.
The two of you wandered through the lively streets, the world around you a gentle hum of activity. The buzz of conversation from passing strangers, the distant laughter of children playing, the occasional bark of a dog—it all blended into a comforting symphony. At first, the silence between you was tentative, but as the minutes passed, it softened, giving way to something familiar.
Mingi seemed more relaxed, his long strides unhurried as he pointed out little details that caught his attention—a street performer playing a wistful tune on a violin, a quirky storefront painted in bold, mismatched colors, the way yesterday’s rain sparkled like diamonds on the leaves of a tree. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself smiling, your heart lighter than it had been in days.
Then, as you passed a photo booth bathed in colorful neon lights, he stopped abruptly.
“Oh!” His exclamation startled you, his face lighting up with a mischievous sparkle that made him look impossibly young. “Let’s do it!”
“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion as he tugged at your hand.
“The photo booth,” he said, already pulling you toward it. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”
You barely had time to protest before you were crammed together inside the tiny booth, your knees brushing against his as the screen flickered to life.
“Pose!” Mingi commanded, throwing up a ridiculous face that made you burst into laughter.
The countdown began, and for the next few minutes, the two of you dissolved into pure, unfiltered joy. Silly faces, exaggerated poses, and moments of shared laughter filled the air. You forgot everything—the pain, the truth, the weight of what you were hiding. For a brief, blissful moment, it was just the two of you, exactly as you had been.
As the timer ticked down to the final shot, Mingi’s laughter faded, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss.
It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was tender and full of longing, as though the six years that had separated you had never existed. Your mind reeled, your heart hammering in your chest. The world outside the booth seemed to vanish, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, soft yet insistent, familiar yet new.
It was the same as the first time he kissed you—the same warmth that spread from your chest, the same dizzying sensation of the world tilting on its axis, the same undeniable certainty that this was where you belonged.
The flash went off, its light momentarily blinding, but you barely noticed. Your world had narrowed to the feel of his hands and the taste of the kiss that lingered, soft yet searing. Your fingers had moved instinctively, gripping the fabric of his jacket, as if holding onto him could stop time, could keep him from slipping away again. His fingers lightly cupped your jaw, grounding you, pulling you closer as if he, too, was afraid to let go.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, soft and searching, met yours, and in them, you saw everything you had once known—love, hope, and the promise of forever.
But the ache in your chest only deepened. He looked at you as though no time had passed, as though the years of separation hadn’t carved out pieces of your soul. Yet here you were, on opposite sides of a chasm you’d helped create.
He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering, filled with an almost unbearable tenderness. It made your heart ache—an ache that spread through your whole being, a longing to pour out the words that had been locked inside you for so long.
You wanted to tell him how much you regretted signing the papers, how you had spent countless nights replaying every moment that led to that decision. You wanted to confess that you should have fought for what you had, that you should have held on tighter when everything was falling apart.
But everything was too late. Six years too late.
You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill, forcing a fragile smile as the photo booth’s mechanical hum brought you back to reality. And as the moment passed, slipping through your fingers like sand, you realized that some wounds, no matter how much time passes, never truly heal.
The booth fell silent except for the faint hum of the machinery spitting out the photo strip. Your emotions were a whirlwind—confusion, longing, hope, and a pain so sharp it was almost unbearable.
Mingi’s eyes searched yours, his expression soft yet unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
“For what?” you whispered, your voice trembling.
“For forgetting,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “For making you carry this alone after the accident.”
Your breath was caught in your throat, some tears threatened to spill in the corner of your eyes. The accident. Not the divorce, not the heartbreak you thought he meant. His words held the weight of sincerity, of regret for memories stolen rather than choices made.
Your heart clenched, the ache deepening as you realized he was apologizing for something entirely out of his control. “Mingi…” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady.
The machine beeped softly, a sound that felt louder in the confined space, breaking the spell of shared laughter and fleeting joy. Mingi turned slightly, retrieving the freshly printed photo strip from the slot. As his eyes scanned the series of images, a small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips, a mix of nostalgia and something unspoken shimmering in his expression.
“Look,” he said, his voice soft as he held the strip out for you to see.
Your breath falters as your eyes fall on the final frame. It wasn’t a silly pose or a playful expression like the others. Instead, it was a moment you hadn’t expected—a soft, unplanned kiss. His lips touched yours, the emotion behind it was unmistakable.
It was hauntingly familiar, a mirror of a moment from years ago—the tender kiss that sealed your vows on the altar. The memory crashed over you like a wave, unearthing a rush of feelings you thought you had buried.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air felt heavy, charged with a mix of longing and heartbreak. His thumb traced the edge of the photo strip absently as though trying to etch the memory into his mind.
“Mingi…” you began, your voice trembling. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something—perhaps understanding, perhaps forgiveness. “I don’t know why,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But this… it feels like something I should never have forgotten.”
His words hung between you, pulling at the threads of your carefully guarded heart.
For now, you let him fold the photo strip and tuck it into his pocket. As you stepped out of the booth, the cool air hit your face, grounding you. Mingi walked beside you, his boyish grin returning as he pointed out a street performer nearby, as if nothing had changed.
But something had.
As you walked back home, the atmosphere felt quieter, almost solemn, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you. The rain from yesterday had left everything glistening, tiny droplets clinging to the edges of leaves and the curves of streetlights. The golden afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that felt almost too perfect for a moment like this.
Without warning, Mingi reached out and took your hand.
His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent a ripple through your chest. You glanced at him, startled, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, a slight furrow in his brow as though he were lost in thought.
“It feels right,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The words settled between you, simple yet profound, leaving you unsure whether he was speaking to you or to himself. Your steps faltered slightly, but his hand tightened, a gentle reassurance that he wasn’t letting go—not now, not yet.
The warmth of his touch lingered as the two of you continued down the glistening path, your heart a conflicted mess of emotions. You wanted to pull away, to keep your walls intact, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.
That night, as the city outside settled into its usual hum, you lay awake, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the ceiling.
The memory of his hand in yours, the quiet conviction in his voice, echoed in your mind. The fifth night had come and gone, and still, your thoughts revolved around one question.
Was this fleeting comfort worth the risk of reopening wounds that had never fully healed?
Day 6
The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.
As you finished tying your shoes near the doorway, you glanced at him hesitantly. Mingi was standing by the window, a book in his hand as his eyes skimmed on the letters inside, the golden morning sunlight casting a warm glow across his face. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers tapping lightly against the spine of the book.
“I’m meeting Seonghwa for coffee,” you said softly, your voice careful, testing the waters.
He turned to you, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he said simply, his tone gentle but distant.
You blinked, surprised by the lack of resistance. “Okay?”
Mingi’s gaze softened, his hand snapped the book close as he walked toward you. “Okay,” he repeated, and for a moment, you thought that was the end of it.
But then he stopped in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of it made your breath hitch, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.
“Be safe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “And enjoy your time with Seonghwa-hyung.”
You stared up at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. The warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled away, leaving you standing there, feeling as though the ground beneath you had shifted.
“I… I will,” you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He offered you a small, boyish smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still carried a trace of the man you once knew. And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on your back, a silent tether that refused to let you go.
The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.
You were desperate for clarity, for a sense of balance, which was why meeting Seonghwa now felt so vital. As you slid into your usual seat at the café, your chest tightened, and the weight of everything threatened to pull you under.
Seonghwa arrived moments later, his presence as steadying as it was piercing. His warm gaze swept over you, concern evident in the slight downturn of his lips.
“Hey,” he said softly, sitting across from you. His voice was gentle, but it carried an edge—a readiness to say what you weren’t ready to hear. You forced a smile, wrapping your hands around the warm coffee cup in front of you. “Hey.”
The soft hum of the café enveloped the quiet between you, but Seonghwa didn’t let it linger. He leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table, his fingers grazing yours with a touch that sent sparks up your arm. His voice was steady, yet his gaze carried the weight of unspoken truths. “Are you doing this for yourself, or for what you think you could have saved?”
His words hit like a jolt, unraveling the fragile composure you had carefully held together. Your pulse raced as you turned away, pretending to find solace in the rain-streaked window. “Seonghwa…” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the soft patter of rain.
“I’m not mad at you, babe,” he interrupted, his voice faltering on the last word, betraying the calm facade he was trying so hard to maintain. His eyes shone with a mixture of anguish and desperation as he leaned forward. “But I’m terrified. Terrified that you’re tying yourself to the past again, to him, when it nearly destroyed you the first time.”
The sharpness of his tone cut through you like a blade, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your chest tightened as you fought to steady your breathing, to keep the tears threatening to spill at bay. “It’s not like that,” you whispered, though the tremor in your voice gave you away.
“Then what is it like?” he pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. The air between you crackled with unspoken truths and heavy silences. “You could’ve told the truth—” He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if bracing himself for the storm his words would unleash.
He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet pain that made your heart shatter. “The truth that his wife is now conscious in that hospital room. Why didn’t you?”
The night after you and Mingi shared a quiet walk under the stars, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from the doctor—the one who had delicately outlined Mingi’s condition, her words laced with a cautious hope that had felt fragile but comforting.
"Mingi's wife has regained consciousness. She’s currently in surgery, slowly recovering from the head trauma."
The words blurred as your eyes scanned them again, your breath catching in your throat. At first, they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s story. But then, the meaning sank in like a weight dropping in your chest.
Mingi’s wife.
The words struck you like a lightning bolt, jolting you into a reality you had somehow let yourself forget. His wife—the legal wife. The woman whose place you could never fill, no matter how fleeting the moments you shared with him had been.
Your heart plummeted as the realization hit you with earth-shattering clarity. For days, you had let yourself sink into the illusion of being close to him, of stepping into a role you had no right to play. And now, like heaven and earth colliding, you were reminded of the truth you had buried so deeply.
Mingi was never yours and no longer yours.
The thought tore through you, an ache blooming in your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. The walls of the room seemed to press in, the space shrinking with every passing second. Relief warred with despair, confusion tangled with longing, and you could barely grasp at the threads of your own emotions. Somewhere, the rational part of you knew this was how it was supposed to be—that Mingi would return to her arms, to the life he had built with someone else. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
The question struck like a hammer to your chest, robbing you of breath. You turned your head away, your eyes squeezing shut as if that could block out the weight of his words. The ache of emotions you had buried deep within clawed its way to the surface, and you felt the sting of suppressed tears.
“Because…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken. “Because he needed someone.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He woke up not knowing anything, Seonghwa. Not even himself. How could I just leave him to that kind of emptiness?”
His jaw tightened as he searched your face, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his frustration and fear. “And what about you?” he asked, his voice trembling, barely holding together. “What about your emptiness? What about the nights you couldn’t breathe, the times I had to hold you together because you couldn’t stand on your own? What about everything you’ve been through?”
You couldn’t answer. The words lodged in your throat like shards of glass, too sharp to speak.
He reached out, his hand hovering near yours before retreating, his fingers curling into a fist. “How do you think this ends for you?” His voice cracked, and the vulnerability in it made your chest tighten further. “Do you think this fixes anything? Or are you just breaking yourself all over again for someone who might not even give a second look the moment they remember?”
Tears brimmed in your eyes as you met his gaze, his expression so raw, so full of love and worry, it almost undid you. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely a whisper. “But he’s not the same, Seonghwa. He’s… different. He doesn’t remember the fights or the divorce. He doesn’t remember why we fell apart. He only remembers me—us. And it’s…” You trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of unsaid words.
“It’s what?” Seonghwa prompted, his hand reaching across the table to hold yours, grounding you.
“It’s killing me,” you confessed, the tears spilling over now. “To see him like this, to see him not remember the life we had—or the pain that ended it. It’s like I’m living in this cruel, beautiful lie.”
Seonghwa inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hand. “You’re not responsible for fixing him,” he said firmly, though his voice trembled with emotion. “You’ve already given so much of yourself to him. I’m scared you’ll lose what’s left.”
The rawness in his voice shattered something inside you, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of his words.
“I just…” You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I needed to be there for him. Even if it’s only for now.”
The weight of the unspoken hung heavily between you and Seonghwa, a reminder of the ticking clock counting down the days until he would leave. You tried to ignore it, burying the ache deep within, but it clawed relentlessly at the edges of your resolve.
Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed against the table, the sound jarring in the heavy silence. You glanced down and froze when you saw Mingi’s name flashing on the screen.
Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to the phone, his expression calm but his jaw tight. “Answer it,” he said softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.
With trembling hands, you swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Mingi’s voice came through, warm and familiar. For a moment, it felt like coming home. But there was an edge to his tone, a weight you couldn’t quite place. “I was just thinking about you. Can we talk when you get back?”
Your heart clenched at his words, his longing bleeding through the line. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice thick with unspoken emotions.
When you hung up, Seonghwa was watching you, his dark eyes searching yours. “He remembers you,” he said quietly, each word measured. “But not the pain. Not the fights. Not the divorce.”
You nodded, your fingers trembling as you wiped at the tears threatening to fall. “And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
Seonghwa reached out, his hand finding yours again. His thumb brushed softly against your knuckles, grounding you in the present even as the past threatened to overwhelm. “I’ll support you, no matter what,” he said, his voice steady but laced with quiet anguish. “But promise me, if it gets too much, you’ll walk away. You deserve a future—not a life trapped in the shadows of what could’ve been.”
You nodded, but the promise felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. “I’ll try,” you whispered.
His gaze softened, though the worry lingered in his eyes. “That’s all I ask.”
“A drive?” you repeated, startled. On the way back home and after bidding goodbye to Seonghwa, your nerves were everywhere, anxiety rising as to what Mingi wanted to talk about. Your mind races with many thoughts and one of them were the conversations you just had with Mingi and dread washed over you.
“Yeah,” he said, already standing. He was already in his sweater and jeans, the keys juggling in his palm, “It’s been so long since I’ve just… gone somewhere for no reason. You in?”
The logical part of you wanted to decline, to keep the boundaries clear, to protect your heart. But the part of you still tethered to him—the part that had never quite let go—nodded. “Okay.”
The car hummed softly as it came to life, the familiar sound filling the quiet. Once you hit the open road, Mingi rolled down the windows, letting the cool night air rush in. It carried the scent of damp asphalt and distant pine, and for a moment, you felt like you’d stepped back in time. He fiddled with the radio, flipping through stations until a familiar melody filled the car. A smile spread across his face. “Remember this?”
You nodded, the song tugging at memories you thought you’d buried. It was your song—the one that played on countless late-night drives, the soundtrack to a thousand shared moments.
Mingi’s grin widened as he sang along, his voice exaggerated and dramatic. His arms gestured wildly, just like he used to, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The sound bubbled up, surprising even you, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest.
“Your turn,” he said, glancing at you with a teasing smile.
“I don’t sing,” you replied, shaking your head.
“Your voice is my favorite song,” he said, the words slipping out so naturally they caught you off guard. Your laughter faded, replaced by a quiet ache. You turned your gaze to the window, watching the darkened trees blur past. “I hope you still do.”
The miles stretched out beneath you, the city lights fading into quieter, darker roads. The wind whipped through your hair, wild and untamed, but you didn’t bother to fix it. For a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—just the open road, the music, and him.
But the memories crept in, unbidden and sharp. The countless nights spent in this very seat, his hand brushing yours on the gearshift. The shared dreams, the unspoken promises, the way you’d believed you were untouchable.
“Mingi,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the engine’s hum.
He turned to you, his expression curious.
“Why did you want to go for a drive?”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the road ahead before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do remember, this is our sweet grand escape.”
You nodded, your throat tight. “It is.” And in that moment, with the road stretching endlessly ahead, you wondered if you’d ever truly move forward—or if some part of you would always be here, caught between what was and what could have been.
The road ahead stretched out in silence, the hum of the engine blending with the soft whispers of the wind. By the time you turned back toward the city, the air had grown colder, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The stars above were scattered like fragments of light against the inky blackness, their brilliance mirrored in your quiet longing.
Mingi reached over, his hand finding the console between you. His fingers brushed against yours—light, tentative, as if testing the boundaries of something fragile. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and your breath hitched before you could stop it.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter the delicate moment. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability etched into his profile.
“But being with you…” he continued, his words catching slightly, as though they carried more than he could say. “It feels like I’m home. Like I’ve been away for a long time, and now I’m finally back where I belong.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, seeping into every crevice of the space between you. Your chest tightened, the ache blooming anew. You wanted to hold onto his words, to let them wrap around you like the warmth of his touch, but they carried a bittersweet weight that was impossible to ignore.
You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting out the window as you struggled to steady the storm of emotions inside you. The city lights glimmered in the distance, but they felt impossibly far away—like the future you’d once dreamed of with him, now nothing more than a faint glimmer on a distant horizon.
He took a quick look at you, his eyes held so much love— like he was carrying the entire aurora borealis in his eyes, “You’re my home.”
Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. You wanted to tell him the truth, to let him know that this wasn’t his home anymore—that you weren’t his home anymore. But the words refused to come.
Instead, you let your hand slip into his, your fingers intertwining as naturally as they always had. And for the rest of the drive, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that you could still be his home.
Day 7
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” You nudged Mingi gently, your voice soft but insistent, fingers brushing against his arm. He stirred, blinking up at you with groggy confusion. “What time is it?”
You gave him a soft smile, “Just get up.” He groaned but sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Without protest, Mingi followed you, the two of you making your way out into the quiet stillness of the world before it woke; yet the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on your chest.
Last night had been a sleepless one. After the late-night drive, you had returned to the stillness of your shared space, the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence lingering in the room like a ghost of the past. But the peace you so desperately wanted to hold onto eluded you. Instead, your mind raced, caught in a storm of emotions that refused to settle.
The entire week with him had felt like an unraveling—his presence a salve to old wounds that had never fully healed, yet at the same time, it had torn open scars you had worked so hard to seal. Being near him again, feeling his touch, hearing his laugh—it was everything you had once dreamed of. Everything you had wished to return to, even when you told yourself it wasn’t possible.
But the truth loomed over you, undeniable and inescapable. Mingi deserved to know it, deserved to have the clarity you had ignored for so long. As the hours dragged on and sleep remained a distant hope, you had spent the night removing the shards embedded deep in your heart, one by one.
The memories were sharp, cutting with each recollection: the way he looked at you with those eyes full of unspoken longing, the touch of his hand brushing yours in the car, the sound of his voice when he said you felt like home. Every moment was a reminder of what you had lost—and what you could no longer pretend to have.
Your tears had soaked into the pillow as you wrestled with the decision, the battle between selfishly holding onto these fleeting moments and doing what you knew was right. You couldn’t let him live in the illusion any longer. He deserved the truth, even if it shattered the fragile connection you’d rebuilt.
The air was crisp, carrying the biting chill of dawn that made you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. Above, the sky remained a canvas of deep navy, stars beginning to dim as the first strokes of orange and pink teased the horizon. The world felt suspended in a quiet hush, the stillness amplified by the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze.
You led Mingi to a secluded hill overlooking the city, the spot you’d discovered during one of your solitary escapes. It was a place of solace for you, where the sprawling cityscape seemed small and far away, swallowed by the vastness of the sky.
Neither of you spoke as you sat side by side on the damp grass. The cold seeped through your clothes, grounding you in the reality of the moment. The faint hum of distant traffic mingled with the melody of birds waking to the light. Slowly, the darkness began to yield, giving way to the soft warmth of the approaching sunrise.
Mingi’s breath fogged in the air as he spoke, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”
You nodded, your gaze fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight painted the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pink, chasing away the night. “I thought it’d be a good way to end things.”
He turned to you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “End things?”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Mingi’s heart thudded unevenly in his chest, a gnawing sense of unease creeping through him. Your tone wasn’t cold—it was resolute, distant in a way that felt unfamiliar and wrong. He opened his mouth to respond, to ask what you meant, but the words tangled in his throat.
His mind raced, flooded with fragments of emotions and half-formed thoughts. What’s happening? Why does it feel like something’s slipping away? He searched your face, looking for answers in the curve of your lips, the downward tilt of your gaze.
Is this why you’ve been so quiet? Why your smiles seemed forced? He thought of the past week, the stolen moments of warmth that felt almost too fragile, too fleeting. His chest tightened. Were those memories or just illusions of something we used to have?
Were those moments we shared just days ago … were my memories?
And then there were the flashes—images that didn’t make sense but stirred something deep and aching within him. Your tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing you cry. The ghost of your voice, trembling with words he couldn’t quite grasp.
Mingi wanted to ask, to demand why this felt like goodbye when he wasn’t ready for it. But fear held him back, rooting him in silence. What if asking makes it real? What if I lose you all over again?
You exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. “Mingi… you’re going back to your family tomorrow. This…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This was temporary. A way for you to heal. But it’s not real. Not anymore.”
His breath hitched, and he turned his gaze back to the horizon, unable to meet your eyes. His thoughts screamed against your words, but his voice refused to cooperate. The truth loomed like a shadow he wasn’t prepared to confront, a storm he couldn’t outrun.
The sunlight began to spread, illuminating the city below in soft, golden light. Mingi clenched his fists against the damp grass, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that it was real, that you were his anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
“I love you…” he said suddenly, his voice soft yet firm, like a whisper of truth he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand finding yours, squeezing it as if telling you to stop joking yet none of your eyes says that you were.
It felt like a dam had broken within you. The walls you had so carefully built to protect yourself crumbled, and the flood of emotions hit with brutal force. Your shoulders trembled, a sharp inhale escaping you as your head shook, denying the reality of his words. You fought with everything you had to stay composed, but your heart betrayed you, a painful ache spreading through your chest.
“No…” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you had buried deep inside. It was more than just the words, more than just the confession— it was everything you couldn’t say, everything that had been left unsaid for far too long.
Tears brimmed in your reddened eyes, threatening to spill, but you willed yourself to hold them back. Every part of you screamed to push him away, to refuse him, but a deeper part of you— the part that remembered the love you once shared, the tenderness and joy— fought against the words that had already formed in your throat.
“No, you don’t.”
The words left your lips in a breathless rush, the weight of them heavier than anything you had ever spoken. Your chest tightened with the unbearable pressure of it all, a battle raging inside you. The pain, the confusion, the loss.
Mingi tilted his head, confusion clouding his expression as he tried to make sense of it all. “But I’m married to you.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. It was a sound of disbelief and pain, born from the weight of everything that had happened. Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands—a fragile semblance of connection in a world that had shattered between the two of you.
You pulled away with sudden resolve, the movement decisive. It felt like a necessary break—like something had to give for you to survive this moment.
“Was,” you corrected softly, your voice trembling but steady. “I was married to you—before we divorced.”
The words hit the air between you like an invisible force, heavy and unrelenting. His mouth opened as if to argue, to hold onto something that didn’t belong to either of you anymore, but you stopped him before the denial could take form.
The quiet strength in your voice broke through his confusion. “You left me, Mingi.”
Your tone softened, the bitterness giving way to something raw, something vulnerable. The weight of years—of heartbreak, of unanswered questions—had finally found their voice. “You said you didn’t feel the love between us anymore. That you found it with someone else. And now…”
Your voice faltered, breaking like the tender thread of a once-beautiful memory. You balled your hands into fists at your sides, trying to hold onto what little strength you had left. “You already belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”
The silence stretched between you as the sun climbed higher, its golden rays casting light on his face. But the clarity in his eyes wasn’t there—only the raw confusion, the hurt that mirrored your own. He struggled to process your words, his fingers twitching as if to reach for you, but they stopped short, hanging in the air with unspoken regret.
“I don’t remember that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the pain in his tone cutting deeper than anything before.
You nodded slowly, your heart aching as the tears you had tried so hard to hold back slipped down your cheeks. “I know,” you whispered back, the sorrow in your voice thickening with each breath. “And that’s why I wanted to do this—because I needed to let go. I needed to find closure—for the both of us.”
Mingi stared at you, his eyes locking onto yours as if searching for the pieces of himself that had slipped away, hoping they were hidden somewhere inside your gaze. His lips parted, but no words came out at first. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if trying to reconcile the weight of his feelings with the reality of what had been lost.
“But I feel it,” he said finally, his voice breaking with desperation. “I feel like I love you— No! I love you, you’re my home. How can that not be real?”
The words—those words—shattered the last vestiges of your composure. You smiled through your tears, the smile that came from a place of bittersweetness—an expression that was both tender and laced with pain.
“Because sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep something whole,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.”
The finality in your voice hung in the air like a heavy fog, and the truth of it sank in, sharp and undeniable. You were letting go. You were finally releasing everything you had tried so hard to hold onto.
You looked at him one last time, your gaze lingering, as if you were trying to memorize every detail—his mole on the left side of his cheek, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his eyes crinkled into that crescent-shaped smile that always made you feel like the world had melted away. In that instant, you allowed yourself to drown in the present, to feel the weight of everything that had once been yours.
But it was fleeting. Too fleeting.
This—this moment—was all that was left of him, the man who had once been everything to you. The man you loved so fiercely, so completely, and yet, whose love had faded as quickly as it had come.
As you stood there, watching him in all his vulnerability, you finally allowed the tears you had been holding back to fall freely. There was no more hiding, no more pretending. This was the end. The closure you had been yearning for was finally here.
“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the weight of your words took hold of your chest.
The name—his name—felt like a dagger, sharp and bittersweet, as it slipped from your lips. You closed your eyes for just a moment, and in that second, the rush of memories hit you like a wave. The laughter, the tenderness, the warmth that used to fill every space between you two. But as quickly as the memories came, they were replaced by the painful reality that this was no longer your life. He wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. Not in the way you once were.
“I love you, Tulip,” he whispered, his voice breaking like shattered glass, his hand reaching for yours with a desperate kind of tenderness.
But you pushed his hands away, the motion sharp, your heart aching at the rejection you had to force upon him. “Stop, Mingi,” you said, your voice trembling with raw emotion, your bottom lip wobbling as tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. “I’m no longer your wife.”
The words fell like a gavel in a silent courtroom—final, undeniable. They echoed in the small space between you, shattering whatever fragile illusion of reconciliation had lingered in his hopeful gaze.
Mingi stood there, frozen, his hand still hovering mid-air as if waiting for a different outcome, one that would never come. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed he might argue, might plead, might try to close the gap between you. But then he saw the anguish in your eyes, the pain you carried, and it stopped him in his tracks.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as though searching for answers that didn’t exist. “I feel it, Tulip. I feel this love—so real, so strong. How can you say that we’re not—”
“Mingi.” Your voice cracked as you interrupted him, your tears falling faster now. “The love is there. I know it is. But it’s not enough anymore. It died six years ago.”
His shoulders slumped as if the weight of your words had finally crushed him, the realization dawning painfully slow.
“I don’t remember the fights,” he said quietly, his tone almost childlike in its confusion. “The hurt, the divorce… I don’t remember any of it. All I know is what I feel now. And it feels real. It feels like I love you— No! I love you and I’ve always loved you.”
Your breath hitched, the raw vulnerability in his words cutting through you like a knife. You reached up, covering your mouth as a sob escaped.
“It’s not about what you remember,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s about what we’ve both lived through. The pain, the betrayal, the breaking of something so beautiful—we can’t just erase that. We can’t rewrite the past, no matter how much we want to.”
His eyes filled with tears as he took a tentative step closer. “But Tulip…”
You shook your head, the motion small but resolute. “You might not remember the scars, but I do. They’re a part of me now. A part of us. And I— We can’t keep living in this unfair nostalgia, holding onto something that’s already gone.”
Mingi’s face crumpled, his tears finally spilling over as he stared at you, helpless. “So that’s it?” he whispered, his voice breaking. You looked at him for what felt like the last time, your gaze lingering on every detail of the man you once called your everything. His mole on his left cheek, the sharp bridge of his nose, the way his crescent-shaped eyes still managed to smile even through the tears..
Your hand reached out, trembling, to settle on his cheek. He leaned into your touch without hesitation, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment. Your breath caught in your throat, a lump of sorrow and love you couldn’t swallow.
Maybe untying the fragile, fraying knot that held together your broken strings would set you both free—free to be bound to something stronger, something whole.
“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your thumb catching some of his tears, the words so soft they almost dissolved into the air, but their weight carried the entirety of your heart. Mingi’s lips parted, his gaze snapping to yours, as though he wanted to protest, to hold you there with him forever. But no words came. He simply stood, frozen, as you turned away.
He watched you walk away, each step you took feeling like it carved pieces out of him. The silence between you was deafening, each footfall heavier than the last.
The words weren’t just a goodbye—they were a love letter to the life you had shared, the dreams you had built, the memories you would carry forever. The unfair nostalgia lingered in the air between you, thick and suffocating, a reminder of what once was and what could never be.
Summary: Mingyu was preparing for a divorce when he began to sense that something was wrong with his wife.
Mingyu hadn’t been home since yesterday—or maybe since the day before that. He stopped counting after the fight, the kind that didn’t end with slammed doors but with silence, thickening the wall that had been building between you for over a year. He chose to stay in his humble studio, surrounded by paintings never meant for the world—only for him to face. Each canvas stared back in accusation, as if every unfinished stroke was cursing him.
You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.
Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.
And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.
His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.
“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”
He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.
You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.
“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.
He looked at you then, smiling softly.
“Her family didn’t let her.”
Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.
And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.
The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.
On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.
And there was no reason left to stay.
Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.
He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.
Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?
*
“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”
It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.
“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”
Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.
“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.
There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.
“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”
Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.
He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
Your parents had spoiled you too much.
Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.
Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.
Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.
The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.
They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.
He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.
Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.
He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.
“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.
He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.
He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.
“Ji Y/n…”
As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.
“Kim Mingyu..”
“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.
You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.
“I was just out for air.”
Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”
He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.
“Don’t yell at me.”
The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”
He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.
“Which home?”
He froze.
For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.
“Our home.” he said.
The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—
You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.
He cursed under his breath.
Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.
He called your mother and spoke quietly.
“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”
A pause.
“I’m taking her home.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.
Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.
*
Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.
You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.
He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.
But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.
He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.
“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.
“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.
“I’m just good.”
You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.
He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.
He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.
Since when had he started to hate your work?
It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.
The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.
He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.
However, none of that came.
Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.
“Morning.”
Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.
That was all it took to freeze him in place.
You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.
“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”
You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.
The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.
“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”
You looked at him for a moment, then down.
Your feet.
Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.
“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.
He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.
Your favorite.
He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.
Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.
“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”
You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.
“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”
The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.
Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”
You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”
He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.
That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.
“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.
Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”
He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.
“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”
You blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”
There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.
Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.
That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.
His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.
He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.
Your resignation.
You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.
The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.
Why would you give this up?
Was it for him?
For us?
The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.
You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”
The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.
Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.
Why now?
You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.
Then came the nervousness.
His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.
Was this your way of reaching out?
“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”
As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.
The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.
He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.
*
Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.
He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.
You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.
You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.
You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.
Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.
And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.
The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.
“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.
You looked up. “About what?”
“A kid.”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.
“No,” you said. Too quick.
Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.
“I don’t want one.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.
“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”
You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”
Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”
“I have thought about it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”
You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.
But you didn’t.
“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.
Mingyu blinked. “What?”
“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”
He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.
“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.
Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”
“It’s not just weight.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.
“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”
The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.
And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.
You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.
There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.
Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.
“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You didn’t turn immediately.
“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.
Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.
The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.
It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.
You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.
Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.
Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.
So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.
The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.
*
“What is this?”
Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.
His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?
A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.
Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.
And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.
Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.
Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.
Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.
“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.
And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.
“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.
“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”
Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.
“Aren’t we?”
The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.
You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.
Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.
“I’m tired, Y/n.”
The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”
There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.
“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”
The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.
“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”
Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.
“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Because at least that would make sense.”
But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.
“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”
The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.
“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”
He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.
“I can’t keep doing that.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.
That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.
“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”
A beat. Then, softer—
“I want a divorce.”
No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.
*
Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.
The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.
Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.
You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.
Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.
But it came out uneven. Shallow.
“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.
Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.
Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.
There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—
But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.
Because in your mind, you were still trying.
You drove to the gallery on autopilot.
The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.
You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.
Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.
But then—
Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.
Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.
“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”
You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.
“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.
The question threw you off more than it should have.
“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”
His brows furrowed.
“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”
A pause.
Then—
“It’s been a week since you resigned.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.
You stared at him.
“…What?”
Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.
“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”
Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
And that hesitation, that was worse.
“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s why you resigned.”
Something in your stomach dropped.
Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.
“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”
The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.
A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”
Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.
“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
They hung in the air—wrong.
Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.
Seungkwan froze.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.
“Again?” he asked quietly.
Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.
“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.
Again.
Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.
“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”
Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence—
it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.
Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.
“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”
The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.
Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”
But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.
A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.
A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.
It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.
“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”
Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.
“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”
The world tilted.
“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.
“No, that’s not—no.”
But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.
Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.
The word hit harder than anything else.
Miscarried.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.
“That’s not possible,” you whispered..
Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.
“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”
You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.
“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”
Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”
That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”
You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.
There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.
You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.
Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.
Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.
Patient Name: Y/n.
Date: two weeks ago.
Your breath caught. And then, there it was.
Miscarriage.
The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.
Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.
Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.
“…No.”
It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?
*
You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.
Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.
The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.
You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.
You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?
The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—
Mingyu.
Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.
You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.
Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.
Your throat tightened slightly.
“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”
There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.
“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.
Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.
“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”
The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.
“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”
The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.
Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.
You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.
The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.
Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.
A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.
The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.
A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.
Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.
The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.
Red.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.
Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.
Then silence.
A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.
Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Another shift.
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.
“Y/N!”
The world snapped back violently.
The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.
The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.
Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”
Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.
Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”
The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”
Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.
Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.
And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.
*
Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.
His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.
“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”
His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.
“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”
He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.
No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.
“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.
Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.
This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.
“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”
You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”
Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.
Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.
“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”
His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.
“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.
You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”
Mingyu froze.
“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”
But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?
His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?
His chest tightened.
“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”
You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”
Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.
But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.
And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.
“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”
The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.
“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”
And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.
Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”
Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”
Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.
“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”
Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.
“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”
Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.
“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.
You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.
Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.
“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”
That did it.
His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.
“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”
Your grip on him only tightened.
“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”
Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.
Again.
The words hit him harder than anything else had.
Again.
His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.
He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.
“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”
You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.
*
The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.
You were inside. Unconscious.
Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.
And just like that, you were gone.
The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?
Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.
Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.
“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.
Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.
“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.
Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.
Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”
Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.
“She’s had episodes like this before.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.
“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”
Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”
The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”
“She was assaulted.”
The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.
“…What?” The word barely left him.
Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”
Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.
“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”
Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.
“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”
“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.
Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.
“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.
Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”
Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.
And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.
His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.
“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”
Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.
Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.
His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.
Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.
“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”
“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”
Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”
Something in his chest dropped.
“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”
Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.
“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.
But days?
“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.
Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.
“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”
Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”
Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.
“I need space.”
The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.
“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”
Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”
Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.
“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”
Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.
Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.
It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.
“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”
Mingyu’s head snapped up.
“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”
His stomach dropped.
“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.
Mingyu froze.
“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.
His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.
Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.
“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”
Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”
Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.
Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.
And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.
*
You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.
You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.
It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.
Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.
At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.
And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.
So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.
Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.
And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.
You told yourself it was easier that way.
Safer.
If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.
But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.
You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.
You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.
The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.
Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.
You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.
And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.
*
Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.
“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.
The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.
You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?
“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”
She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.
You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.
“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”
The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.
“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.
Suji.
“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”
She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.
You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.
“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”
You paused mid-chew. You worked?
The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.
A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—
“Kim Mingyu.”
The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.
Suji froze slightly.
“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.
You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.
“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.
A small pause.
Then—
“My husband.”
The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.
Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.
Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.
My husband.
It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.
Name: Ji Y/N
Age: 56 years old
Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance
Guardian: —
Emergency Contact: —
Empty. All of it.
She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.
Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.
For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.
But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.
“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.
Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.
Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.
A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.
Suji went still.
“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.
Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.
She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.
Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.
And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.
Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.
Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.
Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.
Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.
Kim Mingyu.
*
The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.
And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.
Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.
Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.
He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.
Careless.
Cold.
He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.
“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.
You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.
“I know you,” you said softly.
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“My husband,” you added.
The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.
Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.
Mingyu swallowed.
“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.
You blinked.
“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—
A studio.
Raised voices.
His voice—
I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.
A paper in your hand.
The word divorce.
Your chest tightened—
And then it slipped.
Gone.
You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.
Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.
“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.
You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”
Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.
“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.
Mingyu stilled.
“What?” he asked.
Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.
I was scared.
I was hurting.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.
Your breathing faltered slightly.
“I—” you started.
Mingyu leaned forward just a little.
For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.
“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.
His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.
You tried.
God, you tried.
“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”
Your voice cracked.
Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.
But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”
Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.
“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.
The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.
You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.
“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”
The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.
You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.
“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.
Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.
The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.
“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.
“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”
The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.
“…I think I did,” you said softly.
And somehow, that hurt him more.
Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.
“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.
You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”
When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.
“Goodbye, Mingyu.”
He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.
However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .
All That I Need pt.2 | Choi Seungcheol | angst, fluff, 🔞
Pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader
Summary: You and Seungcheol go way back. Way way back. So far back that there isn’t a day in your life you haven’t known him. But what happens when one careless outsider observation undermines everything you thought you knew?
Word count: 22.3k (39.8k in total)
Genres/warnings: fluff, angst, smut; non-idol au; bff2l, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn-ish?, overthinking, miscommunicatioooon yesss pleaseeee, lots of complicated feelings while growing up, questionable beliefs installed by parents, dealing with doubt (aka questioning everything you knew before) and friendship drifting apart, just a lot of friendship related thots and events; pretty much a coming of age story ig; mentions of recreational drinking; mild jealousy and self-deprecation for it; there’s a one bed trope if you squint hard enough; idk what else to put here so if you find smth hit me up
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, it’s all very gentle, first time, lots of touching, making out, consent king!cheol x virgin!reader, oral (f rec), cheol is lowkey an eater, they talk a lot, protected piv sex (wow can you imagine??🫢), basically lovemaking🥰, if i missed anything lmk
A/N: pt 2 is here!! enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | Part 1
The guy's head snaps to the side, and he goes down like a sack of stones, collapsing against the seat.
You don't scream. You just freeze, your hand flying to your mouth. The world narrows to the sight of Seungcheol standing over him, his fist still clenched, his chest heaving. The music is still pounding, but in your bubble of shock, it sounds muffled, far away. You've never seen violence like that. You've never seen him like that—all primal, protective fury.
Mingyu is already crouching, checking the guy's pulse with two fingers at his neck. He looks up, his eyes comically big but voice calm like nothing happened. "He's breathing. Out cold, but breathing." He stands, running a hand through his hair. "But I think it's better we're not here when he comes to or when security notices."
Seungcheol doesn't look at the guy on the floor. He turns to you, his expression shifting from furious to intensely focused. "Are you hurt?" he asks, his voice rough.
You shake your head, mute.
"Can you walk?"
You nod, even though your limbs feel like they belong to someone else.
He doesn't ask again. He just reaches for your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours—his knuckles are split and bleeding, you notice distantly—and pulls you gently but firmly from the booth. His grip is iron-strong, grounding. "Gyu, get the others," he says over his shoulder, his voice low and urgent. "Meet us at the car."
Mingyu nods, already pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying as he presumably texts the group chat. "On it. Go. I'll get them."
Seungcheol doesn't let go of your hand as he leads you through the crowd, which parts instinctively, some people catching glimpses of the still form in the booth. No one stops you. The bouncers are at the front door, oblivious. It's not a movie-style escape; it's just two people walking very quickly, hearts hammering, trying to look normal while fleeing the scene of a profoundly stupid, rash decision.
The cool night air hits you like a slap as you burst out of the club's doors. You take a gulping breath, the relative silence ringing in your ears after the indoor roar. The city sounds—distant traffic, a siren—feel overwhelmingly loud.
Seungcheol finally releases your hand, but only to shove his own into his pockets. He's breathing hard, his shoulders tense. He looks down at his injured knuckles, flexing his fingers with a slight wince. "Shit," he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You're trembling, but not from the cold. You're trembling from the shock, from the violent rupture of the evening, from adrenaline. "Your hand," you manage to say, your voice so rough you have to clear your throat.
"It's fine," he shakes his head, but he doesn't sound fine. He sounds shaken, angry, and wired all at once. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours in the dim streetlight. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I just… I saw him in your space and you looked…"
He trails off, shaking his head. The adrenaline is still vibrating off him in waves. You look at him and realise you don't entirely recognise this person. This is your friend—the one who cried with you while watching Lion King, the one who used to need your help navigating conversations with strangers—and he just did something incredibly stupid and violent because someone scared you. The rational part of your brain worries this might have consequences though it probably won't. But the louder part is still stuck on the notion of what it means that he snapped like that.
You force yourself to look away and breathe. As many times before, you're not ready to dig into the implications of what this all possibly means. Right now you just want to go home, to the safety of your walls, to the warmth of your bed where nothing happens and no one gets knocked unconscious for you, because of you. It's too many things to process in one night.
"Hey. Let's get to the car, okay?" You pull his attention gently, taking his uninjured hand and tugging so he starts walking. Your fingers wrap around his, and you feel the fine tremor running through him. Seungcheol just nods and follows, his feet moving mechanically. You can tell he's in just as much shock as you are, maybe even more. The adrenaline that fuelled him is crashing, leaving hollowness in its wake.
Being the only sober person leaves you as the designated driver, just like you thought you would be. Mingyu emerges from the club with the others—Soonyoung looking bewildered, Violet and Ginger clutching each other's arms, Chan and Vernon bringing up the rear with matching expressions of what the fuck just happened. Mingyu takes charge of herding them to the car, his voice low and urgent. After everyone gets in you take time giving everyone a ride to their places. Then you drive to Seungcheol's apartment.
He's silent the entire ride, sitting in the passenger seat by your side. His split knuckles rest on his thigh, and you notice he's clenching and unclenching his jaw. The city lights slide across his face in rhythmic intervals, illuminating a blank, shuttered expression you've never seen before.
Only because he insists—a mumbled, slurred protest as you try to leave him at his door—you stay at his apartment for the night, taking his couch. He tosses you a blanket from the hallway closet, his movements heavy and uncoordinated, and disappears into his bedroom without another word. You lie there in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of his space, replaying the image of his fist connecting with that man's jaw until exhaustion finally pulls you under.
The next morning, you're up before him. Grey light filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. You stay on the couch, unmoving, just staring upward and listening to the faint sounds of the city waking. Your mind is a static blur, too tired to process, too wired to rest properly.
When Seungcheol finally emerges from his bedroom, he looks like hell. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose head is pounding like a church bell. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of you bundled on his couch, and something flickers across his face.
He shuffles to the kitchen, downs a glass of water, and then appears in the living room doorway again, leaning against the frame. "Hey," he croaks.
"Hey."
He rubs the back of his neck, wincing. "Listen. About last night. I'm so sorry." The words tumble out, raw and earnest. "I'm sorry you had to witness me like that. I was just—I was drunk, and I saw that guy, and he was in your space and you looked so uncomfortable and I…" He trails off, shaking his head. "I snapped. That's not who I am. I don't do that. I just couldn't stand the thought of some creep making my best friend feel unsafe."
Your heart sinks a little. It's a tiny, traitorous movement in your chest, but you feel it. Best friend. He says it so intentionally, so clearly, like he's reinforcing the walls between you. Not because he hated seeing someone bother you specifically, but because you're his best friend and that's what friends do—they protect each other. The distinction shouldn't matter. It does.
You don't let it show. You've had years of practice hiding these small, sharp disappointments. You just offer him a small smile, the one you've perfected. "It's nothing, Cheol. Really. That guy was a creep and he deserved what he got." You shrug, aiming for casual. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. I mean, sure, maybe don't make a habit of knocking people out for your friends, but I'd be more disappointed if you did nothing at all," you give him a small reassuring smile.
He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You swing your legs off the couch, stretching. "Now go shower. I don't want to go anywhere near you, I can imagine what you smell like just from one look."
He laughs, a small sound of relief, and disappears back into his room.
After all, if he's putting you in a specific box with a specific label, there isn't much that you can do about it, right? You can't argue with the way he sees you. You can't rewrite the definition he's settled on. So you don't. You just go back to what it was. The careful, precious friendship you rebuilt. The one you told yourself was enough.
You pull the blanket over your lap and wait for him to emerge, ready to be normal again.
Ready to pretend the box fits just fine.
It's only a couple of weeks later that you're hanging out with his friend group again. You really should consider calling them your friend group now, with how frequent a guest you've become in his circle. Sure, you don't really talk to them outside of these planned gatherings—no late-night texts, no shared memes, no inside jokes that don't involve Seungcheol as a bridge—but still, you think you're getting close to it despite your earlier judgment. The edges don't feel as sharp anymore. The laughter doesn't sound as foreign.
Tonight you're at a bar. It's still not your scene really, but at least it's quieter here, the music a background murmur instead of an obstacle to be overcome for proper communication. You can actually hear yourself think, which is a luxury you've come to appreciate. You'd be happy to say that tonight is nothing different from the rest, another easy evening of shared drinks and scattered conversation.
But it is.
And you hate it.
As your bunch waits outside for Soonyoung and whatever friend he's bringing—he'd been mysterious about it, which should have been your first warning—you really don't mind a single thing in the world. The evening air is warm but not sticky. The streetlights cast a soft glow on the sidewalk. You're chuckling at something Violet said, a ridiculous story about her cat learning to open cabinets, and the sound of your own laughter is loose and genuine. The guys are talking about their own thing—something about a video game, you think, catching fragments of Chan's animated explanations.
You're fully aware of Seungcheol, though. You always are. He's literally at your back, close enough that if you leaned just slightly, you'd press against his chest. His presence makes the hairs on the nape of your neck stand, a physical awareness that you've stopped trying to suppress. It's just there now, a constant hum beneath your skin whenever he's near. Sometimes you feel his fingers play with the strands of your hair absentmindedly as he talks and it sends shivers up your spine, to the point where you have to hiss at him to stop because it's disturbing (you're just afraid you might whimper at one point).
This is when you hear Soonyoung's loud ass calling out to your group, his voice cutting through the ambient city noise and dragging everyone's attention toward him. He's jogging up the sidewalk, all long limbs and chaotic energy, and there's a girl by his side.
When she comes closer and beams a smile at everyone, you think she's pretty. Objectively, immediately, painfully pretty. She has the kind of face that makes strangers want to befriend her—open, warm, approachable. You also realize some of the group know her briefly. Introductions ripple through the circle: Mina is a friend of Soonyoung's, and she shares her major with Seungcheol. Business, you remember. She's in some of his classes.
You don't mind her. Not yet. There's no reason to.
Until the very moment your little group—since there are fewer of you tonight than usual—trickles into the bar and takes a booth. Which is no longer than five minutes.
You're absentmindedly heading for your usual spot, the one by Seungcheol's side that's become instinct by now. Your body knows where to go. Your feet carry you there without conscious thought. Only to suddenly find it… occupied.
By Mina.
Your brain buffers for a good, frozen second, processing the change like a computer with too many tabs open. She's sitting there, next to him, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like she belongs there. Like she doesn't even know she's taken something that wasn't hers to take. To be frank she actually doesn't, but you think that to be beyond the point.
It's when she notices you standing there, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the booth, that she speaks. "Oh, I'm sorry—do you want to sit here? I can move, I didn't realize—"
She's already half-rising to usher Seungcheol to slide deeper into the booth, her expression genuinely apologetic, and that makes it so much worse.
You unfreeze, throwing out a hurried, "It's fine, don't bother," before your brain can catch up with your mouth. The words come out too bright and fast, and you're already turning away before you have to see her settle back into your spot.
You make a full one-eighty and zero in on Mingyu on the opposite side of the table. He's sprawled comfortably, taking up more than his fair share of space.
"Move," you say.
He looks up, blinking. "What? Why? There's room over—"
"Move your ass, Mingyu."
He starts to protest, a whine building in his throat, but you just stare silent daggers at him. You feel your patience running out, a thin, fraying wire ready to snap. Something in your eyes must convey this because he immediately shuts up, his mouth clicking closed. He hasn't seen you this annoyed since the club incident, and you do keep bringing that up every opportunity you get just to make Seungcheol groan and bury his face in his hands. So seeing you this mad now certainly means something, and Mingyu clearly doesn't want to find out what the consequences of pushing you further might be.
He scrambles to shift, grumbling under his breath, and you slide into the newly vacated space with a muttered, "Thanks."
The rest of your evening, you spend in a spoiled mood.
It's exhausting, this silent, secret surveillance you're conducting. From across the table, you watch them. You can't help it. Mina leans in to say something to Seungcheol, her hand brushing his arm, and you feel your jaw tighten. She laughs at something he responds with, her head tilting back, and you notice the way his lips quirk in response. She's just being friendly. You know this. She's new to the group tonight, of course she's going to gravitate toward the person she already knows best.
But jealousy that stems from insecurity is an ugly lens. It warps things to a degree that is difficult to unsee. It colours everything Mina does in this greenish, sickly tint. Every smile she gives to Seungcheol, every look, every brief, casual touch on his arm while she talks animatedly about something you can't hear—it all feeds the tight, hot knot in your chest.
You hate it. But maybe you hate yourself more. For feeling all of it at all. Because what right do you have? What claim can you possibly stake?
You're his best friend. That's the box. That's the label. You agreed to it. You told yourself it was enough.
But it's just so painfully clear now, watching her, how easy it could be for someone else. How uncomplicated. She doesn't carry two decades of history like a weight. She doesn't have a cracked foundation to rebuild from. She's not too much. And your history with him is too much, you realise. You're too much. All those summers, all those silences, all that shared, tangled past—it's not a foundation, it's a fortress, and you're trapped inside while she gets to walk in through the front door.
Of course he would prefer a girl like her. A blank canvas. Someone who doesn't come with a decade and a half of baggage, of fights and reconciliations and awkward apologies and unspoken questions. Someone he can just… like. Simply. Without the weight of everything that came before.
And of course, you shouldn't even bother thinking about it because it doesn't matter. You're his best friend. That's the role. That's the assignment. You don't get to audition for a part when you already have been cast for a role.
You aren't very talkative when you're in a group of people. It's just how you're wired. You always prefer to listen when there are more than three voices in the conversation. Seungcheol's friends have learned that about you, accepted it as part of the package. But tonight you're even more silent than your first time meeting them. The quiet has shifted from comfortable to conspicuous, and it reveals something you wish it didn't.
Your intolerance of Mina grows when, for some wicked reason, her attention falls on you. Maybe she's noticed your silence. Maybe she's one of those people who can't stand someone being left out. She starts trying to involve you in the conversation, asking your opinion on something someone said, turning her warm smile in your direction.
It happens when Violet pauses mid-story, reaching for her drink, and the conversation lulls for just a beat. Mina seizes it.
"So you've known Seungcheol forever, right?" Her voice is bright, genuinely curious. She's looking at you across the table with those warm, open eyes. "He just mentioned about that time you two got lost in the woods as kids. It's adorable."
The table's attention shifts. It's like a physical weight, settling on your shoulders. You feel heads turn, eyes land. Even Seungcheol glances at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth like he's anticipating some shared joke in response.
You force your lips into something approximating a smile. "Oh. That."
"I'd love to hear more," Mina presses, leaning forward slightly. Her elbow rests on the table, her chin in her palm. She looks genuinely interested. It's excruciating. "You must have so many stories. Growing up together like that. It's so rare."
Your skin feels too tight and heated. The warmth of the bar, comfortable moments ago, now presses in on you like a blanket that's too heavy and suffocating on a summer day. You're acutely aware of everyone listening, of the expectation hanging in the air. You feel a spike of irritation. Why don't you ask him then if he mentioned it at all? And who the hell finds getting lost in the woods adorable?
"It was just…" You search for words that will end this on the spot. "We were kids. We did kid stuff. Nothing exciting."
Mina laughs, a light, easy sound. "I'm sure it was more exciting than you're letting on. Seungcheol's told me a few things already." She glances at him, and something in her smile shifts—softer, more private. You might throw up or throw something across the table. "I think he's very fond of those memories."
Something hot curls in your stomach. He's told her things. Of course he has. Why wouldn't he? She's in his classes, he knows her, they do talk most likely. Or maybe he's been whispering stuff to her right now, smiling about it to her. Ether way, she gets to hear the sanitized, cute versions of your shared history while you sit here, the actual participant, reduced to an anecdote.
You know you're warping it excessively and still do it.
"Fond is one word for it," you manage. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears. Too flat. Too controlled.
Violet, oblivious, chimes in. "Tell the one about the mud cake! That one's hilarious."
You want to sink through the floor. Instead, you pick up your drink and take a long sip, using the moment to gather yourself. When you set it down, you keep your eyes on the glass.
"There's not much to tell. We made a mess. My mom was mad. The end."
It comes out dismissive. You know it does. You see the flicker in Mina's expression, the slight recoil. She wasn't expecting that. She was expecting warmth, camaraderie, the easy sharing of memories—that aren't hers to be shared, aren't anyone's but yours and his.
Seungcheol shifts in his seat. "It was a little more dramatic than that," he says lightly, trying to smooth things over. "It happened in her mom's flower garden and I don't think it fully recovered even to this day."
A few people chuckle. The tension eases slightly. Mina smiles again, though it's more hesitant now, her eyes studying you with a new, curious wariness.
You hate that she's studying you. You hate that she's trying. You hate that she's sitting there, pretty and kind and perfectly pleasant, and all you feel is a hot, irrational loathing that you have to choke down with every sip of your drink.
Not wanting to snap at her for no reason—not wanting to reveal the ugly, green thing clawing at your insides—you excuse yourself from the table. "Bathroom," you murmur, already sliding out of the booth before anyone can respond.
You escape. The bathroom is mercifully empty, a small, tiled space. You grip the edge of the sink and stare at your reflection. You look normal. You look fine. No one would know that inside, everything is churning.
He's very fond of those memories. The words loop, sticky and persistent. You press your palms against the cool porcelain and try to breathe. It's not her fault. You repeat it like a mantra. She doesn't know. She can't know. She's just being friendly, just trying to include you, and you're sitting out there like a cornered animal, snapping at kind gestures.
You run cold water over your wrists, watching it pool and drip. The hate you feel is ugly and unreasonable and you despise yourself for it most of all. She's pretty and warm and she makes him laugh. Of course she does. Why wouldn't she?
When you can't justify hiding any longer, you dry your hands and head back.
The walk to the booth feels longer than it should. You can see them from here—Mina talking about something, Seungcheol responding, the easy energy of their conversation. You slide into your seat by Mingyu's side, and you catch Seungcheol giving you a look. A crease between his brows, a question in his eyes as his brow raises. He noticed it took you long.
You respond with a smile, one you hope looks reassuring. It feels like a mask, stiff and unconvincing on your face, but he seems to accept it and turns back to whatever Mina is saying.
After that you deliberately take your attention off of him. You fix it on Soonyoung, who's talking about something you don't really care to catch up to. You just nod at the right moments. You even manage a chuckle when someone else laughs. You're physically present but everything inside you is silently screaming.
And across the table, Mina laughs at something Seungcheol said, and her hand finds his arm again.
You look away. Your eyes land on your glass, half-empty, condensation beading on the outside. You trace a finger through the moisture, drawing invisible lines, focusing on the cool wetness instead of of their interaction just across the table.
"So what do you think?"
Violet's voice cuts through. She's looking at you expectantly. The whole table is, actually. You missed the question entirely. In fact you don't even know how much of conversation you missed and what's the topic at the moment.
"Sorry," you say, shaking your head slightly. "Zoned out. What was that?"
"I said, don't you think Mina and Seungcheol would make a cute couple?" Violet grins at the two, clearly enjoying herself. "They've got that whole 'same major, same classes' thing going on. Would you approve as his childhood friend?"
Your stomach drops. You feel heat crawl up your neck and you pray the dim lighting hides it.
Across the table, Mina laughs, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh stop, we're barely friends." But she glances at Seungcheol when she says it, and there's something in that glance that makes your chest tighten and your skin crawl.
Seungcheol just shrugs, easy and unbothered. "We survive group projects together. That's the extent of it."
He doesn't say no. He doesn't say not interested or not my type or any of the things your brain is desperately scanning for. He just deflects, smooth and casual, and lets the moment pass.
Violet keeps teasing for a minute longer. Someone else joins in. The conversation shifts, buoyant and playful, and you're left holding your glass, smiling along, the cold condensation seeping into your fingers.
You don't look at them again. Not at her hand, not at his arm, not at the easy way they exist in each other's space. You keep your eyes on Violet, on Mingyu, on anyone who isn't them. You keep the smile fixed, a little tight at the edges, but passable.
No one notices. You hope no one does.
You came to the gathering with Seungcheol, and when the time comes that you decide you're done for the night and can't sit through this shitshow any longer, you don't expect him to leave with you. After all, he's been having a great time talking to Mina the entire night. You don't even think he spoke to you once outside the context of someone else starting a conversation, pulling you in like an afterthought. Oh, what do you think? And you'd answer, brief and polite, and he'd nod along before his attention drifted back across the table. Back to her.
It leaves you dumbfounded. Not in a dramatic, world-shattering way. Just in a quiet, hollow one. Like discovering a bruise you don't remember getting.
Yes, you think you have no right to feel jealous. Seungcheol is not yours. You've established this. You've accepted this. Or you thought you had. But is it really that unreasonable? He's been giving you mixed signals for months now. Playing this push and pull, this careful, confusing game. Putting you firmly in the best friend box with one hand while the other hand—the one that reflexively knocked out a guy for being too in your space, the one that plays with your hair when you're standing close, the one that throws an arm over the couch back so it rests right behind your shoulders—does things that don't fit that box at all.
He does things for you that you can obviously do yourself. Holds doors a beat too long. Opens bottles before you can reach for them. Touches your lower back to guide you through crowds. Small things. Nothing you could point to and say see, this means something. But they add up. They sink into your skin and settle there, a quiet accumulation of maybes.
So when you decide to be the first to leave and begin standing up, saying your excuses—it's late (it's really not), you're tired (you are, but not in the way they'll understand)—you unintentionally catch Seungcheol by surprise.
Mingyu grabs your forearm, his puppy eyes wide and his lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout. "Nooo, you can't leave yet. The night is young. We haven't even done the thing where we all complain about our majors yet."
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. "You can complain without me. I've heard it before."
"Not the point. The point is solidarity!" He tugs gently. "One more drink. Please? For me?"
It's in this moment that Seungcheol seems to snap out of whatever daze he's been under this entire evening. His head turns, his gaze sharpening as it lands on you—standing, bag in hand, clearly ready to go.
"I'll walk you," he speaks up suddenly.
The words cut through the ambient noise of the bar, through Mingyu's pleading, through the low murmur of conversation at nearby tables. They land directly in your chest, heavy and wrong.
You feel bile rise in your throat. The growing agitation and anxiety inside you coil tighter, a spring wound too far. Your eyes dart toward his and glue there, unable to look away. Your teeth clench to the point where your jaw aches, your tongue pressing against the back of your throat until you feel vaguely nauseous. Your eyes sting briefly, a prickle of heat you blink away furiously.
"No," you say. The word comes out firmer than you expected. "No, it's fine."
His eyebrows cinch together, a grim line forming between them. You don't need him to say anything to know he doesn't like this particular no he's receiving from you. His mouth opens, ready to protest, ready to insist.
You cut him off before he can start.
"Really, Cheol. You're having a great time. I'd hate to take that away from you." You let your gaze flick briefly off his face, a tiny shift to the left—just a flicker, just long enough—before returning to him. You don't need to look at her to express it. The underline is there, clear as day, written in the spaces between your words. You've barely looked at me all night. You've been entirely hers. Don't pretend otherwise now just because I'm leaving.
You see it land. The slight flinch in his expression, the way his jaw tightens. He reads you painfully well. He always could.
You also hate that you're saying it. Even though you're making yourself sound light and unbothered, a casual dismissal delivered with a small shrug and a tired smile. You know no one else at this table can read into it. To them, you're just being considerate, letting him stay and enjoy his night. But there's just enough space in your tone, just enough of a crack, for one person to squeeze in and see through.
It's just you and Seungcheol now. Reading between the lines. The rest of the table fades to background noise.
And you're being a stupid idiot. You know it. Letting him know in the most pathetic, passive-aggressive way possible that you're jealous. That you hate not being the centre of his attention, even though you have no claim to it. Even though you've spent years telling yourself you don't want it.
It throws you back. A childhood memory, sudden and sharp.
You're five years old. Seungcheol has been gone from the village for a few days—him and his parents visiting his grandparents. His house has felt empty, wrong. At some point, you cried about it. Not loudly, not for long, but enough for your parents to notice. They sat you down and taught you something then: you shouldn't cry because of boys. Even friends. Especially friends. And you definitely shouldn't admit that you did to Seungcheol. So when they came back and he asked, all earnest curiosity, whether you missed him and cried, you lifted your chin and said you didn't. Because you were a proud girl. And proud girls don't cry over boys.
And now here you are. Twenty-something years old, playing cypher mind games, unable to express your hurt because it's still too embarrassing. Too vulnerable. Too much like handing him the upper hand on your emotions, even after all these years. Even though it's him.
Your heart just stops beating entirely when he sighs.
He doesn't look at you when he does it. He looks down at the table, at his hands, at anything but you. Then he shifts, turning slightly toward Mina.
"Excuse me for a sec," he says, his voice low and polite. "Can you let me out?"
Mina blinks, clearly caught off guard, but she nods and shifts, sliding out of the booth to let him pass. She murmurs something—everything okay?—and he offers a tight smile, a quick reassurance you don't catch.
Then he's standing. He briefly brushes at his shirt, straightening it in an unconscious gesture you've seen a thousand times. His big, dark eyes find yours across the small space. There's something in them you can't quite name. Not anger. Not quite disappointment. Something much more tangled.
He nods his chin toward the door. Toward the exit. Toward the night air and the quiet street and the walk home that you were supposed to take alone.
"Let's go."
It's not a question. It's not even an offer. It's a statement, levelled and calm, that brooks no argument.
The stubborn side of you thinks you should argue. You should insist again, let him stay, let him have his night with Mina and her easy laugh and her hand on his arm. You should be the proud girl who doesn't cry over boys and doesn't need anyone to walk her home.
But your feet are already moving. Your bag is already over your shoulder. You're already stepping away from the booth, avoiding everyone's curious eyes, following him toward the door.
The night air hits you like a wall. Cool and clean and mercifully quiet after the noise inside. He's already a few steps ahead, his back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets.
You follow. Because what else can you do?
It's just a minute later that you feel the need to fill the silence. It feels oppressive, heavy as a physical weight pressing down on your chest. Like you're a child who messed up and is now walking toward punishment, the kind where you know you've done something wrong but don't fully understand what. And it's no fun at all.
He's walking a couple of steps ahead of you, hands still shoved deep in his pockets, his entire posture radiating tension. The set of his shoulders, the rigid line of his back—it all screams that something is wrong. You watch him with a frown as you follow, your feet matching his pace automatically despite the distance.
And because you're feeling defensive and prickly, because the silence is eating at you, what ends up tumbling out of your mouth is a repeat of earlier.
"You really should've just stayed back there."
This time, however, your tone isn't so thinly veiled. The careful lightness you'd manufactured at the table is gone. Your irritation is out in the open now, raw and unmistakable, loud enough for any passing ear to catch.
Seungcheol stops dead in his tracks.
You halt too, caught off guard, suddenly cautious as he turns to face you. You haven't walked very far. The bar is still behind you, its neon sign buzzing faintly if you listen closely, visible if you just turn your head. For a moment, you genuinely fear he might take on your offer. That he'll walk past you without a word, back to his friends and the warm booth and Mina's easy laughter, leaving you here with your stupid, confusing outbursts and the cold night air.
Instead, he does something worse.
"Do you actually want me to go?" His voice is quiet. Tired. Like he already knows the answer before you open your mouth, like he's asking just to hear you say it. Like he's giving you an out and daring you to take it at the same time.
You retreat. It's instinctive, a pulling back into yourself. Your eyes drop from his face, travelling down—past his jaw, his chest, the line of his torso—until they land on the tips of his sneakers. The bulky kind you teased him for last week, calling them moon boots, refusing to admit that you actually liked the way he styled them with his outfits. That they looked good on him.
You shake your head. "No."
It comes out quiet. Barely audible.
You'd hate yourself till the end of times if you actually made him leave. Because beneath the pushing away and the pretending to be fine, beneath the performance of independence and the insistence that he stay with his friends, you were begging for one thing: for him to choose you. For once, without you having to ask, without you having to make yourself vulnerable and pathetic and obvious. Just him, deciding that you matter more than the conversation he was having, more than the girl whose hand kept finding his arm, more than the easy flow of the evening.
And now that he has—or it seems like he has, you don't dare let yourself believe it fully, not yet, not when believing things like this has only ever led to disappointment—you don't know what to do with it. You didn't think this far ahead. You never do and that's on you.
"I'm sorry." The words slip out before you can stop them. You feel foolish. Tired. Confused. And beneath all of that, the familiar doubt is creeping in, cold and insidious. What are you even doing? What are you hoping for? What right do you have to hope for anything?
You feel inadequate. Inhibited. Like every emotion you've been trying to contain is pressing against your skin from the inside, looking for a way out.
You only know Seungcheol is moving because your eyes are still fixed on his sneakers. They shift, angle toward you. Step by step, they eat up the distance between you until they're right there, toe to toe with your own much plainer shoes.
It's too scary to look up. Your eyes travel only as high as your eye level, which lands you squarely at his collarbones. The collar of his t-shirt is low enough for that. You can see the faint pulse beating under his skin there, a small, vulnerable movement that feels impossibly intimate to witness.
He's standing so close now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. That you can smell his ridiculously expensive cologne that you teased him about as well, yet again masking the way it made you feel dizzy when he wore it. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly, you'd press against his chest. The urge to take a step back, to create space, to regain some semblance of control, is almost overwhelming. His proximity makes you feel unmoored, untethered from your own body, like you're watching yourself from somewhere far away.
You think it shows anyway. In the way your breath hitches, shallow and uneven. In the way your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird. You clench your hands at your sides to stop them from trembling.
"Look at me." His voice is low. Not quite a demand, not quite a plea. Something in between that makes your stomach tighten. You only make it as far as the spot on his cheek where you know a dimple appears when he smiles. It's smooth now, expressionless. You can't force yourself to meet his eyes. You can't. It's too much. "You can't even look me in the eye."
The disappointment in his voice cuts. But it also sparks something hot and defensive in your chest.
"Why should I?" The words come out before you can stop them. Sharper than you intended. Your eyes finally snap up to meet his, and the sight of him—the tension in his jaw, the furrow between his brows—makes your pulse hammer. "You haven't looked at me all night. Why should I?"
He blinks. Something flickers across his face, too fast to name. You think it's because your reasoning sounds childish. Even to your own ears you sounded too much like a child who was refused her favourite toy. You won't admit to it though.
"That's not—"
"It's not what?" You're shaking now. You can feel it, a fine tremor running through your hands. "Not true? You sat there for hours, Seungcheol. Hours. And I don't think you once looked in my direction unless someone else dragged me into the conversation first."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" You laugh, and it sounds nothing like a laugh—hollow, breathless, wrong. "I was right there. I saw you. You were so wrapped up in her you didn't even notice when I stopped talking altogether." You don't mention that he did look at you that one time you returned from the bathroom. It was just once and he was quick to return to his conversation after you gave him a ghost of a smile. In your head it doesn't count for much.
Silence. He just looks at you, and the weight of his gaze is unbearable.
"What did you want me to do?" His voice is quieter now. Rougher. "She was sitting next to me. She was talking to me. Was I supposed to ignore her because you were on the other side of the table?"
"Yes." The word rips out of you before you can catch it. You feel your face heat. "No. I don't—I don't know what I wanted. I just know I hated it. I hated watching her touch your arm and laugh at your jokes and sit in my spot like it was nothing. I hated that you let her. I hated that I had to pretend I didn't care."
You stop. Your breath is coming too fast. The words keep tumbling out, unstoppable now.
"I've been pretending for so long, Cheol. Pretending I don't notice when you look at me a certain way, when you probe my boundaries. Pretending I don't feel it when you touch me. Pretending I'm fine with just being your childhood friend when half the time I want to—"
You cut yourself off, terrified of what slipped past. You hurry to shove the words back down where they came from. Where they should've stayed buried and unheard. But it's too late and Seungcheol is staring at you. His hands are still at his sides, but you see them curl into fists, then relax, then curl again. A war playing out in him.
"When you want to what?" His voice is low and careful. Afraid of spooking you.
You shake your head. Step back. The movement is instinctive, a retreat to safer ground where you can build up a wall once again.
"Forget it. Forget I said anything."
You turn to walk around him, to continue your path. You don't get away even two full steps because his hand wraps around your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you, to feel the heat of his palm against your skin.
"Don't." The way he says it, so pained, makes your heart stutter.
You don't turn around. You can't. If you look at him now, you'll break. You know it with absolute certainty.
"You've been doing this for months," you say to the empty street ahead. And your voice is much steadier than you feel. "Pulling me close. Pushing me away. Doing these stupid little things like I'm yours and then acting like nothing happened. And I let you. I let you because I'd rather have pieces and crumbs of you than none at all. But tonight—" Your throat closes up. You force the words through anyway. "Tonight I watched you give someone else the attention I've been starving for, and I can't. I can't keep doing this."
His grip on your wrist tightens. Just slightly.
"Look at me." His voice cracks on the last word. "Please."
It's the please that does it. The please that sounds as broken as you feel.
You turn.
He's closer than you expected. Close enough that you can see the sheen in his eyes, the way his jaw is working like he's holding something back. His hand is still around your wrist. His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing.
"I don't know what I'm doing," the admission comes out raw and stripped of anything that could've covered it before. "I don't know how to be around you anymore. Haven't known for a while. I don't know what I'm allowed to feel or say or want when it comes to you. Every time I think I've figured it out, I look at you and everything shifts."
You think you can barely breathe.
"Tonight." He swallows. Closes his eyes for a second. Opens them. "Tonight I spent the whole night trying not to look at you. Because when I look at you, I can't think about anything else. And I didn't know how to be next to her and pretend I was present when all I could think about was whether you were okay. Whether you were having fun. Whether you were watching me the way I was trying not to watch you."
The air leaves your lungs.
"You—"
"I know." He laughs, but there's no humour in it. Just exhaustion. Just the same soul-deep tiredness you've been carrying. "I know it doesn't make sense. I know I'm sending you mixed signals. I know I'm a coward who can't figure out how to want you without being terrified of losing you."
His hand slides from your wrist to your hand. His fingers thread through yours, tentative, hesitant.
"I don't know what to do with this." He looks down at your joined hands. Then back up at you. "I don't know what to do with you. With us. I don't know how to be your friend anymore."
The last statement makes your heart feel heavy as Seungcheol looks at you for a long, agonizing moment. His free hand comes up, hovers near your face, then drops back to his side like he's not allowed to touch you.
"I want to stop pretending," he finally says. "I want to stop pretending I don't notice the way you smell. I want to stop pretending I don't feel it when you lean into me. I want to stop pretending that when you were leaving the table tonight, I didn't want to dumbly follow you the second you stood up."
Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. Or see it. Certainly. With the way it beats against your ribcage so painfully there's no way it's invisible.
"So why didn't you?" The question comes out small. Vulnerable. "Why did you wait?"
"Because I'm scared." His honesty is a blade. "Because you're everything and I'm terrified of losing you. Because I've already lost you once and I don't think I'd survive it again."
Silence stretches between you, full of everything you've both been too afraid to say.
"I'm scared too," you whisper.
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. Small, soothing motions. You think he's doing it unconsciously, to soothe himself more than you. But you also know how tactile he can be, especially his intoxicated self. And while he isn't drunk in this moment there's still alcohol in his blood which means less inhibitions. Your chain of thought is cut off when he gives your hand a small squeeze.
"I know."
Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You just stand there, hands linked, in the middle of the street with the bar glowing behind you and the night stretching ahead. The air between you is electrified, humming with possibility and fear of it in equal measure.
"I should go home." Your voice is quiet. Reluctant.
He nods but doesn't let go of your hand.
"Yeah."
You start walking. Together. Your hand still in his. Neither of you acknowledges it. Neither of you pulls away. The silence that stretches on the walk to your apartment building is different from the one that hung over you when you walked out the bar. It's not oppressive anymore. Instead it feels careful. Precious. Like something fragile that might shatter if either of you speaks. And so neither of you dares.
When you reach your building, you finally let go. The loss of contact is tangible. You feel it in the evident coldness around your palm and the way it registers so uncomfortably.
"Goodnight, Seungcheol."
He lingers. Just for a second. His eyes search your face for something and you stop yourself from wondering what it might be.
"Goodnight."
You enter the building and make it to the elevators. As soon as you step inside and the doors close behind you and lean against the mirrored wall, pressing your palm to your mouth to muffle the sound that escapes—half laugh, half sob, something caught between terror and relief.
Your hand still tingles where his was wrapped around it. You press it to your chest, over your heart, and feel it race.
You don't need to think too hard to understand that the line you've both been walking is egg-shell thin now. One wrong step and everything could change.
One right step, too.
Your morning starts with your phone ringing insistently. You don't remember putting an alarm on today. You never do on your birthdays. Especially not when there are no plans to meet your friends—it's often that they're too busy to gather that very week, so you've learned to schedule a week or two later before you actually see them. This time is no different, and you were planning to use the privilege of staying in bed until late afternoon since you stayed up late. Would've used, if your alarm hadn't gone off.
Your brain is scattered and confused before you realize it's not an alarm at all. It's your ringtone. Someone is calling you.
With a groan and a raspy curse, you reach blindly for your phone on the nightstand. Your fingers fumble against the wood, knock over a hair claw you don't remember leaving there, and finally close around the device. You swipe to answer without even looking at the screen.
"Mm?"
You're immediately awake when you register Seungcheol's voice on the line.
"Happy birthday." He sounds amused. Deeply, irritatingly amused. "That's a hell of a greeting."
You groan again, louder this time, pressing the phone against your ear while simultaneously trying to bury your face in the pillow. "What time is it?"
"Two."
"Two in the—" You pause. Your brain, sluggish and cottony, tries to process this information. "Two in the afternoon?"
"Mhm."
You want to be a grateful friend. You really do. But you're also very tired and absolutely not awake, and it's extremely tempting to hang up right now because you cannot muster a coherent response. Instead, you make a sound that's somewhere between acknowledgement and suffering.
He laughs. Actually laughs. The bastard.
"I'll let you wake up properly," he is still chuckling. "But I'm picking you up at six."
That does it.
You shoot up in bed so fast the world tilts and you have to quickly brace yourself against the mattress before dropping back down. "You're what?"
"Picking you up. At six." He's enjoying this. You can hear it in his voice, the way he draws out each word.
"What do you mean you're picking me up? Picking me up for what? Where are we going? Seungcheol—"
The questions tumble out of you in a rush, your heart suddenly pounding for reasons that have little to do with being startled awake. Your mind races through possibilities, each one more confusing than the last.
"I'm not telling you."
"Excuse me?"
"It's a surprise. That's how birthdays work." He sounds infuriatingly calm and entertained. "You'll find out at six."
"Seungcheol." You grip the phone tighter, imagining your hand closing around his neck instead. "I'm in bed. I haven't showered. I was planning to stay asleep for another three hours. I don't know what I'm supposed to wear. I don't even know where we're going!"
"Then you have four hours to figure it out." There's a smile in his voice. "Plenty of time."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "Wear something warm. And comfortable shoes."
The line goes dead.
You stare at your phone for a long moment, your reflection a dark smudge on the screen. Your heart is still racing. Your brain is still scrambling to catch up.
He's picking you up. At six. For your birthday. A surprise.
After everything. After that time at the bar, after the walk home, after the way he held your hand like it meant something and the way you both said nothing about it for weeks. After the careful, charged silence that's settled between you like a held breath.
He's picking you up at six.
You fall back against the pillows, phone pressed to your chest, and try very hard not to read too much into any of this.
You fail immediately and it makes you produce an irritated groan that morphs into throwing a fit quite literally—kicking the sheets off your body and flailing your limbs in the air like an overturned beetle until your elbow meets the wall with a sharp thud. You hiss, curl away from the impact, and spend a solid thirty seconds nursing your throbbing arm while throwing profanities under your breath.
Overwhelmed and irritated with yourself, you finally drag your body out of bed. There's no going back to sleep now. Not with the knowledge that he's coming in four hours and you have absolutely no idea what he's planned.
The shower takes forever. Not because you're procrastinating—okay, maybe a little—but because once you're under the hot spray, your brain refuses to shut up. You end up doing a full thorough routine from head to toes, the kind you usually reserve for actual important events, and you hate yourself a little for it. For caring. For wanting to look like you didn't just roll out of bed.
When you finally emerge, wrapped in a towel and dripping on the floor, you grab your phone from the bathroom counter. A message from Seungcheol waits for you.
Seungcheol: Pack an overnight bag. Just in case.
You stare at the words. Read them three times. Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
Just in case. In case of what? In case you're going somewhere that requires an overnight stay? In case he's actually taking you out of the city? In case—
You stop yourself. You're spiralling. You throw on a bathrobe and shove the phone into your pocket and focus on drying your hair instead of dissecting every possible meaning behind the written words.
Outside your room, your parents are occupying the living room, their voices a low murmur about something you can't quite catch when you walk out. Your mom spots you first the moment you emerge. Her face lights up.
"There she is! Happy birthday, dear!" She hurries over, arms outstretched, and pulls you into a tight hug that smells like her perfume and the faint hint of whatever she's cooking. You melt into it despite yourself.
"Thanks, Mom."
She pulls back, cups your face, studies you for a second. "You look tired. Did you sleep okay?"
Before you can answer, she's already disappearing through the hallway door, calling over her shoulder, "Don't move! I'll get your present!"
You wander over to the couch and drop down beside your dad. He grunts, shifts, and wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a proper bear hug. His lips press against the top of your head.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," his voice is gruff with affection. "Can't believe you're another year older. Feels like yesterday you were running around our old apartment."
"Dad, no," you groan, but you're smiling.
"What? I'm allowed to be sentimental. It's your day."
Your mom returns with a wrapped package, slightly lopsided on one corner where it obviously pressed into something while being kept a secret. She hands it over with eager eyes, settling on your other side while you peel back the paper.
Inside is a pyjama set, a spaghetti straps top and wide leg pants. The fabric is soft, sage green with little embroidered flowers all over the top. It is the one you pointed out to her weeks ago during a casual shopping trip, never expecting her to remember.
"Mom," you look up at her.
"I know," she grins. "You kept coming back to it but pretending you weren't that interested. I'm your mother. I notice these things."
You laugh and lean over to hug her again. "I love it. Thank you."
You hold the pyjamas for a moment, soft fabric against your fingers, and an idea forms. You should take these. If you're going somewhere overnight—if—you'll want something comfortable.
That being said…
You lift your eyes from the garment to your parents, who are watching you with matching fond expressions. Your mouth opens before you can overthink it.
"Um. So. I actually have plans today."
Your mom's eyebrows rise. "Oh? With who?"
You hesitate. It's stupid. It's so stupid to hesitate. But it's been so long since you actually mentioned Seungcheol to them yourself that it feels alien. Yes, they know you're talking again. They know you're close friends again—they've seen you leave for gatherings, heard you on the phone, noticed the way you've been less closed off. But you realize, with a small jolt, that you've kept it all to yourself ever since your friendship with him renewed. You never brought him up at home. Never said his name in casual conversation. He became an unspoken subject, and talking about him now feels like talking about some random boy you've been interacting with—which you never bring up to your parents either. Not just because there aren't actually any boys you interact with. It's just an awkward topic. Always has been.
"Seungcheol," you finally say, the name feeling strange on your tongue in this context. "He's picking me up at six. We're going somewhere. I don't really know where. He said it's a surprise."
You brace yourself. For questions. For raised eyebrows. For that particular look parents get when they sense something you're not telling them or when they get overly protective because their daughter mentioned a guy for the first time in her life and now they suddenly feel the need to have the talk.
Instead, your dad just nods. "Tell him we said hi."
Your mom smiles, warm and unconcerned. "That's nice, honey. Have fun. Be safe."
And that's it. No interrogation. No knowing glances. No digging.
You blink at them, caught off guard by the normalcy.
Then it clicks. Of course. Why would they react any other way? He's Seungcheol. He's the boy you grew up with, the one whose birthday you celebrated every summer, the one whose parents they still chat with every chance they get. To them, he's not complicated. He's not confusing or charged or any of the things he's become in your head. He's just Seungcheol. Your childhood friend.
The relief is immediate and oddly disappointing at the same time.
You excuse yourself to go pack, the pyjama set folded neatly in your arms. In your room, you stare at your open bag and realize you have no idea what to bring. Warm clothes, he said. Comfortable shoes. Beyond that, you're flying blind.
You grab a few essentials like your toiletries, a change of underwear, roll the pyjamas into a tight bundle, add an extra sweater just in case. It takes you two freaking hours combined with figuring out what you're going to wear. Your phone buzzes on the bed.
Seungcheol: One hour. You ready?
You type back, your heart doing that complicated thing again.
You: Define ready???
Seungcheol: Shoes on. Pulse present. That's the baseline.
You snort. Shake your head. For the first time in three hours that you've been awake today you feel something other than anxious spiralling.
You: Pulse present. Minus the shoes.
Seungcheol: Wear the sneakers you always wear. The ugly ones.
You: The only ugly sneakers I know are your moon boots.
Seungcheol: They aren't moon boots!
You can literally imagine his pout in this very moment and it makes you laugh at the mental image. You lift your gaze off your phone screen and catch yourself in the mirror with a smile you can't quite suppress.
Sixty minutes. Then you find out what he's planned.
Sixty minutes feels like both no time at all and an eternity. You spend it finishing getting ready, moving through your room in a haze of indecision. The entire time, you're warring with yourself about whether you're being over the top or not.
On one hand, it's your birthday. You can be as dolled up as you want. There's no rule that says you have to look plain just because you don't know where you're going.
On the other hand, you're certainly going somewhere where there won't be anyone to judge the way you look. Besides Seungcheol, maybe. And you suddenly find that a much stronger motivation to be as presentable as possible than the prospect of some stranger's opinion ever could be.
So you compromise. Comfortable warm clothes—dark straight jeans that fit well, a soft sweatshirt in a colour he once said looked good on you. You do your hair in soft waves that look effortless even though they took twenty minutes. Your makeup is pretty but not heavy, just enough to make you feel put together. And you spritz on your favourite perfume, the caramel-coffee type of sweet that always makes you feel a little safer in your skin.
You catch your reflection in the mirror and pause. You look nice. You look like you tried, but not like you tried too hard. It's exactly the line you wanted to walk.
Your reasoning, the one you keep repeating in your head, is that you still don't really know where you're going. For all you know, he could have invited all his friends to surprise you. Because you know him—he probably thinks spending your birthday quietly is a sad prospect. You wouldn't mind it, after all it's all the people you know already, but a part of you, a part you're trying very hard to ignore, hopes that's not what he planned.
You hope it's not a group thing.
You hope it's just him.
The thought makes your stomach flip, so you shove it down and focus on checking your bag one last time to make sure you're not missing anything.
When your phone buzzes, you nearly jump out of your skin.
Seungcheol: Downstairs.
You stare at the word for a second too long. Downstairs. He's here. Right now, waiting for you.
You pull on your shoes—not the sneakers he calls ugly, but only because they don't look right with this outfit, not because you're listening to his opinion on your footwear—and grab your coat. Your bag. Your keys.
Your mom calls out a goodbye from the kitchen. You respond automatically, your focus narrowed to the front door, the elevator, the lobby, the street.
You step outside.
And there he is.
He's waiting for you right outside when you come out, and you startle internally. You can't help but note that he looks good even when he's wearing something more comfortable and simple—but you know that's a deceptive perception. It's Seungcheol. There's nothing simple about him, not really. The way his sweater fits across his shoulders, the easy confidence in the way he leans against his car—it all feels casual even when you know it's not.
His eyes sweep over you when you get closer, a slow assessment that makes your skin warm despite the cool air.
"You dressed up," it's not a question. An observation, with something in his voice you can't pinpoint.
You shrug, aiming for casual. "You didn't give me any clear instructions. Of course I dressed up. Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
"I don't know. That's the point of 'just in case.'" You gesture vaguely. "If I knew, I'd dress for that specifically. Since I don't, I have to cover all my bases."
He hums, considering this. Then his head tilts slightly, and his voice drops, just a fraction. "You're beautiful."
The words land somewhere in your chest and short-circuit your brain entirely. You're beautiful. Not just you look beautiful. You are. You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out.
He just looks at you, a small satisfied smile tugging at his lips, and you want to hit him. You also want to kiss him. The competing urges leave you frozen and flustered, which he definitely notices because that smile widens just a little.
He takes your bag from your unresisting hand and turns toward the car, leaving you to gather yourself on the sidewalk like an idiot. You've been in this car before—a few times, actually, when you played chauffeur after he had too many drinks to get behind the wheel himself. But seeing it now, knowing you're on the other side of it, knowing he's driving you somewhere, feels different.
He opens the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. "M'lady."
"You're such a dork."
"A dork who's holding your bag hostage. Watch your tone."
You laugh despite yourself and slide into the seat. The interior smells like him—clean and warm, with a hint of whatever cologne he uses. He shuts your door gently, circles around the front, and tosses your bag into the back before settling into the driver's seat.
The engine starts. The car pulls away from the curb.
Silence blankets you for a moment. Comfortable, but charged. It's the type of quiet that descends when something is waiting to happen.
You notice him glancing your way. Once. Twice. A third time. He thinks he's being discreet about it, but he's really not. The way his eyes flick toward you at stop signs, at red lights, whenever he thinks you're looking out the window—it's almost funny.
So the next time he steals a glance, you're already looking at him.
Your eyes meet.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or embarrassment at being caught. And then you watch, with no small amount of satisfaction, as the tips of his ears turn bright red. The colour creeps up, undeniable and utterly endearing.
You huff a laugh.
"Shut up," he mutters, grip tightening on the steering wheel.
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said something."
"My face said 'aw, how cute.' That's not an insult."
His ears get redder. Oh, you're definitely going to remember this. So, just to mess with him, you point out your observation. "Your ears are literally on fire right now."
He reaches up self-consciously, then drops his hand when he realizes what he's doing. "They're not."
"They're so red. It's adorable."
"I am not adorable," he sounds offended, which only makes you laugh harder.
The tension from earlier, the weird charged silence, has cracked open into something lighter. Easier. You lean back in your seat, watching the buildings thin out as you head toward the edge of the city.
"So," you say, drawing the word out. "Are you going to tell me where we're going yet?"
"Nope."
"Seungcheol."
"That's my name."
"You're an ass."
"I prefer 'charmingly mysterious.'" He glances at you again, and this time he doesn't look away immediately. "You'll find out soon. Just enjoy the ride."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. You can't help it. There's something about being here, in his car, on your birthday, with nowhere to be and nothing to do but trust him—it settles something in your chest that's been restless for weeks since that last conversation.
"Fine," you sigh. "But if all of it is a stupid disguise and you're taking me to a club or something, I'm making you drive me home immediately and I'm never talking to you again."
He laughs and the sound of it curls low and warm in your stomach. "Noted."
The city falls away behind you, and the road opens up ahead.
It's a two-hour drive, and by the time you're off the main road and winding through the woods, the last traces of daylight have bled out of the sky. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating narrow stretches of gravel and trees that press in on both sides. You've stopped asking where you're going. At some point, you just started trusting that you'll end up somewhere.
Somewhere turns out to be a cabin.
He pulls up to it slowly, the tires crunching over gravel, and you lean forward in your seat to get a better look through the windshield. It's exactly the kind of place you'd picture when someone says "cabin in the woods"—wooden exterior, a small porch, dark windows that stare back at you like unblinking eyes. He rented a cabin. And by the complete lack of other cars, other lights, other any signs of life, it's just the two of you.
Your heart lurches upwards, getting stuck somewhere in your throat.
"I'm gonna turn on the lights and stuff," Seungcheol says, already reaching for his door handle. "Stay here for a sec. It'll just take a minute."
You manage a nod. It's belated and probably looks as dumb as it feels, but he's already getting out, jogging toward the front door with keys jangling in his hand.
The door closes. You're alone.
You're grateful, actually. Grateful for the minute to sit with yourself, to spiral through stages of sheer panic in private. It goes by at the speed of light in your head—one moment you feel nauseous and want to back out, actually consider asking him to drive you back home, the next you're arguing with yourself that this is exactly what you hoped for. Exactly. So why do you feel like throwing up?
When the house lights up—first the windows, then the small plot of land around it, warm light spilling onto the porch and the trees nearby—you realize your time is basically up. You can't run now. Not without looking incredibly stupid doing it.
So you settle on convincing yourself that it's really nothing. You shouldn't treat this any differently than you would if there were a dozen other people here. It's just a cabin. It's just Seungcheol. It's just your oldest friend taking you somewhere nice for your birthday.
In other words, you force yourself to be casual about it.
And for a long stretch of time, you succeed.
When Seungcheol comes back, you're out of the car and waiting by the trunk, your breath misting in the cold air. He pops it open and hands you your bag before grabbing his own and a hefty bag of groceries.
"I figured I'd grill some meat," he says, nodding at the groceries. "There's a grill out back."
"You're cooking for me on my birthday?" You raise an eyebrow. "That's either really sweet or really concerning."
"Why not both?" He grins to play along, and it's so easy and normal that some of the tightness in your chest loosens.
Inside, the cabin is warm and smells like pine and something faintly smoky. It's rustic but comfortable—a living area with a stone fireplace, a kitchen nook, stairs leading up to what you assume are the bedrooms.
You insist on setting your things up while he deals with the groceries, and he doesn't argue. You grab both bags—yours and his—and head upstairs, planning to scope out the rooms and pick the best one for yourself, playing the birthday girl card.
You're soon to discover that there's only one.
You stop in the doorway, your brain buffering at the sight. One bed. One single, decently sized bed with a worn quilt and too many pillows. Your skin prickles.
For a long moment, you just stand there, recalibrating. Adjusting. Telling yourself it's fine. It's fine. You're adults. You've shared spaces before. Not recently, not like this, but—
You set both bags down by the bed and escape to the bathroom.
When you come back downstairs, you're a projection of nonchalance. Unbothered and casual, like you didn't just have two mental breakdowns in the span of fifteen minutes. You find Seungcheol in the kitchen, shoving things into a mini-fridge.
"Need help?" you offer, leaning against the counter.
He glances up. "Yeah, actually. You can grab some wood from outside and start the fireplace if you want. Keep the place warm."
You nod. "On it."
You're out the door before he can say anything else, grateful for the task. For something to do with your hands, with your body, that doesn't involve thinking about the single bed upstairs or what it means or what you're supposed to do with that information.
The woodpile is around the side of the cabin. You gather an armful, maybe more than you need, and carry it back inside. The fireplace is already set up with kindling—you just have to arrange the logs and light it.
You dedicate yourself to the task. Two logs go facing you, then two facing sideways, then you again, then sideways. You settle a few extra logs aside and reach for matches. Your brain focuses on the scratch of matches, the smell of smoke, the way the flames catch and spread. On anything but Seungcheol.
Behind you, you hear him moving around the kitchen. The clink of bottles. The opening and closing of cabinets.
You don't turn around. And you don't think about the bed. And you certainly don't think about the fact that he booked a cabin with one bed and didn't mention it.
You just watch the fire catch on wood and think about absolutely nothing at all.
That is until Seungcheol calls your name and you're forced to pay attention.
"Hey. Little help?"
You look up from the fire, which is crackling nicely now, and find him in the kitchen doorway, holding a bag of potatoes like it's a peace offering.
"You're making me work on my birthday?" You plant your hands on your hips, aiming for maximum indignation. "That's bold. That's really bold."
"I'm asking for help, not drafting you into labour." He shakes the bag. "Potatoes need peeling. I thought you might want to supervise."
"Supervise." You snort. "That's what we're calling it?"
"That's what I'm calling it if it gets you off that floor and over here."
You help anyway. Obviously. Because it's him, and because the fire is doing its job, and because being near him is becoming a habit you can't break even when you're trying to protect yourself.
You don't notice how the two of you fall into it—the comfortable, familiar rhythm of doing something together. It's like being in the zone, all your worries and anxiousness suddenly dissolving into background noise. All that matters is the task at hand, the next thing, the easy back-and-forth that's always existed between you when you're not busy overthinking everything.
"Wait, wait, wait." You pause, potato peeler in hand. "He actually tried to do that? In front of everyone?"
"In front of everyone," Seungcheol confirms, grinning as he chops something on the cutting board. "The guy on the machine next to him almost dropped his weights. He was crying laughing."
"I can't believe Mingyu thought he could deadlift that much."
"I can't believe he tried and then pretended his back was fine for the rest of the day." Seungcheol shakes his head, but he's smiling. "He walked like a penguin. For hours. Refused to admit anything was wrong."
You laugh, and it feels easy and real. Like the last few weeks of charged silences and complicated feelings never happened.
And so the time passes.
By the time you come back to your senses, you two have basically cooked an entire three-course meal together. Seungcheol is outside now, grilling meat on the porch, and you're inside setting the table. Plates, cutlery, glasses—arranging them with a focus that feels almost meditative.
You've forgotten. That's the thing. You genuinely forgot, for a while, about the single bed upstairs, about the tension, about all of it. You were just... here. With him. Being normal.
As you finish setting things up, you glance out the window.
He's by the grill, bundled up in his padded jacket. The light from the porch casts him in warm glow, and the wind catches his hair, messing it up in a way that looks artful rather than accidental. His cheeks are rosy from the chill, and he's focused on the grill, tongs in hand, completely unaware he's being watched.
Your heart dives somewhere deep in your stomach. A tingle runs through you, low and insistent, and you press your thighs together without thinking.
You look away. Breathe. Try to occupy your brain with literally anything other than how devastatingly beautiful he looks right now.
You manage. For like a minute.
Then your eyes find him again, and the urge rises—unstoppable, physical, something you can't reason away. Before you know it, you're grabbing your own jacket and shoes, slipping outside into the cold.
You walk up to him slowly, stopping just behind. Then you lean forward, pressing your upper body against his back, and peek over his shoulder at the grill.
"Smells good," you murmur.
He startles slightly—just a small jump—then relaxes into you. "Yeah. Almost done."
If it weren't for the layers of warm clothes separating you, he'd feel it. Your heart hammering against your ribs, desperate and loud. You're sure of it.
He doesn't move. Neither do you as you start another idle conversation with him.
You just stand there, pressed against him in the cold night air, watching the meat sizzle like it's the most entertaining thing in the world.
When it's all done and ready, you return to the cabin, setting the meat as the finishing dish that was missing from marking it a complete meal. You step back, surveying the table—the plates, the food, the flicker of candlelight that you lit—and something settles in your chest. It looks like an occasion. It feels like one.
You sit down across from Seungcheol. You're aware that the previous tension is still there, coiled deep within you, but you also notice that the tinge of it has subtly shifted. It's not panicked or fearful anymore but anticipatory instead. You don't know what's going to happen, how the evening will play out, if anything is going to happen at all. But there's a strange longing in you now and you think it bloomed the moment you listened to that urge to step outside and be by his side. It feels warm and persistent, and you're not sure it will dissipate anytime soon.
Yet, the two of you return to this strange play of normalcy. You talk about past events—old stories from childhood, fresh ones from the past few months. It's easy in a way that feels almost dangerous. Like you're both pretending, and the pretending is so comfortable you almost forget you're doing it.
"So when are you celebrating with your actual friends?" Seungcheol asks, reaching for more food. "The real party?"
You arch your eyebrow at his choice of words 'actual friends' but answer nonetheless, giving him a shrug. "Sometime next week, probably. You know how it is—everyone's schedules are chaos."
He nods, chewing thoughtfully. "That sucks. Having your birthday spread out like that."
"It's fine." You pause, then add, "I mean, I'm kind of celebrating with a friend right now. So."
The words hang there and you observe his expression shift—just slightly, just enough—and something warm flickers in his eyes.
"Yeah," he says quietly, gaze trained on you before it flickers down to his plate. "I guess you are."
You're watching him with rapt attention. You don't mean to be, but you can't help it. Every small movement he makes, every expression that crosses his face—you're cataloguing it, storing it away. When you're not looking directly at him, your entire being is still attuned to his presence. You don't think you've been so painfully aware of Seungcheol ever. Not even during that summer camp, when your brain first started spinning out about him.
At one point during the dinner, he stands abruptly and disappears into the kitchen. You hear him rummaging around, and when he returns, he's carrying a small bento cake. One candle flickers on top, casting tiny shadows across his face.
"Happy birthday," he says, setting it in front of you. His voice is soft, intimate, and it makes your heart clench painfully beneath your ribcage.
You stare at the cake for a second, fighting the sensation of something swelling in your chest, something so big you might suffocate on it if you're not careful. Then you lean forward, blow out the candle and make a wish. You don't say it out loud, but it forms clearly in your mind: I wish you stay in my life no matter what. Regardless of how things turn out between us. I just don't want to lose you.
"So?" He's watching you, curious. "What'd you wish for?"
You give him an enigmatic little smile and you feel your cheeks heat up. "Can't tell you. It's a secret."
"That's not how it works. You're supposed to tell me so I can help make it come true."
"If I tell you, it won't come true. That's the rule."
He scoffs, but he's smiling. "That's not a real rule."
"It's absolutely a real rule. You should think back to your last birthdays, maybe you should change up your wish-making steps." You pick up your fork, aiming for faux nonchalant. "Besides, some things are better left unsaid."
He holds your gaze for a moment too long. You wonder if he's trying to read it in your eyes anyway. You wonder what he'd find if he could.
But you still don't tell him. Even if you didn't believe that speaking wishes jinxes them—and you're not sure you do—you wouldn't. This wish, this tender, vulnerable thing sitting in your chest—surrounding it with silence feels safer than putting it out in the open. Even for the object of that wish to hear.
You're both sitting there, the remnants of dinner between you, and the silence has stretched just long enough to feel heavy. The fire crackles behind you. The candles on the table have burned down to half their original size, trails of wax dripping down like tears.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice is quiet. Careful. You look up from where you've been tracing patterns on the tablecloth.
Seungcheol's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes you feel like he's seeing straight through to the messy, tangled thing inside you.
"Yeah."
"The camp. Back then." He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. "I know you apologized for pulling away. And I know you were scared about what your friends said. But I keep thinking about it. About all the years we lost." His eyes meet yours. "Was it really just that? Or was there something else?"
You should probably put up a mask and deflect, make a joke, change the subject. That's what you do. That's what you've always done.
But you're here. In this cabin. On your birthday. And you're so tired of this stupid dance around the obvious.
"It wasn't just that." Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. You clear your throat. "At the time, I told myself you were just my friend. That's all. I had all these stupid unrequited crushes that summer—on other people, I mean—and this stupid fear of missing out breathing down my neck. Like if I gave something else a chance I'd be losing a chance with someone I had a crush on at the time." You shake your head. "I couldn't let myself think about you that way. About what it might mean if my friends were right."
He's listening. Not moving, not asking more questions. Just listening, giving you space to let it all out.
"I got scared," you continue. "If they were right, and you did feel something, and I kept being as close to you—I thought it would ruin us. That being that close to a boy wasn't normal for just friendship. That something would have to give." You swallow hard. "And I was terrified of catching feelings for you and ending up the one left on the side road. Like with all the silent crushes I had where I had no courage to confess and just waited for a miracle and ended up just observing it all go past me. Except losing you wouldn't just be losing a crush. It would be losing the only thing I'd had my entire life."
The words hang in the air between you. Raw, ugly and painfully true.
"So I pulled back." You finally look at him and smile bitterly. "And I ended up ruining it anyway."
Seungcheol is quiet for a long moment. His jaw works. You watch him process, absorb, file away.
"I didn't know," he says eventually. "I knew you were distant. I knew you were avoiding me. But I didn't know—" He stops and frowns. Starts again. "I thought it was me. That I'd done something wrong. That you were finally bored of me like I always worried you would be."
The confession hits you somewhere soft.
"You were never boring," you whisper.
He huffs something that's almost a laugh. "Could've fooled me."
Silence again. But different now. Charged.
"You asked me once if there was something or you just saw ghosts," he says slowly. "And I told you about the echoes."
Your heart stops.
"I lied." His eyes meet yours. "Not completely. It was complicated. But I didn't tell you everything."
You don't breathe.
"Those moments I mentioned—the ones that would flash through my mind and then disappear—they weren't nothing. They were real. I just didn't know what to do with them." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "You were my best friend. My only real friend. The idea of risking that for a feeling I didn't even understand felt like the stupidest thing I could do. So I buried it. Told myself it was nothing. That you were just you and I was just me and we were fine the way we were."
His voice drops.
"But it wasn't nothing. It was never nothing."
You feel tears prick at your eyes. You blink them back.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I'm tired of burying things." He reaches across the table. Slowly. Giving you time to pull away. You don't. His fingers brush against yours, then wrap around your hand. "Because you're here. Because I booked a cabin with one bed like a love struck idiot and was ready to pretend it was an accident if you ever asked. Because every time I look at you, I feel fifteen again, confused and terrified and wanting something I can't figure out."
His thumb traces circles on your skin.
"And because I need you to know that I've never been able to let you go. Not really. Even when we weren't talking, you were there. In the back of my head. In every stupid decision I made. In every person I tried to distract myself with."
You're trembling. You can feel it, a fine vibration running through your entire body.
"Seungcheol—"
"I'm not asking for anything." His voice is gentle and his eyes are even more so, trained on yours and shining with all the light reflected in them. "I just needed you to know. For once, I needed you to hear it and know that it's there and it is real."
He lifts your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his lips to your knuckles. The contact is soft. Barely there. But it sends electricity racing up your arm and down your spine, settling somewhere deep and warm.
You don't pull away.
Just sit there, trembling, watching him lower your hand but not release it, his eyes trained on yours. His thumb keeps tracing those slow circles against your skin, and you feel every single one like it brands you—the slight roughness of his skin, the warmth of his touch, the way it sends small electric shocks up your arm and straight into your chest. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, against your throat, against the inside of your wrists where he could probably feel it if he thought to check.
"Seungcheol," his name comes out wrong. Breathy. Broken. Nothing like the casual way you've said it a thousand times at dinner tables and phone calls and crowded rooms throughout your life. This version of his name sounds like a question you're afraid to ask out loud.
He looks at you. Just looks. And something in his eyes shifts, darkens, softens all at once. His gaze traces your face like he's committing it to memory—your eyebrows, your nose, the curve of your lips, the way you're biting the bottom one without realizing. His pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black in the low light.
"Tell me you don't feel what I feel," his voice is low. Rough. Cracked at the edges. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll drop it. I'll never bring it up again. We can pretend this weekend never happened, this conversation never happened. I will just take you home tomorrow and we'll forget it all."
A 'rational' part of you knows you should tell him that you don't want it. You know you should. Every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to protect yourself, to protect him, to protect the fragile thing you've spent the last couple of years rebuilding. You could walk away from this. You could go back to being friends, to being safe, to staying in the box you've both agreed to fit in for so long.
But then you realise there's nothing rational about it. It's just fear of the unknown. Because it's always scary to leave what you already know, what you're used to. And it's even scarier to bridge the gap to what you really really want. So, you shake your head.
"I don't want us to pretend."
Something breaks loose in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or just the same desperate want you feel crawling under your own skin, coiling low in your stomach, making your hands tremble where they're still held in his.
Seungcheol stands slowly, giving you every chance to retreat, to say something else, to change your mind if you decide to. His chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is impossibly loud in the suddenly quiet cabin. You don't move. You can't. Your body has stopped listening to those self-preservation whispers entirely, all your focus on him as he rounds the table. Each step feels like forever and no time at all. You track his movement—the way his shoulders are tense, the way his hands curl and uncurl at his sides, the way his jaw is set like he's holding something back. The firelight catches the side of his face, illuminating his features, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
Then he's there. Standing over you. Looking down with those big brown eyes that have haunted you for years—in your memories, in your dreams, in the quiet moments when you let yourself wonder what if.
You stand too. You don't remember deciding to. You're just suddenly on your feet, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to see the tiny moles on his cheek. You can smell him—the faint scent of smoke from the grill, something clean like soap, and underneath it all, just him. The smell you've known since childhood but never let yourself breathe in like this.
His hand comes up. Hesitates. Hovers near your face.
You can see him thinking. Can see the war in his eyes—want versus fear, hope versus the memory of every time he held back. His fingers tremble slightly, barely perceptible, and the sight of that tiny shake undoes you.
"Can I—"
You don't let him finish. You close the distance yourself even as your own heart feels stuck right there in your throat.
The first press of his lips against yours is soft. Tentative. Barely there. Like he's still waiting for you to change your mind even though you just bridged the gap, like he's still not convinced this is real. His lips are warm and slightly chapped and they fit against yours like they were made to. And your heart is beating so hard and fast in your chest you think it might explode.
Your hands fist in his sweater, the wool rough against your palms, pulling him closer. You feel the fabric bunch under your fingers, feel the solid warmth of his chest beneath it, feel the way his breath hitches against your mouth.
Something in him breaks. The last of his resolve, you think.
His arms wrap around you—one hand fisting gently in your hair, the other pressing flat against your lower back, fingers splaying wide like he's afraid you'll disappear or even step away. He pulls you flush against him, and you feel it everywhere—the hard plane of his chest, the beat of his heart against your own, the way his whole body seems to tremble with the effort of holding back.
The kiss deepens. Still gentle, still careful, but hungrier now. His lips move against yours like he's learning you, like he's memorizing the shape and taste and feel of this moment. One of his hands slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, and you lean into the touch without thinking.
You feel everything. The way his breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The heat of his palm on your lower back, seeping through the fabric of your sweater. The way your own hands have moved from his sweater to his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
You're both shaking. You can feel it—a fine tremor running through his body, mirroring your own. Desperate. Pathetic. Years of wanting and denying and wanting anyway, finally pouring out through this one point of contact.
Seungcheol pulls back just far enough to breathe. Just far enough that his lips still brush yours when he speaks.
"I've wanted to do that for so long." His voice is wrecked. Cracks on every word. "So fucking long."
His forehead rests against yours for a minute and Seungcheol closes his eyes. His breathing is ragged as he noses your cheek between soft kisses that make you feel tender and like you're melting. You can feel the slight dampness on his cheeks and you don't know if it's yours or his and it doesn't matter.
You don't answer with words. You just pull him back in.
This time the kiss is different. Less tentative, more sure. Still gentle—and you think it's always going to be gentle with him—but deeper now, more urgent. His tongue traces your lower lip and you part for him without thought, without hesitation, pulling him closer, needing him closer, needing to feel all of him pressed against all of you.
One of his hands slides under the hem of your sweater, just barely—just enough that you feel the warm shock of his palm against the bare skin of your lower back. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows the sound, pulls you impossibly closer.
The fire crackles behind you. The cabin is warm. His hands are warmer. Everything is warm except the cold knot of fear that's finally, finally starting to thaw in your chest.
You break apart again, both breathing hard. You're pressed together from chest to hip, and you can feel how much he wants this—wants you—and the evidence of it sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with fear.
"I thought I'd lost you," his voice is barely a whisper. His eyes are wet. "So many times, I thought I'd messed it all up and lost you."
"You didn't." You cup his face in your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin, the way he leans into your touch like a starving man. "I'm here. I'm right here."
He kisses you once more. Softer. Slower. Like he's savouring it and making up for every moment he wanted but didn't.
And you let him, of course. Because you're here, finally, and so is he, and nothing else matters right now except this—the press of his lips, the warmth of his hands, the desperate, beautiful fact that you both made it to this point.
The kiss changes. Shifts from tender and wondering into something hungrier, more insistent. His hands are still cradling your face like you're precious, but his mouth moves against yours with increasing urgency, and you feel it everywhere—the way his breath quickens, the way his chest presses against yours, the way one of his hands slides from your jaw down to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point as if to remind himself that you're real, physical. Not just a figment of his starved mind.
You match him. Meet every movement, every press, every soft sound he makes against your lips. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and the small groan he lets out vibrates through your entire body.
"Upstairs," he breathes against your mouth. "Can we—"
You don't let him finish. You just nod, pull him with you and let him lead.
His hand is wrapped around yours, fingers intertwined, as he guides you up the stairs. The cabin creaks around you. The fire crackles below. Your heart is so loud you're sure he can hear it.
The bedroom door is already open, the way you left it when you brought in your bags. The bed is right there—the one you panicked over hours ago, the one that suddenly feels like a destination you've been walking toward your whole life, however dramatic it sounds.
Seungcheol doesn't rush. That's the thing. Even now, even with his pupils blown and his breathing uneven, he moves slowly. Carefully. Like he's afraid of startling you, of breaking the spell. He kisses you again at the foot of the bed. Then again. And again. Each one softer than the last, almost questioning, like he's checking in without words.
You answer by pulling him closer, by leaning into him with your entire body.
His hands find the hem of your sweatshirt. He pauses, lips still on yours, fingers just resting against the fabric.
"Can I?"
"Yes."
He lifts it slowly. So slowly you feel every inch of fabric sliding against your skin, every brush of his knuckles against your sides, every pause where he stops and bends to kiss whatever he's just revealed. Your ribcage, the swell of your breast, your collarbone, your shoulder. The spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.
You return the favour. Pull his sweater off, your palms pressing against the warmth of his chest, feeling the muscle and skin and the rapid beat of his heart. He shudders under your touch.
It's like this for a while. Minutes or hours, you can't tell. Just the two of you, standing by the bed, slowly undressing each other between kisses, between pauses, between moments where one of you just stops to look or touch.
Then his hands settle on your hips, and he walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. He follows you down—slowly, carefully—until you're on your back and he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking down with an expression that makes your chest ache.
And something clicks in your brain and the magic breaks.
You tense. Just slightly. Just enough that he feels it, because his eyes immediately search yours.
"What's wrong?" His voice is soft. Concerned. "Did I—"
"No." You shake your head quickly. "No, it's not… I just—"
You don't know how to say it. How to admit that while he's been out there living, dating, probably doing this with people who actually knew what they were doing, you've been... not.
"I haven't—" You stop. Start again. "I've never actually..."
You trail off, simply can't finish the sentence, it's embarrassing and your face is burning with it. But you don't have to. His expression shifts. Not to pity—you'd hate that—but to something attentive, more careful. He lowers himself until he's resting on his elbows, face close to yours.
"Never?"
You shake your head. "I mean, I've done stuff. But not—" You gesture vaguely between your bodies. "This. All of it."
He's quiet for a moment. Processing.
"Okay," he says finally. Just that. Like it's simple. Like it doesn't change anything.
"You've—" You hesitate. "You've been with people. Right?"
He doesn't deny it. Just nods, a small admission. "Some. But that doesn't matter." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "This is you. That's all that matters."
You should feel relieved. Instead, you feel something prickly and uncomfortable—the awareness of your own inexperience, the fear of being clumsy, of not knowing what to do.
"I don't want to wait," you say quickly before he suggests that you take your time, do it whenever you feel ready, aka not today, not right now, not anytime soon. "I don't want to… postpone this. I just… I don't know what I'm doing."
He smiles. Not mocking—warm. Fond. Leans down to place a kiss in the corner of your lips, and surprisingly that does take some of your tension away. "That's okay. We go slow. As slow as you need."
"Slow is fine by me." You swallow, struggling to articulate yourself. "But not… I don't need you to treat me like I'm made of glass. I want to actually... you know. Be with you. Not just have you do things to me."
Something flickers in his eyes. Heat, yes, but also understanding.
"Then we'll go slow together." He kisses your forehead. "And you tell me what you like. What feels good. What doesn't. Deal?"
You nod.
"Deal."
He kisses you again. Slower, yes, but also more deliberate. His lips move against yours with a patience that should be frustrating but somehow isn't. His hand slides from your face down your neck, over your shoulder, tracing the line of your arm until his fingers intertwine with yours and he brings your hand up, beside your head.
Then he starts touching you.
Not anywhere that matters—not yet. Just your arm at first, his palm sliding up and down, feeling the skin, the shape of you. Then your side, over your ribs, his thumb pressing gently into the spaces between. Then your hip, fingers spreading wide, holding you like you're something precious. Every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he's memorizing you by feel. And it makes you feel so much you can barely breathe at times.
"You can touch me too," he murmurs against your lips. "Whatever you want."
So you do.
Your hands map him the way his map you. Shoulders first—broad and warm under your palms. Then down his arms, feeling the muscle shift and roll as he moves. Then his chest, your fingers tracing the lines of him, learning the way his breath hitches when you find a sensitive spot.
"Like that?" you ask.
"Fuck. Yes."
You file that away. Keep doing it.
His lips leave yours to trail down your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He kisses, then nips gently, then soothes with his tongue. Each small sound you make gets a response—a whispered "good" or "like that" or just a hum of approval against your skin.
"You're so responsive," he breathes against your collarbone. "So pretty when you react."
You squirm under the praise, equal parts embarrassed and hungry for more of it.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He looks up at you, and his eyes are dark. "Every little sound you make, every time you shiver—it's perfect. Don't hide it."
You don't know how to respond to that, how to react. Because you're still so not used to this kind of attention, it feels alien even if you wanted it and dreamed of it for a long time. So you pull him back up and kiss him instead.
The mapping continues. Gradual. Agonizing. His hands and lips continue to explore your body, still impossibly gentle but getting bolder at times when you arch into him or make a sound that lets Seungcheol know that you like what he's doing.
He pulls back just enough to take a breath and look, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as his gaze lands on you. Your baby pink lace. Pale and delicate and entirely intentional in a way you're suddenly embarrassed about.
"You wore this," he says. Voice rough. "Under your clothes. All day."
"Shut up, it's just underwear." If only he knew that you put it on only because you were shamefully hoping this day would end like this. You're not about to reveal this little fact.
"You wore this and didn't tell me." He ignores your protest with a tiny little smile in the corners of his lips. His thumb traces the strap at your shoulder. "Just walked around like nothing."
You feel your face turning red for the nth time tonight. If he continues like this you're going to die of embarrassment and never recover even in the afterlife. "It's just—it's only because it's my birthday," you argue, trying to salvage an ounce of dignity. "I wanted to feel—"
"Pretty?" His eyes meet yours. "You are. So fucking pretty."
You should respond with something sharp. Deflect. But his hands are on you, sliding under the lace, cupping you through the fabric, and your brain short-circuits into a breathless moan until you arch like a cat under his touch.
Seungcheol is still so careful. Still so slow. But you can see it costing him—the way his jaw tightens, the way his breathing gets rougher, the way his hands shake slightly when he reaches for the clasp of your bra.
"You okay?" he checks.
"More than okay. You can stop asking."
He undoes it. Slides the straps down your shoulders. And when you're bare before him, he just... looks.
For a moment, you feel exposed. Self-conscious. Then his expression turns so reverent it makes your breath hitch.
"Look at you," he whispers. Not really to you. Just... to the universe. To the silent space of the room around you.
You pull him down before you can overthink it. Kiss him hard. He laughs against your mouth—a surprised, happy sound—and then he's kissing you back, and his hands are on you, skin to skin, and it's so much better than you imagined.
His jeans go next. Then yours. Then you're both down to just boxers and thongs, and there's a pause—a moment where you both just look again, admire. He's beautiful. You knew that. But seeing him like this—bare, wanting, looking at you like you're the answer to something—it hits different.
Seungcheol makes a sound. Something between a groan and a whimper, low and desperate.
"You're so pretty." His voice is wrecked. "And you wore this," his fingers trace the edge of your panties that are matching the lace of your bra he discarded earlier, "today. On purpose."
You feel all hot. You didn't think he'd say it out loud. Hoped he'd allow you to pretend it was just because you wanted to feel pretty for yourself on your birthday. "I didn't—it's not—"
"You were anticipating this." He's almost smiling now. Teasing. "Weren't you? Hoping."
"I was not—"
"Liar."
You huff, trying to play it off like he's saying something ridiculous. "I don't just assume things are going to—"
He cuts you off mid-protest with his lips sealing over yours. And before you can gather your thoughts, his strong arms wrap around you and he rolls, pulling you with him, until you're on top and he's beneath you and you're both chuckling against each other's mouths.
For a while, it's just you and him making out. Hands sliding along skin, gripping, exploring. Him on his back, you straddling his hips and feeling the press of him against you through the last thin layers of fabric. Seungcheol holds you with so much care it makes you feel like you're something precious, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other tangled in your hair.
You could stay here forever, content with just this, just feeling his warmth against you, skin on skin.
But your body has other ideas.
At some point, you start moving. Just slightly. A shift of your hips that makes you both gasp. Then again. And again. The friction is maddening, not enough and too much all at once, and the sounds he's making—broken little groans against your mouth—are driving you insane and make you whimper in response.
"Fuck." His hands grip your hips tighter and you think it's going to leave marks on your skin. You want these marks to stay there just for your own knowledge of their existence. "You're going to—if you keep doing that—"
You don't let Seungcheol finish his sentence, you do it again. Deliberately. With a tiny shit-eating grin ghosting your lips.
He flips you.
One moment you're on top, the next you're on your back and he's over you, braced on his forearms, eyes dark and wild.
"I need to see you," he says. "All of you. Is that okay?"
You nod, eyes wide. Apparently, your speaking abilities fail you, too bewildered by the sudden change.
He sits back on his knees, hooks his fingers in your underwear and pulls. Slowly. Watching your face the entire time. And when you're bare beneath him, completely bare, he just... looks, eyes trailing all over you with this silent appreciation that makes your skin prickle. You fight the urge to cover yourself. To hide. To make a joke.
"You're so beautiful," his voice is barely a whisper. "So fucking beautiful."
Then he touches you. Not with intention—just his palm flat against your stomach, warm and grounding, and you suppress the urge to writhe. Then higher, over your ribs, your chest, your neck, your face. Mapping. Learning.
"You have no idea," he murmurs, "how long I've wanted this. Wanted you."
His lips follow where his hands go. Kisses pressed to every inch of skin he can reach. Your shoulder. The curve of your breast. The space between your ribs. Over your navel, your hip bone. Each one soft, reverent, accompanied by whispered words that make your eyes sting.
"Pretty girl."
"So good."
"Mine."
You do cry, a little. Just a few tears that escape before you can stop them. Seungcheol notices immediately, pauses, looks up at you with concern.
"Too much?"
"No." You shake your head, voice thick. "It's just—you're—" Your breath hitches and you find it impossible to express what you feel in words. They seem to fail you all night, too insufficient when it comes to what you feel.
But Seungcheol still understands. You see it in his eyes. He crawls back up, kisses the tears from your cheeks, whispers that it's okay and he's got you and that you're safe until you're breathing evenly again.
And when he's absolutely sure that you're okay he keeps going. His mouth trails lower. Down your stomach, over your hips, further still. You tense when you realize where he's heading.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He looks up at you from between your legs, and the sight of him there—dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes intense even through his pretty lashes, lips already parted—makes your stomach flip. "Let me?"
You nod. Swallow. "Okay… okay, yes."
The first touch of his mouth on you is so gentle it almost doesn't register. Then it does. His lips, soft and warm, pressing against you in an intimate kiss. Then it's his tongue, a tentative stroke that makes your whole body jolt with new sensation. Your brain is melting whenever you think too hard about what's going on, so you try not to be too much in your head, only focus on this moment, on what you feel.
Seungcheol hums against you. Pleased.
"Feelin' good, baby?"
"Y-yes."
"Tell me what you like." His breath fans over sensitive skin. "Guide me."
You try. You really do. But every time you open your mouth to speak, he does something that turns your thoughts to static and you just moan or whimper instead.
"Here?" A stroke of his tongue through your folds.
"N-no, a little—there. Yeah."
"Like this?" And then he's kitten-licking at you at a different angle. Applying more pressure. And you barely manage to gasp a response.
"God. Yes."
He learns you like that. Quickly and thoroughly. Every sound you make, every shift of your hips, every sharp intake of breath—he catalogues it, adjusts, gives you more of what works, less of what doesn't. And he talks to you the whole time. Praises you between strokes, making his voice vibrate right against the very core of you.
"You're doing so well." As he gives more attention to your clit.
"So responsive. So pretty like this." As his fingers breach your entrance and stretch you for him, scissoring and crooking against your gummy walls.
"Look at you. Falling apart for me." And you are falling apart. You can feel it building, a pressure low in your belly, coiling tighter with every movement of his mouth, of his tongue, of his digits. Your hands grip his hair, not pulling, just holding on and it makes him groan deliciously against you.
"Seungcheol—"
"I know." He doesn't stop, panting against you, licking and kissing, filling the room with obscenely wet sounds of your excessive arousal. "Let go, baby. I've got you."
You do. You break apart with a sound you don't recognize, your back arching, your whole world narrowing to the feeling of him drawing it out of you, gentling you through it with soft strokes of his tongue and steady hands on your hips. Your whole body tingles from your centre outward and your toes curl, making you kick gently against the bedsheets.
When you finally come down, he crawls back up to you, peppering every inch of your skin on the way. Then he's hovering over you and kissing you deep and slow, and you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue. It should be weird. You think with anyone else you might have been disgusted. It's not. With Seungcheol it's intimate in a way you didn't expect.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown so wide his brown eyes look black. His lips are swollen, slick with you. He looks utterly wrecked and completely, fiercely happy about it.
"You're happier about that than I am," you manage to point out, voice raspy. You also can't hold back a smile at this sight of him.
Seungcheol grins and doesn't even try to deny it. And why would he if it's exactly where he dreamed to be for so long. "Maybe."
You laugh and shake your head in slight disbelief. You shouldn't be surprised and yet a part of you is. Because it's difficult to believe something is real when you spent ages thinking it to be impossible. The sound of your laughter quickly turns into something much softer when Seungcheol kisses your forehead. You smile up at him.
"That was—" you start and find yourself just heaving a breath because, yet again, you feel like putting it into words simplifies what you felt and that's just unfair to the experience.
"Yeah." He chuckles, presses a kiss to your jawline and rests his forehead in the crook of your neck, enveloping you in his arms, making you feel warm and loved just from being held. "I know."
The awkwardness you felt earlier, the self-consciousness, the fear—it's gone. Melted away somewhere between his first touch and your last breathless moment. You're bare beneath him, vulnerable in every way, and all you feel is safe, wanted and his.
You pull him for another kiss and feel him respond, press his hips into you and grind. You feel his bulge, the way he's already so hard for you and it makes you whimper with want. The thought that he got so painfully hard just from eating you out does something unspeakable to your brain and you feel your pussy flutter in response. Very suddenly you need to feel him for real or you might lose your mind.
"Need to feel you inside me, Cheol." The words tumble out against his lips, desperate and shameless. "Please?"
He folds. Actually folds, a full body shudder that starts somewhere in the centre of his chest and ripples through every inch of him until he's pressing his forehead against yours, breathing ragged, making a sound you didn't think a guy like him could make—a whimper, high and broken and so utterly pathetic that it should be funny. But it's not. It's the hottest thing you've ever heard, because it's real, because it's for you, because this is what he sounds like when you ask for him.
"Fuck," he's already moving, scrambling off the bed with none of his usual grace, grabbing for his jeans where they landed in a heap on the floor. You watch him fish through the pockets, watch his hands shake slightly as he pulls out a couple of foil packets, watch him toss one on the nightstand like an afterthought. Then he's shoving his boxer briefs down, kicking them away, and finally you see all of him.
Your breath catches. Your pussy clenches around nothing. Your skin prickles and turns into goosebumps—and you don't think that it's because you lost his body heat. You know it's not.
He's beautiful. You knew he would be—and maybe a deep, depraved part of you is also a tiny bit relieved that reality matched your imagination. But knowing and seeing are different things. He's longer than you expected, and thick—really thick—and suddenly your brain supplies a very clear image of that fitting inside you and your thighs press together instinctively.
He catches the movement. His eyes darken. Your eyes train on his hand that smears the bead of precum over his length and strokes a couple of times. You gulp.
"Scared?"
"No." You shake your head, because it's not fear exactly. It's anticipation with an edge of how is that going to work. "Just... trying to process."
He huffs a laugh, soft and fond, even as his hands work to open the condom wrapper. He rolls it on with ease that says he did it before, and you continue to watch every second of it—the way his fingers move, the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes keep flicking up to your face like he's checking you're still here, still okay, still want it, him.
Then he's settling between your thighs again, and you feel him—the hot weight of him, the slick slide of his cock through your wet folds, catching on your clit in a way that makes you buck and whimper.
"Easy." His hand presses gently on your hip. "Easy."
You see something flicker across his face—concern, maybe—or maybe he just reads you too well, because before you can say anything, he's leaning down, kissing you soft and slow.
"I'm going to go so slow," he murmurs against your mouth. "So slow. You tell me if anything hurts, anything at all, and we stop. Deal?"
You want to protest and say that no way in hell you're allowing him to stop but his eyes are so attentive and serious, like he needs you to promise him, and you end up agreeing. "Deal."
Seungcheol kisses you again, a quick peck on your lips for reassurance. Then he shifts, lines himself up, and pushes.
It's supposedly nothing. Barely a press of pressure, just the tip breaching you. But it's something, and you gasp against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Okay?" He's already stopped. Already waiting.
"Yes. Keep going."
He does. An inch, maybe. Then stops. Then another inch. Each movement measured, careful, punctuated by soft checks—still okay? still good?—and you nod each time, breathless, because you can feel yourself stretching around him, feel the slow burn of it, feel the way your body is learning to accommodate something it has never had before.
By the time he's halfway in, you're trembling. Not from pain—there's some, a dull ache that edges toward discomfort—but mostly from the fullness, the strangeness, the sheer overwhelming reality of him inside you. And you can hear yourself chanting breathless profanities into the night, trying to come to terms with the fact that it's really happening.
"You're doing so well." His voice is wrecked. "So good. Taking me so good."
He pushes deeper. Stops. Lets you adjust. You feel your walls flutter around him, clenching and releasing, trying to figure out what to do with this new presence.
"Breathe," he reminds you and places a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Just breathe."
You do. Inhale. Exhale. And on the exhale, he pushes again, and suddenly he's seated—fully, completely, his hips pressed flush against yours.
You both moan.
He's still for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling. You can feel his heartbeat through where your chests press together, or maybe that's yours—you can't tell anymore. His forehead is against yours, eyes closed, jaw tight.
"So good," he whispers. "You feel—fuck. So good."
You can't respond. Your brain has stopped working entirely, caught on the singular fact that he's inside you, that you're connected like this, that there's no going back and you don't want to.
But just feeling him isn't enough anymore. Your body is greedy and so are you.
"Move." The word comes out strangled. "Please. Cheol. Move."
He pulls back. Slowly, excruciatingly, until only the tip remains, lodged in your tight entrance. The emptiness is almost worse than the fullness—you whimper, needy and desperate, and he answers by pushing back in. This time it's easier. The stretch is still there, still intense, but your body is learning, opening, welcoming him. He sets a rhythm—slow, deep, each thrust punctuated by a soft sound from one of you—and you cling to him like he's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.
Your arms wrap around his neck. Your legs hook around his waist. You feel every muscle in his back shift under your palms that begin to wander all over just to have more points of contact because suddenly nothing feels sufficient, feel the sweat beginning to gather at his temples when you hold his face to pull him in for a kiss, feel the way his breath stutters every time you clench around him.
And he talks. The whole time. Praises and promises and sweet, broken nothings pressed into your skin between kisses. Telling you how perfect you are, how well you're taking him, how beautiful you are like this. Then his lips find your ear, and his voice drops even lower, rough and raw and so just-for-you it makes your heart stutter.
"I love you."
You freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to feel it and still too.
"I love you." He says it again, like he needs you to hear it, understand it, because he's been holding it in for years. "I've always loved you. Even when I didn't know what to call it. Even when I was too scared to say it. I love you."
Something cracks open in your chest. Tears prick at your eyes again, but you blink them back, because you need to see him, need to watch his face as you say it back. "I love you too," your voice breaks on the last word. "I love you so much. Have loved you forever."
Seungcheol's lips find yours again. The kiss is deep and desperate and full of everything you've both been too afraid to express to each other. And then he starts moving again, harder, faster, because the words have unlocked the desperate, primal need in both of you.
"More." You gasp against his mouth. "Please, go harder."
He gives you more, gives you harder. His hips snap against yours with stronger force, rhythm deepening, and you feel yourself climbing toward your high, that familiar coil tightening low in your belly. The sensation makes you mewl and whimper. Your nails scratch down his back. Lightly at first, testing. He stutters—actually stutters, his rhythm breaking for half a second—and moans into your mouth.
"You like that?"
"Fuck. Yes."
You do it again. Harder this time. He groans, picks up pace, drives into you with an urgency that wasn't there before. The coil tightens. Tightens. You're close, so close, and he knows it—can feel it in the way you flutter around him and clench, the way your breath catches, the way you dig your nails in and hold on.
"Come for me," his voice is wrecked. "Come on. Let go. I've got you."
And you do. You shatter, crying out his name, your whole body convulsing under him as waves of pleasure crash through you. He follows a second later, with a broken groan and one final, desperate thrust, burying himself deep as he shudders through his own release. And then neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes—or it's the ringing in your ears that is too loud to hear it. You just lie there, tangled together, slick with sweat, still connected, still trembling. Then he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, dazed, full of tenderness that makes your chest ache.
"Happy birthday," he whispers and nuzzles your cheek.
You laugh, disbelieving and delighted because happy birthday, indeed. The happiest you've ever had. You can feel Seungcheol smiling against your skin and it makes you happier still.
For a long time, you just stay like this. The fire downstairs has likely burned low by now, the logs probably reduced to glowing embers and soft ash, but you can't bring yourself to care. The warmth of him pressed against you is enough—his weight a familiar comfort that settles over your bones like a second skin, his breath slowing against the curve of your neck with each passing minute, his fingers still tracing lazy, absent patterns on your hip like he can't bear to stop touching you even now. You begin to feel sleepy.
And you know it is a trap. The longer you stay the less you want to move, the less will you have to pull yourself out of this bed, and not just lie here in the afterglow like two teenagers who've discovered something forbidden for the first time. But every time you think about shifting, about disturbing this perfect stillness, your body refuses to cooperate, makes your bones too heavy, mind to dizzy. It's like every muscle has decided that this—him, here, now—is exactly where it wants to be, and it's not going anywhere.
So instead, you pull him closer.
He makes a soft sound against your skin, content and sleepy and utterly unguarded, and nuzzles deeper into your hair. "Mm. Comfy."
"You're heavy," you whisper, but your arms tighten around him even as you say it.
"Don't care."
You laugh quietly, the sound vibrating through your chest, through him. Your fingers card through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the slight curl of it, the way it sticks to his skin. Seungcheol purrs quietly in response and you smile. The ceiling above you is wooden, rustic, catching the faint glow of the outside lights that neither of you turned off. You slowly realise that you don't remember a lot of the past hour, just flashes and feelings, sensations. His face above you, dark eyes gone almost black with want. The sound he made when you first touched him. The way he looked at you like you were sacred, precious, worth waiting for—and your heart tried to escape your chest under his gaze.
"I love you," the words slip out again, quiet and probing, barely more than a breath against his hair. Like you're still testing how it feels to say them out loud. Like you're afraid they might explode if you say them too loudly.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, tired, impossibly fond—the same eyes you've known your entire life, but different now. Open in a way they've never been before. Looking at you in a way they never quite did.
"I know." He kisses the tip of your nose, soft and sweet. You scrunch it and he kisses again with a chuckle. "I love you too. Took us long enough."
You snort. "Yeah. Only, what, twenty-something years?"
"Fifteen, maybe. The early childhood doesn't count." He settles back down, cheek pressed to your chest, right over your heart. You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "We were busy playing mud cakes in that puddle."
You laugh again, and feel it echo in your own chest, feel him smile wider at the vibration of it. The absurdity of it—the sheer, ridiculous, beautiful absurdity of ending up here after everything—washes over you in a warm wave. All those years of confusion, of fear, of dancing around each other and pretending not to feel what you felt. All those summers and winters and phone calls and silences. All of it, leading to this. To him, warm and solid and, most importantly, yours, pressed against you in a cabin in the woods.
Your hand finds his where it rests on your stomach, fingers slotting together like they were made to. His thumb reflexively resumes its lazy circles, now tracing over your knuckles instead of your skin, and the simple intimacy of it makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter in the best way.
"Hey." You poke his shoulder with your free hand. "What time is it?"
He groans, a long suffering sound that's entirely performative, and makes absolutely no move to check. "Don't know. Don't care."
"We should probably—" You gesture vaguely with the hand not trapped in his. "I don't know. Go exist outside of this bed for a few minutes?"
"In a minute," his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. "Five minutes."
"So in a minute or five?"
"Twenty," he says it into your skin, muffled and stubborn, and you feel his smile again.
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling too. Can't help it. Can't stop. It's like your face has forgotten how to do anything else.
The warmth of him seeps into your bones. The slight stickiness of cooling sweat, the soft cotton of sheets beneath you, the faint scent of him—smoke from the grill clinging to his hair and something warm and unmistakably him—all of it wraps around you like a blanket.
"This is nice," you murmur, almost to yourself. "Just... this."
He hums in agreement, a low sound you feel more than hear. Then, after a long, comfortable moment: "We have the whole cabin until tomorrow afternoon."
Your eyebrows rise. "Oh?"
"We could..." He trails off deliberately, and you feel his grin press against your skin. It makes you shiver. "I don't know. Make use of it. In various ways."
"You're insatiable."
"I'm celebrating." He lifts his head, looks at you with those baby cow brown eyes, and the sheer adoration in them makes your breath shallow. "It's your birthday. I'm contractually obligated to make it memorable."
"Pretty sure there is no contract."
"Should be." He kisses your collarbone. Soft. Lingering. Then your shoulder, his lips warm and dry. Then the spot just below your ear that makes you shiver involuntarily. "I'll draft it and send it to you via email."
You're laughing, but it's turning into something breathier as his mouth trails lower, as his hand slides from your stomach to your hip, as his thigh presses between your legs. "Cheollie—"
He pauses immediately, looks up at you through his lashes with an expression that's equal parts mischief and adoration. You could be sensible and responsible and adult about this. Instead, you tug him up by his hair and kiss him.
He makes a sound against your mouth—surprised, pleased, absolutely wrecked—and melts into you like he's been waiting for permission. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you part for him, pull him closer, wrap yourself around him like you never want to let go.
"One more time," you murmur against his lips. "Then we do all the responsible things."
He grins, and you feel it in the kiss, it makes you smile back at him. "Deal."
And when he rolls you onto your back, when his weight settles over you again—familiar now, wanted and yours—when his mouth finds yours in the dark and his hands start learning you all over again, it all feels painfully like coming home to something you've always had.
Just finally, finally letting yourself live in it.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
All That I Need pt.1 | Choi Seungcheol | angst, fluff, 🔞
Pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader
Summary: You and Seungcheol go way back. Way way back. So far back that there isn't a day in your life you haven't known him. But what happens when one careless outsider observation undermines everything you thought you knew?
Word count: 17.5k (39.8k in total)
Genres/warnings: fluff, angst, smut (in pt2); non-idol au; bff2l, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn-ish?, overthinking, miscommunicatioooon yesss pleaseeee, lots of complicated feelings while growing up, questionable beliefs installed by parents, dealing with doubt (aka questioning everything you knew before) and friendship drifting apart, just a lot of friendship related thots and events; pretty much a coming of age story ig; seungcheol punches someone once, mentions of recreational drinking; there's a one bed trope if you squint hard enough; idk what else to put here so if you find smth hit me up
A/N: do you see this monstrosity that i brought over? i'm so mad it didn't fit in one post. it was supposed to be a oneshot ffs. had a whole mental breakdown over it.
would’ve finished it so much sooner but life got in the way and i had to put it down and then it was difficult because i had to return to it and finish somehow (i hate putting my stories down because I struggle with returning to them). anyways, i put my blood sweat and tears into this one. it is brought to you by this anon request. please enjoy your read and i'll be happy to see your feedback in any form you're comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
A/N2: lots of love and gratitude to my precious @pochaccoups and @woncheolisms for beta reading this for me and giving me the courage and confidence to post this story. if it weren't for your reactions i'm not sure this would've seen the light of day!
listen to Bryan Adams - Heaven if you want to set the mood for this read😮💨
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | Part 2 [soon]
You and Seungcheol go way back. Way way back. So far back that there isn't a day in your life you haven't known him. The thing is, your parents were neighbours, bought houses in the same village, befriended each other while your mothers were pregnant with you and him.
Your presence in each other's lives is so natural and meant to be that neither of you ever questions it.
Childhood is filled with summers riding bikes, running around until your lungs burn, playing games where the rules change by the minute. Swimming in the lake until your fingers prune and your lips turn purple, eating stolen berries from the gardens, tart juice staining your chins and hands. Building a tent by his house or yours, just to pretend you're somewhere far away, hiking through mountains. Bruised knees and scraped palms are your medals. Celebrating Seungcheol's birthday is like its own separate summer festival, with popsicles and homemade cake his mom lets you lick the bowl from. In winters, it's always Christmas celebrations at his house, both your families and some neighbours packed into the warm, noisy dining room. You sit at the table side by side, listening to adult conversations you only half-understand, eating delicious food until it becomes boring. Then the two of you sneak away to another room to watch TV on the couch or layer up and play games in the snow until your noses run. Even when you move cities for your first school year, your communication actively persists over the landline. You still see each other every summer and every winter. It is the law of your world.
Throughout your entire childhood, you only fight once. It is an accident. The two of you are playing at your house, and you recklessly swing a charger cord like a makeshift weapon, smacking him straight across his forehead. A sharp thwack and then silence.
You feel starkly embarrassed and flustered and startled, too. Your throat closes. He blinks, a red mark already blooming on his skin.
"I didn't mean to," is all you whisper, instead of a proper apology. You don't know to this day why those simple words are so difficult. Perhaps, even to this day you just don't dare to admit that some part of you being cruel at that age, like many children are.
Seungcheol just looks at you, his eyes wide and a little watery, but he doesn't cry. He stands up, quietly, and walks out of your house. After that, you don't talk until the end of summer and then for some more months, dodging your parents' questions with something incoherent about him throwing a tantrum—it has happened before, it's a believable lie. The space that used to be filled with his laughter and gummy smiles is now silent and uncomfortable.
You only reconcile when you muster the courage to call him one late November evening. The phone rings four times. His mother picks up and gingerly you ask her if Seungcheol can come to the phone. He does.
"Hello?" His voice is the same you remember, a little cautious, a little distant with remaining hurt—probably.
You swallow. "It's me. I'm… I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry. For the charger. And for not apologising properly that day."
A pause on the line, just the faint static of the connection. Then, "It's okay. I knew you didn't mean it."
The grudge is forgotten that very moment, melting like winter's first snow. You feel the heaviness in your heart lift and suddenly breathing is manageable once more. And now your parents have to worry about phone bills yet again—because the two of you can be on the phone for hours, talking about everything and nothing, or staying in a comfortable silence, just content to be in each other's company while doing homework or playing video games, even if it's just through a wire.
You think him to be your bestest of friends, the one you cherish the most, considering him family even though Seungcheol has an actual older brother of his own. Sure, he isn't a girl, and as you grow up some topics are apparently not discussable with him, like your crushes and all these complicated, stupid feelings that you keep catching. You try once, telling him about a boy in your class that you had a crush on for a while now, and he goes quiet for so long you can literally imagine his thick eyebrows cinched in a frown. "He sounds stupid," is all he says, and you never bring it up again because you are suddenly embarrassed and defensive. But you still have a thousand other things in common, and you are fine with it. Spending time together during summers is still the best thing you can remember about your childhood and your early teen years. It is your constant. It is the core of who you are.
Things crack later.
One summer, between grade eight and nine of school, your parents decide it is a good idea to send you to summer camp abroad. Together. You are both excited. Especially you. You have experience with summer camps; your parents have sent you to some over the past few years. It is always fun to socialise, to find new friends, to have stories that don't include anyone from home.
On the bus you want to sit by Seungcheol's side at first, but seating is decided prior, and unfortunately, you two have to sit with different people. Not far away—he only sits a row behind you. You aren't sad for long, quickly befriending the girl you sit with, a talkative redhead named Maya from a city you've never visited.
When you arrive, everyone is distributed to houses by gender, six to seven people to one house. You get to live with your new friend and also quickly make friends with two other girls in your house, Lana and Sophie. You are on good terms with the rest. It quickly becomes apparent to you that Seungcheol has some issues socialising with peers. Not because he is awkward or introverted—before this, his social circle consists of you, his brother, and his brother's friends, who are all older than him. He is used to being the baby, the one who is let into conversations, not the one who has to start them. And so he finds himself not very interested in the constant, buzzing chatter of the guys from his house. Their jokes fall flat for him, their interests feel shallow. He tries to stick to you, and you don't mind for the most part.
But a part of you feels a little irritated that he needs mothering. There's this sense of low, simmering impatience high in your chest. After all, what is the point of coming all the way here if he isn't going to make friends, go out of his way, put himself out there? Especially when it is just all fun around—going to the beach with the curators on sunny days, on tours about historical sights in the old cities nearby, doing whatever you want in your free time. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Talk to them. Laugh at their stupid jokes. Try.
Everything begins to change on a day when the curators take you to a neighbouring town, to a beach, to watch some local music festival happening there. Everyone is excited, and it is fun. The air smells of salt and fried food. You and your girl friends wander around the beach, take photos of the sea, the sunset, each other. The music is in a foreign language, upbeat and full of brass; it's kinda fun to listen to the local scene. But as the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in oranges and purples, a breeze picks up off the water. It begins to get chilly. You secretly regret not taking something warmer to throw on. You'll tough it out, though. It's not that bad. It's summer, after all, even though you're right by the seaside, and goosebumps are rising on your arms.
You're on the outskirts of the crowd when Seungcheol finds you and your girl friends. He doesn't even assess you, just immediately suggests you take his flannel shirt since you seem cold. He's already unbuttoning it.
"Here," he says, his voice cutting through the music.
But you're stubborn. Overly self-reliant. A strong independent girl even at that age. And for some reason, accepting his small, familiar help feels belittling in a way. Or just embarrassing for a reason you're not so sure exists. Like it's a sign of weakness he's spotted. And you're certainly tougher than some chilly evening air.
"I'm fine," you deflect, crossing your arms over your chest.
"You have goosebumps."
"It's just the wind. It'll pass," you shrug with a dismissive wave of your hand.
He insists, holding the shirt out. "Just take it."
"No, really. I don't need it." You attempt to sound lighter, to sound convincing. Because you're painfully aware of your new friends watching the interaction and you don't like it.
He looks at you for a long second, then gives up with a slight roll of his eyes, shrugging the flannel back on. This is when Lana, one of your new friends, pipes up. "I'm actually freezing. Can I borrow it?"
Seungcheol just nods and gives it to her in his simple, reflexive act of kindness. He stays with you all for a few minutes of stilted chat about the bands, his hands now shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and then goes off into the crowd to find a curator, saying he wants to ask about the departure time.
The moment he leaves and is surely out of earshot, all hell breaks loose.
Your friends are like sharks sensing blood. They swarm you, talking over each other in a conspiratorial rush.
"Oh my god," Sophie whispers, her eyes wide. "He is totally into you."
"Did you see the way he looked at you?" Lana adds, snuggling into his flannel. "It was like… puppy eyes. Big, sad puppy eyes because you rejected his shirt."
"Right! Guys don't just offer their clothes like that," Maya proclaims, as if she's an expert because her own boyfriend back home carries her bag sometimes.
You bristle with a sharp spike of irritation, your whole body goes hot then cold. Because it's nonsense. It's just Seungcheol. Just the way it's always been with the two of you. Sharing your mother's big jacket as children, on chilly summer evenings—his arm in one sleeve and yours in the other. Lending umbrellas to run from one house to the other. They don't know what they're talking about. They've known him for two weeks; you've known him for a lifetime.
"Stop it," you hiss, but it comes out weak. "He's just polite. He just has a proper upbringing, that's it. It doesn't mean anything."
"Polite is holding a door," Maya counters. "This isn't just that."
"You don't know what you're talking about," you snap, frustration bubbling over. "We've shared shirts and jackets and whatever our whole lives. We grew up together. It never meant anything. It's just the right thing to do because it's fucking cold."
The girls exchange looks that say we know better and you do your best not to roll your eyes in irritation and walk away. They drop it, but the air is charged. The seed is planted. And it's a toxic, fast-growing vine.
From that moment on you slowly and invisibly begin to rethink everything. Every interaction from the past weeks, the past year, maybe even your whole life—okay no, that would be a stretch. The way he always saves you a seat. How he remembers your favourite snack. All the times he walked you in the rain—and any other weather—from his house to yours in the village, even though it's no more than a five minute walk. You ask yourself, in a frantic loop, does he actually like you? Or are your friends just stupid and don't know what it's like to be friends with a boy for your entire life? Is everything tainted with this unbidden feeling now? Or are you just spiralling and overthinking?
The doubt is corrosive.
You don't notice at first, but you begin distancing yourself from Seungcheol. It's small, almost involuntary. Finding excuses to walk with your new friends instead of him during tours. Begging off joint plans, saying you're tired. You stop seeking him out for anything at all.
Once, because you shared your phone with him during the trip—his was broken, shattered screen from a clumsy drop on day two—you do something you know is wrong. He'd messaged his brother from your profile and didn't delete the messages. Your thumb hovers over the dialogue. The curiosity is an insistent sharp itch, fed by your new, ugly uncertainty. You tap on it.
You read their conversation. His brother asks how it's going.
Seungcheol: Boring. The guys here are… I don't know. They talk about games I don't play, make jokes I don't get. I can't keep a conversation going. I say something and they just nod and change the topic.
Brother: That's just how it is sometimes. At least you have Y/N there. She's your best friend after all.
This makes you lowkey mad. Being best friends doesn't make it your obligation to keep him company. You don't owe Seungcheol staying by his side only because he's so sad about being unable to socialise.
Seungcheol: She's with others all the time now. I think she's bored of me too.
The words punch you to the throat. They are simple and they sound so lonely. Your irritation vanishes and instead you feel guilty for the way you're thinking. There's no self-pity in that text, just a statement of fact as he sees it. You are suddenly sharply aware of the fact that you're intruding and it makes you feel sick. You close the app, your heart hammering against your ribs. You decide to keep it to yourself, to pretend you never saw these messages. But the knowledge sits inside you, heavy and cold.
Just a few days later, by the end of a trip to the beach, you find yourself searching for your wallet. A real, swooping panic claws at your insides as you rummage through your backpack. You tell your friends, your voice rising in alarm.
"I had it this morning! I paid for the lemonade at the cafe! It can't be gone, it has all my money…"
The girls only shrug and offer no help, just sympathy. So your first instinct, your absolute first instinct despite all the distance you've created, is to find Seungcheol. Your eyes immediately find him in the crowd of people standing by the curator, waiting to depart back to the camp grounds.
"Cheol," you call as you approach him, the childhood nickname slips out in your distress. Your eyes flicker to the curator, you'll have to inform her anyways but first him. "I think I lost my wallet. I don't know where but probably at the beach."
His face shifts immediately into a mode you know well: focused, practical, ready to solve the problem. "Okay. Where did you go? Let's retrace your steps. We should ask at the cafes."
The two of you quickly inform the adults and rush back. You go from cafe to cafe along the beachfront, and he does most of the talking, his manner calm and clear, while you flutter anxiously beside him.
"It's green, leather, with a button," you hear him explain for the third time. He sounds so sure, so capable. You feel like a child.
Finally, in despair, you slump onto a low wall and rummage through your backpack one more time, digging past your damp towel. Your fingers brush against a familiar, smooth shape, tucked into a side pocket you usually never use. And suddenly you remember that it's exactly the reason why you put your wallet there, to keep it safe.
"Oh," the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. You pull out the wallet. The alarm turns out false. The relief is so tangible it makes you lightheaded. You look up at him, a weak, nervous laugh escaping you. "I'm… I'm so stupid. It was here the whole time."
He doesn't laugh. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then he shakes his head, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "Yeah. You are."
But he says it softly, without any bite. The way that means I'm glad you found it, you scarecrow. For a second, everything is normal. You walk back to the camp group together, the setting sun casting long shadows. You should say something, bridge this gap you made. But the moment slips away, swallowed by your own awkward silence and the curator's immediate questions on whether the search was successful.
For the rest of that summer trip, you continue barely talking to him. The exchanges are polite, necessary, and hollow. You feel shitty and avoidant, a coward, still utterly impacted by what your girl friends pointed out on that chilly beach. You watch him from a distance. He stops trying to stick to you. He starts spending more time alone, or sitting quietly with a book, or attempting to interact with the guys that you know he has no interest interacting with. The easy dimpled smile you've known forever appears less and less.
And just like that the crack stops being a hairline fracture and turns into a chasm instead. And you are standing on one side, actively choosing not to cross it, too confused and scared to even understand what you're looking at on the other side.
The last month of summer that year is spent in the village as usual. You spend it avoiding Seungcheol most of the time. The air between your houses, once so easily traversed, now feels thick with something unsaid. Every time he texts you—Hey, want to go ride bikes? or I found that old board game. Come over?—you scramble for an excuse.
Sorry, I'm in the middle of this new book, you type back, glancing at the novel on your nightstand, its spine still uncracked.
Or: Trying to finally learn some basic art stuff. You know, the online course I told you about. You haven't opened the lessons in weeks.
Most of the time, in reality, you're not doing any of those things you tell him you're doing. You're lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, or scrolling mindlessly on your phone, too hung up on the growing chasm of awkwardness you helped create. You're waiting, almost passively, for the opportunity for real distance to solidify between you. The summer days, once endless and golden, now feel like a countdown you're both enduring. Or at the very least you are.
It's really too much, and you're glad you don't have time to think about it when the school year starts. The relief is grand as you pack your bag and return to your city with your parents. You're glad you don't live in the same place, that you only text now on social media, that there are no more hour-long calls where silence was comfortable. Now it would be suffocating. You're glad to return to your routine of school friends, to your one-sided school crushes that don't require you to address anything heavy, that allow you to suffer in silence, pining and complaining to your friends without actually taking any action to change the situation. You cling to the safety of it, this feeling of things being stable and normal again.
Meanwhile the distance grows, a quiet, persistent weed, no matter how much you try to pretend that it doesn't. You are too preoccupied with your constructed normalcy—which isn't exactly normal anymore, just a busy distraction that you refuse to admit—to notice how everything shifts. You don't notice the moment Seungcheol stops trying to reach out that much. The texts become fewer. The how was your day? messages appear once a week, then once a fortnight. They are easy to miss in the flood of notifications from your closer, present-circle friends.
You still talk, but it's mundane, scarce. It's comments on each other's social media posts. Looks fun :) he writes under a picture of you at a school event. Happy holiday! you comment on a photo of his family's Christmas tree because it's the first year that you don't celebrate together. The exchanges are polite ghosts of your past conversations.
It also feels strange, there's a deep, background wrongness, because neither of you celebrates your birthdays together anymore. Now, all you do is you send heartfelt messages. You type out paragraphs—Happy birthday! I hope you have the most amazing day! Remember that time we…—trying to conjure the old warmth. The congratulations, when you read them back, sound as if nothing has changed and everything is just as it used to be. But if you let yourself see the truth, it feels more like trying to save something that has already died. You are performing CPR on a corpse—or something soon to become it. His replies are equally long, equally kind, and equally final. Thanks so much! Yeah, I remember that haha. Hope you're doing well.
What once felt natural, something that neither of you ever questioned, a steady, humming chord that connected you two across any distance, now lies severed and damaged. It doesn't snap with a dramatic sound. It hangs by a frayed thread, and neither of you seems to know how, or if, you should reach for it or just cut it off. The weight of all those summers, all those winters, all those shared things and silent phone calls and scraped palms, now just pulls that thread tighter, thinner, towards breaking.
High school years pass somewhat like this. At one point you feel like you managed to overcome your overthinking, to put it behind you. So you make more attempts to reach out, see each other during summers sometimes, but it's nearly not as much as it used to be. The visits to his house are now mostly prompted by your or his parents over family dinners. You sit by him at the table, making safe, surface-level conversation about university plans and mutual acquaintances from the summer camp. You laugh at the same old stories your fathers tell, but the laughter doesn't travel between you two like it used to. It just lands on the tablecloth with the crumbs.
It seems that the relatively short time of barely any contact—in comparison to a lifetime of being by each other's side—has highlighted the differences between you, the growing lack of common ground as the two of you grow apart, both in physical distance and mental.
And then the university time comes. And Seungcheol moves to your city. The news comes via your mother, who heard it from his. A bolt of something—anxiety, hope, sheer surprise—shoots through you. Obviously, you don't go to the same university, you choosing languages and him—business. But by that time, the last teen bits in you stop worrying. High school is over, a messy, self-conscious era sealed shut. The one-sided crushes and that pervasive, teenage fear of missing out are no longer the factors on your horizon. You've had your heart bruised in simple ways that unrequited feelings provide. You let go of the weird, tangled guilt from the summer camp. You free up the mental space it had been squatting in. And in that new quiet you suddenly realise, with a clarity that makes your heart ache, that you miss your friend. His steady presence. His dumb jokes. The person who knew you before you were anyone at all. The one you always competed against to do something before he does and yet were always happy for his achievements.
So you start trying to talk to him more again. You send a message: Hey, mom told me you're moving here! That's huge. Let me know if you need any tips on the city.
He replies a day later. Thanks. Yeah, it's… a lot. Might take you up on that.
He seems… normal. Stressing about the move, about the new place, new beginnings. His texts are clipped, a little distant, but you chalk it up to pre-university nerves. You try to be supportive, reassuring. Texting him that he's going to be all good, it's just an adaptation period, he'll be fine, that you believe he's going to be alright. Everyone feels scared and worried. I do too, you write and it's true.
You're just as overwhelmed in your own university, and for a little while, it becomes a small bonding moment, this common struggle of the academic grind. You talk sometimes, on social media of course. You send each other memes about all-nighters and terrible cafeteria food. It's light and easy, a surface-level safe zone. It almost feels like a fresh start.
And at some point, you realise that he's found himself a girlfriend. You see her first in the background of a photo he's tagged in—a group shot at some small flat party, his arm casually around a girl with a bright smile. You feel a strange little lurch in your stomach, which you immediately dismiss as surprise. You text him: OMG who is that?? She's pretty!
He sends back a blushing emoji. Her name's Ella. We've been hanging out.
You're happy and excited for him. You tell yourself you are. He even sends you a few photos from their small trip to a different city a few months later—the two of them hugging in front of a famous bridge. Looks amazing! you reply. You guys are cute. And you mean it. Or you think you do.
They date for almost a year and a half. Most of your news on them you get through your mother, who is talking to his. It's a weird, second-hand way to track the life of your once-best friend. And you find out through her that they broke up too. Your mom mentions it in a that voice that is filled with gossipy pity but doesn't mean it at all. "His mother says the girl was getting too insistent, you know? Seeing that Seungcheol's family is… well, comfortable. Talking about rings and things, and he's not even twenty yet! Can you imagine?"
"Wow, cringe," you say and you mean it. It's ridiculous to be trying to bag anyone regardless of gender at this age. Let a person live, for god's sake. You dismiss the subtle, quiet wave of relief that follows it. You just file the information away and don't ask him about it. He doesn't offer.
During your third year, things begin to get kind of strained between the two of you. Yes, you're texting. And Seungcheol is always answering kindly, apologising for delays, engaging in some deeper topics sometimes. But you've also been noticing that he'd stopped texting you first for quite some time now. On top of that, you've been trying to get him to hang out with you for quite some time now. Properly hang out, just the two of you, in the same city you now share. You see his Instagram stories—he's making new friends, a bunch of people from his business program and beyond. They look confident, stylish, laughing in sleek bars or at someone's apartment. And while you have friends of your own too, a solid group that you've build from middle to high school to now university, you still want your best friend back. You want to bridge the gap that you created, but now it feels like the landscape on his side of the chasm has changed completely.
You're suddenly unable to recognise this person. And it's not just visually, though that's a part of it. The boy whose clothes you used to borrow is gone. In his place is a young man who is… transforming. He's been working out; the softness of his teenage frame has hardened into something defined. He's discovering his style and he's doing it really well, you must admit. He's hanging out with new friends, going to parties or clubbing even. You watch a seven-second clip of him in a dim, pulsing room, pursing his lips and bobbing his head to the beat, a drink in hand. It's not your scene. You're a homebody, a 'watch a movie and order takeout' or a 'quiet cafe and a walk' type of person. So on some level, you do judge him. You judge the performative ease, the curated cool. Who is he trying to be? you think, a bitter little seed in your mind. So you tease and joke around a little in his DMs, nothing you haven't done before.
But more than that, you're angry and hurt. Because every time you try to suggest meeting for a coffee or a walk, he always comes up with a reason why he cannot, or just rain checks into the vague, never-arriving future.
Sorry, got a group project meeting.
Ah, I promised I'd go to the gym with a friend.
Maybe next week? Homework load is crazy.
You don't want to look desperate, but he's also Seungcheol, your lifetime-long friend. There's nothing desperate about wanting to see your friend at least once every six months, is there? The imbalance infuriates you. You were the one who pulled away, but now you're the one reaching, and he's the one who is slipping through your fingers.
On one of those attempts to drag him out, you snap.
Your last lecture of the day ends early and it's a totally welcome gift on a surprisingly warm afternoon. Because you've been previously texting Seungcheol earlier—a meaningless exchange about most terrible professors in your universities—you know that he also has his last lecture today and that's it. No other plans mentioned. The sun is out. The weather looks friendly and pleasant. It feels like a good chance.
You text him: Hey. My class just ended early. You free? Could grab a coffee by the river. My treat for being a flake for the past many years.
You send it and see his status flick to 'online'. Then, a second later, 'offline'. You wait, phone in hand, assuming he's just glanced at his phone in his lecture. You wait fifteen minutes. Then twenty. The little 'delivered' receipt stares back at you.
Finally, your screen lights up.
Seungcheol: sorry baby, i was in a lecture. also, won't be able to make it, i promised my mom that i'll go shopping with her
You read it once. Then twice. The words refuse to compute at first.
A cold then hot flush sweeps over you. Flustered and weirded out. Because who does he think he's talking to, calling you 'baby'? Is this a text meant for some girl from a party he hooked up with, someone who's acting needy now? The generic, placating excuse—shopping with his mom? His mother lives two hours away by train. It's a Wednesday afternoon. It's the laziest, most blatant brush-off you've ever received. And the 'baby'… it feels like a violation. A careless, casual term of endearment he now tosses around, landing on you like a splash of cold water.
The anger that's been simmering for months boils over. Your thumbs fly across the screen.
You: Wtf? Baby? Seriously? Who exactly do you think you're texting right now?
You: And shopping with your mom? On a Wednesday? Come up with something better, Seungcheol. Or just be honest and say you don't want to see me.
You hit send. The seconds tick by, heavy and loud in your head.
Seungcheol: what? it was a typo. busy. meant to say maybe.
Seungcheol: and i am going to see her. she's in the city for a doctor's appointment.
It's the defensive, clipped tone that does it. The refusal to acknowledge the sheer weirdness of it all.
You: A typo from 'maybe' to 'baby'? That's a stretch. And fine, whatever. But you know what? Forget it. Forget the coffee. Forget everything. You've been blowing me off for two years straight. Every single time I try. I get it. You have a new life, new cool friends, a whole new persona. I don't fit into it. Just have the decency to say that openly instead of treating me like some annoying hook up you have to manage with bad excuses and pet names.
You're shaking with rage and adrenaline. You've said too much. You've shown your hand, all the hurt and the need you've been trying to hide. The three dots appear. They disappear. Appear again. A long, agonising minute passes.
Seungcheol: are you done?
Seungcheol: wanna to know why i 'blow you off'? try to remember the last time you actually wanted to hang out with me. not the idea of me you have in your head from when we were twelve. not because you feel guilty or because you're trying to fix some old crack. me. now.
You stare at his words. They feel like a slap across your face. You can almost feel the sting of it. You want to fire back, but your mind is blank, white with shock.
Seungcheol: you called me cringe when i started going to the gym. then made fun of me when i posted stories from a club with people from my major. every time we talk, it feels like you're waiting for me to revert back to the kid who followed you around. you don't even know me anymore. so why would i want to have coffee with someone who doesn't like who i've become?
His accusations are somewhat true but are also unfair. Regardless, the truth of them lands and it is sharp and undeniable, carving grooves of shame in your chest. Yes, maybe you've had a hard time accepting his new persona. The gym, the clubs, the style—it's all a language you don't speak, a club you aren't invited to. You judge and make jokes because you don't understand it, and because, secretly, it scares you. It is proof he is building a world you aren't a part of.
But he wasn't giving you a proper chance at that either. He'd just… vanished into that new world, posting snippets of it for everyone to see, including you, but never opening the door. Every attempt you made was met with that bland, brick-wall politeness or a flimsy excuse. As he isn't giving it now.
A fresh surge of anger cuts through the hurt. You tell him that.
You: You're right. I have been judging and making jokes. I didn't know how to fit the new version of you into the old space you occupied. That's on me.
You: But you're not being fair either. You changed the rules and then got mad at me for not knowing how to play. You never let me in to try. You just shut the door. Every single time I knocked. That's totally on you!
You send it, your heart a drumming against your ribs. The three dots appear immediately, pulsing, then stop. No reply comes. The silence is heavy, expectant. It stretches for a full minute, then two. He's reading it. He's thinking. You've thrown your truth back, and now you're both standing in the wreckage of it.
You impatiently pace the hallway of your university, staring at the screen.
And then, just because you can and because it was long, long overdue, you do what you feel is right in that moment. The grand, clenching knot of pride and fear and regret in your stomach loosens, just a fraction, telling you this is the only way through. You need to voice the thing that has been rotting between you for years. You start typing again, your thumbs moving almost on their own, the words seeping out like water from a cracked dam.
You: But that's not the main thing. The main thing is something I should have said years ago. Maybe if I had, none of this… distance… would have happened. Or maybe it would have. I don't know.
You: Either way I'm sorry, Cheol.
You take a sharp breath, the air in the quiet hallway feeling thin and charged with your own emotions.
You: I'm sorry for the summer camp. I'm sorry for pulling away from you when you needed a friend there the most. I'm sorry for leaving you behind back then, for being so wrapped up in my own stupid head that I made you feel alone. I'm sorry for not cherishing what we had, for taking it for granted because you'd always been there like a part of me I never had to worry about losing.
The memories flood in, unbidden. His lonely text to his brother. The way he'd looked on the beach when you rejected his shirt. The hollow feeling of that last summer in the village when everything went south.
You: My fifteen-year-old self was acting like a bitch to her only friend. Scared, confused and selfish. And I've felt bad about it for years, but I was too much of a coward to just say it. I thought if I just pretended it never happened, or if I just tried to be friends again like normal, it would just… disappear. But it doesn't. It's been sitting here this whole time.
You don't talk about what started your intensified withdrawal—the shark-like whispers of your friends, the planted seed of doubt about his feelings. That is a separate, tangled vine. It's too vulnerable and close to the heart, and it feels impossible, wrong, to ask over text: Were they right? Did you look at me like that? Was I blind, or were they hallucinating? That question requires a face, eyes, the courage to hold a gaze. It requires him, in front of you. So you leave it unsaid, a silent, trembling asterisk at the end of your apology.
You: I don't expect you to forgive me. I probably wouldn't, if I were you. But I needed you to know that I see it now, clearly. And I'm sorry. Truly.
You hit send.
The finality of it echoes in the empty corridor. You're standing near a window, the afternoon sun casting long rectangles of light on the scuffed floor. You lower your phone, pressing it against your chest. You feel dizzy, stripped bare. There is no immediate relief, only a vast, shaky emptiness. You've just lobbed a piece of your soul over a digital wall and have no idea what ground it will land on.
Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Your phone doesn't vibrate in your hand. You lift it, check the connection, open the chat. 'Read 4:32 PM'. He's seen it all. And he's saying nothing.
You quickly find that silence is worse than any angry reply. An angry reply would still be engagement, a continuation of the fight, a connection, however toxic. This silence, however, is akin to a void. It's a door not just closed, but walled up. You sink down onto a nearby bench tucked into an alcove, your backpack heavy beside you. You don't cry. You just feel terribly, overwhelmingly sad. For the past, for the present, for the future that now seems to definitively not include him. You stare out the window at students crossing the courtyard, their lives moving seamlessly forward while yours feels suspended in this painful, silent limbo.
You must zone out, because the sudden buzz of your phone against your leg jolts you back. The light in the corridor has shifted, grown warmer, later. Your heart leaps into your throat. You fumble for it.
It's not a text. It's a call. Seungcheol's name flashes on your screen.
For a wild second, you consider not answering. The vulnerability of your spoken voice feels like too much here in public. But you swipe to accept, bringing the phone to your ear.
"Hello?" Your voice is raspy from tension.
A beat of silence on the other end, filled with ambient city noise—the distant sound of traffic, the murmur of a crowd. He's outside.
"Hey," he sounds quiet, flat. Not angry. More like tired.
"Hey," you echo, your grip tightening on the phone.
More silence. You can almost hear him choosing his words, weighing them.
"You weren't a bitch," he says finally, the word sounds awkward coming from him in the context of you. "You were fifteen. And I was… a lot. I know I was hard to be around that summer. I was miserable and I took it out on you by just expecting you to fix it."
This isn't what you expected. Not absolution, and certainly not self-recrimination from him.
"You didn't take it out on me," you argue softly, lowering your voice as a pair of students walk past. "I was the one who abandoned you."
"You had every right to make other friends," he counters, and there's a hint of the old, stubborn Seungcheol in his tone. "That was the whole point of the camp. I was the one who couldn't handle it. I was the one who read your normal, healthy behaviour as you being bored of me."
You swallow hard, your throat tight. "It wasn't… healthy. What I did. The ignoring you. That wasn't about making friends. That was about me being scared of something stupid."
The line is quiet again. You've stepped to the very edge of the unspoken thing. You can feel the tension of it humming down the line.
He doesn't ask what do you mean. Just lets the statement hang. And a thought crosses your mind that maybe he knows. Maybe he's always known what your friends whispered.
"Anyway," he clears his throat, moving past the precipice. "The apology. It's… thank you. For saying it."
"It doesn't fix anything," you whisper, stating the obvious.
"No," he agrees, his voice a little rough. "It doesn't. Some cracks don't get fixed. They just become part of the shape of the thing."
The metaphor sinks into you. Is that what you are now? A friendship defined by its fractures?
"I don't want that," you say, the words coming out before you can stop them, pleading and vulnerable. "I don't want us to just be a broken shape."
He sighs, a long, weary sound that travels through the connection. "I don't know what we are, Y/N. Honestly. You're right that I haven't made it easy. This… persona, as you call it. It wasn't about leaving you behind. It was about adapting to a bunch of new things. University, this city, being away from everything I knew. So, the gym, the clothes, the going out… it was a suit of armour. I put it on so I could walk into rooms and not feel like that lonely kid at the camp anymore."
His confession disarms you completely. You see it now—not a rejection of his past, but a desperate construction to protect the soft, unsure parts of him that still existed. And you have to give him the credit, the said armour fits him seamlessly now. You think he grew into it comfortably now. Fake it till you make it, they say?
"I'm sorry," you repeat, the words meaning something new this time. "For judging your attempts to adapt."
A small, humourless huff of air from his end. "It's pretty stupid sometimes. I'm not that much into clubbing, actually. The music just isn't it half of the time and drinks are overpriced."
A surprised, wet laugh escapes you. You quickly stifle it, looking around the empty corridor. "Oh, is that so?"
"Yeah. I usually end up wishing I was home watching a movie or something."
The image is so familiarly and comfortingly him that it cracks something open in your chest. "That's… that's probably the most Seungcheol thing I've heard from you in the past years."
"Yeah, well, I'm not an entirely different person after all." He pauses. The background noise shifts, as if he's moving to a quieter spot. "The 'baby' thing. That was… I was texting someone else right before responding to you. It was a stupid, careless copy-paste from another conversation. I wasn't thinking. It wasn't… it wasn't meant for you like that."
The clarification is a surprise and it strips the weird, intimate charge from the word, leaving only the fact that it was a bad, stupid decision. It's a relief, and also, faintly, a disappointment you refuse to examine in this very moment.
"Okay," you nod even though he can't see it. "Good to know."
Another pause, but this one already feels a lot less charged.
"My mom really does have a doctor's appointment," he offers quietly. "I am meeting her after. But… I could maybe be late. If you still wanted that coffee."
The offer is so tentative, stripped of the defensive bravado from earlier, that it feels more vulnerable than any of the angry texts. He's taking off a piece of the armour, just for you. Just for now.
Your eyes sting. You look out the window at sunlight glinting off the library windows. "I'd like that," you say, voice thick. "You know this new cafe by the river?"
"Yeah," he confirms. "Give me twenty minutes?"
"I'll get us a table outside," you respond, already standing up, swinging your backpack over one shoulder.
You end the call and stand there for a moment, just breathing in the quiet air of the old academic building and fighting off tears of immediate relief. Sure, it's not fixed between you two. Nothing can be truly fixed with a phone conversation. But maybe that's where you should start. Not with fixing, but with acknowledging.
You take a deep breath and head outside, the weight in your chest feels both lighter and not. Maybe it has lifted or maybe it has taken on a new shape and you just don't know what it is yet.
You sit with a cup of latte, hands wrapped around the ceramic for warmth, watching the river glisten and mind its own watery thing. When you spot Seungcheol moving in your direction, a familiar lurch happens in your stomach—part nerves, part a deep, old recognition. Once again, you're painfully reminded how different he is from what you've been clinging to in your head. The way he moves now has a certain easy confidence that is difficult to look away from, his shoulders set in his dark jacket, no longer the loose-limbed, careless gait of a boy. And yet, still the same. At least you think you see the same things in him, not just visually—the gummy smile that appears as he nods at you, the dimples that won't ever change—but internally, in the careful way his eyes meet yours. You think, you hope, that even with some changing and growing up he's still the boy you were so proud to call your best friend back in the sunny days of that camp, before everything went south.
He doesn't order coffee, just greets you with a soft hey and slides into the chair across the small, wrought-iron table. And silence sits between you too, a third, unwelcome guest. It's suddenly charged and complicated. Awkward in a way your childhood silences never were. It's like you've said everything you needed to in your texts, ripped the bandage off from a distance, and now you're left with the raw, exposed skin and nothing else to clean it with. So you start with the mundane—the social equivalent of applying a clean, basic gauze.
"About your mom's appointment," you begin, your voice suddenly sounding too weird to your own ears. "Is everything okay?"
Seungcheol nods, picking at the edge of the paper napkin dispenser. "Yeah, just a follow up. She's fine. She actually asked about you."
"Yeah? Tell her I say hi," you take a sip of your latte. "My mom mentioned your brother got that promotion he wanted. That's huge."
"It is. He's insufferably proud of himself, but… yeah, it's good."
You try not to cringe at yourself. This isn't what you wanted this conversation to be but you can't help it. It's everything safe and familiar to the both of you, the well-trodden path of family updates that kept you tenuously connected for years. And it gives you a chance to drink him in, to actually pay attention to his energy now that he's a physical presence and not just a series of curated images. You watch the way his fingers tap a quiet rhythm on the table, the slight furrow in his brow when he's listening to you talk and thinking of an answer. You listen to yourself in his presence. The nervous chatter, the way you lean forward. You try to dissect what you feel in this moment. Is it just the fond, complex warmth of history? Or is it something else you've warped and stretched over the years out of loneliness or desperation? Sitting here, under the gentle weight of his attention, it feels… you don't think you can put a finger on it yet.
You don't ask about the past right now. The big, heavy questions about that summer, about feelings and perceptions, feel too monumental. You're facing him now, but talking about something like that when he's in a low-grade hurry to leave, to meet his mom—seems unfair, like springing a trap. You tell yourself you'll find a better time for a discussion like that, a time that isn't borrowed. Instead, you focus on the smaller things about the present, about the people you've become in each other's absence.
"So," you start tracing the rim of your cup. "The clubbing. You really hate it?"
He lets out a short, genuine laugh, and the sound loosens a knot in your chest. "I wouldn't say hate necessarily. But it's not as enjoyable as some find it. It's loud, sweaty and people spill drinks on the dance floor. You have to be in the mood for it, I guess. But… it's something to do. The guys from my major are into it. It feels like… participation, you know?"
"I think I do," you say slowly though you're not sure you actually get it, being the homebody you are. It's an alien concept for you to force yourself into something you don't enjoy. "Like you said, it's the armour. Or a mask. You have to put it on to move through certain spaces."
Seungcheol nods. "Exactly."
Encouraged, you dip your toes further. "I think I went the opposite way. I just avoid uncomfortable spaces altogether. The books, the movies and TV-shows, the cafes. It's my cocoon. It's safe and familiar." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile. The irony of literally switching places with him isn't lost on you. "Probably incredibly boring from the outside."
"No, it's not boring," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "I see your posts about the books you read or movies you watch. It's… it's very you."
The compliment, simple as it is, warms you more than the latte. You realize you're being honest about how these choices make you feel, and you're trying to keep an open mind towards these new, unfamiliar facets of him. It's a tentative, mutual exploration.
However, you do think, watching him talk about the pragmatic reasons behind his social choices, that out of the two of you, you changed the least. Your world is still built from the same materials—the comfort of stories, the peace of a quiet afternoon, the line of hobbies and interests you've cultivated and tended to over the years. It's uncomplicated, steadfast. But in comparison to him—to his adaptive, strategic navigation of a loud, demanding world—you feel quietly embarrassed. It's a faint heat at the back of your neck. Seungcheol says that he doesn't necessarily enjoy everything he does and you think his point of view is valid. But seeing all his changes also makes you feel like you're dragging behind somewhere, a relic of a different, simpler age, while he has learned to evolve, to put on and take off masks as needed. You wonder if he looks at your cocoon and sees not comfort, but a hiding place despite what he says.
"I should probably go," he glances at his phone. "Mom's waiting."
"Right, of course." You try to mask your disappointment. It felt like you were just getting started.
Seungcheol stands up, but hesitates. "This was… good. Talking. Without… you know. Overthinking the subtext."
"It was," you agree, standing as well.
"We should do it again," he says, and it's not a polite brush off this time. His eyes are sincere, holding yours. "Maybe without a time limit. And maybe… we could just watch a movie. Like we used to. No clubs or cafes. Just a sofa and some snacks."
His suggestion is so perfectly, achingly targeted to the core of your history—and your confessed preferences—that it feels like a peace offering, and an acceptance of who you are now, cocoon and all.
"I'd really like that," you say with a nod, and you mean it, no matter how scared you're to fully allow yourself to feel it.
He returns it, the gummy smile you've always known, and gives you a brief hug before turning to go. You sink back into your chair, watching him walk away until he blends into the crowd along the riverwalk.
Things don't change overnight. You don't expect it to happen either. A friendship—or whatever this is now—that took years to fray can't be rewoven in a week. But you're happy to have the small shifts that come, the tiny realignments that feel seismic in the quiet of your own heart. It's a strange, careful rearrangement, one that stops your heart just a little when you think about it too closely. It feels a little like childhood, that easy, default closeness. No, you don't stay on landline phones for hours anymore, but whenever one of you wants to talk, you notice you both lean towards calling more than texting. A voice feels necessary.
Texting becomes purely functional: Thursday at 8? or Your place or mine? You don't even send memes or funny reels to each other. At first, you think it's because your circles of interests are too different, that you have nothing silly or topical in common—and partially, that is the reason—but as you observe the days go by, you conclude it's something else. There's something about hearing each other talk, or the way you can stay silent on the line for a beat too long without it immediately feeling wrong, that tugs at the old, familiar sting in your heart in a nice, aching way. It's the sound of his breath, the way he says "Yeah?" or hums when he's listening, the quiet laugh that isn't just an emoji. It feels earned and real.
It is as familiar as it is new.
Somewhere around May, Seungcheol introduces you to his new friends. He phrases it casually over one of your calls. "Some of us are grabbing pizza on Friday. You should come. They've heard about you since, like, forever."
The group consists of a few guys from his business program and two girls, one of whom is actually from your university, though you've never seen her before. It's nice, you tell yourself, to finally put faces to the names and Instagram handles, to know the people he's talking about and spending his time with. But as the evening goes on, a quiet certainty settles in your gut: you are not going to become a part of this group.
They're not unkind. They're just… different. Their humour is a rapid-fire, insider brand of sarcasm that relies on references to professors and parties you weren't at. Their conversations pivot quickly between internship stress, gym routines, and plans for a beach house rental that sounds both expensive and exhausting. Where you can snort and chuckle at Seungcheol's stupid, familiar jokes because you know the history behind them, theirs feel performative, and you often find yourself staying politely silent, offering a generic smile that makes your cheeks ache.
You do your best not to cling to his side. You answer questions when they're asked, you ask a few of your own. Seungcheol doesn't abandon you to fend for yourself; he throws you the occasional lifeline, a "Y/N and I used to do that too," or a raised eyebrow across the table when someone tells a particularly outrageous story. But you still don't feel comfortable. You feel like a subtitled version of yourself. The girls are somewhat nice, asking about your major, but the connection is thin, polite. They are an alien crowd orbiting a version of Seungcheol you are only just beginning to understand.
The next day, during your now-usual call, you tell him. You choose your words with care, aiming for gentle honesty.
"Thanks for inviting me last night," you start, curled on your sofa. "It was cool to finally meet everyone."
"Yeah? They're a lot, but they're good people," he says, and you can hear the faint defensive note you were hoping to avoid.
"They are! I could tell. It's just…" You search for the right phrasing. "I think my social battery is calibrated differently. All that energy is fun to witness, but I think I'd short-circuit if I tried to join the grid, you know?"
There's a pause on the line. You hold your breath.
"So, you're not gonna be our new regular plus-one?" he asks, but his tone is lighter now, teasing.
"I think my role is better as the mysterious childhood friend you sometimes reference," you smile even though he can't see it. "The one they're not quite sure is real. Or just an occasional witness."
He laughs, and the tension dissolves. "Fair enough. They did ask if you were always that quiet."
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them you're just warming up and aren't what you seem."
The immediate relief is a sweet, liberating feeling. He's fine with it. He isn't taking it as an insult to his new life or his new self. He understands the boundaries of your worlds are different now, and that's okay. You don't have to force yourself into the shiny, loud puzzle of his present to still be important in it.
Your own friend group—fortunately or not—does not require any such introduction or integration. It's a few people from your school years or that same fateful summer camp, and he met them all back when you were all still teenagers, all elbows and awkward phases and shared, simpler dramas. When he joins you for a lazy weekend movie night at your apartment, it's less of an introduction and more of a reunion. The girls greet him with a chorus of "Hey, stranger!" and "Whoa, look at you!", the teasing immediate and familiar. The conversation is a comfortable, overlapping mess of shared memories and easy updates. Here, he doesn't have to explain any backstory. They already know it. They know the kid he was, which makes the young man he's become simply an extension, not a separate entity. You watch him sink into your sofa, laughing at a stupid story about Sophie's former biology teacher, and you see the armour fully off, left at the door. In this cocoon of your making, with your relics and your quiet joys, he fits perfectly, not despite the changes, but because beneath them, the core remains, solid and known.
It's July, the gruelling finals of your second year are done, and you're back in the village by the lake. You spend your days soaking in the quiet, the endless singing of birds in your backyard garden, the clear, cool water of the lake. It's all as it was before—the scent of pine, the way the light dapples through the trees in the late afternoon—but there is a different energy to it this time. A humming, anticipatory quiet you haven't really felt in a long while. Not the empty silence of the estranged years. A waiting.
You're waiting.
Seungcheol is due to arrive at his parents' house later today. He wasn't here last week, having been away with his friends at some rented house in the woods. He'd texted you an open invitation: The place has a huge deck. You could actually get some quiet writing or sketching done here. And there's a lake too. You'd politely declined, not wanting to insert yourself into the heart of his other world, not yet. Thanks, I'm good with our own lake this summer, you'd replied. But save me a fun story.
You're swimming in said lake when he comes to find you. You see a figure walking onto the old wooden pier, and you know it's him even from a distance. He moves with a relaxed ease, eyes covered with sunglasses, hands in the pockets of his shorts, shirtless. The sun glints off his skin. You wave at him from afar, treading water, and he lifts a hand in response. As you swim closer, he sits down at the very edge of the pier, his ankles dipping into the water, and pushes the shades up onto the top of his head. You don't get out, just cling to the rusty ladder, your arms resting on a worn rung.
"Hey," you say, the water lapping at your chin. "When did you get back?"
"Couple of hours ago," he responds, looking down at you. His voice is calm, warm like the sun shining overhead. "Unpacked, got nagged by my mom about laundry, and escaped."
You snort at that. "How was the woods? Catch any ghosts or anything?"
He grins, that familiar, gummy smile that immediately softens the stronger lines of his jaw. "No ghosts. Just a lot of mosquitoes and Gyu trying to prove he could still do a backflip off the dock. He cannot."
You laugh, and the sound skips across the water. You catch yourself then, sneaking a glance at the defined line of his shoulders, the way his torso tapers. It's the first time in years—since you were probably sixteen—that you're seeing him like this, so casually bare. And you're painfully aware of two sets of changes. Not just that he's obviously been diligent, his body an example of discipline you don't possess. But your own reaction. There's a heart rate that quickens its rhythm against your ribs. There are thoughts that flicker, unbidden and warm, that go a little bit beyond what you'd think about a friend who's simply gotten a glow-up. Thoughts about how the sun traces the muscle of his arm, about the contrast of his dark shorts against his light tan. It's a purely physical, startling awareness.
You do your best to push it all away, especially when it immediately makes you self-conscious about your own physique—soft where you'd wish it were more toned, not full enough in certain places or too full in others. You've never been to a gym or committed to any work out routine, content with long walks and the occasional swim or a bike ride. That's why you don't get out of the water for a long while, using the lake as your cover. Instead, you push off from the ladder, doing small, easy laps back and forth, the silence between you filled with the sound of your movement through the water and the distant cry of a bird.
"You're going to turn into a prune," he comments after your third lap, his voice laced with amusement.
"I'm part fish, you know this," you call back and hum an H2O intro song between giggles, but you're running out of casual stamina.
It's when he stands, leaves his shades and slippers by your pile of things, and jumps into the water that you finally move. He hits the surface with a clean splash, sending waves that rock you. You seize the moment, hurrying up the ladder before he surfaces. You grab your towel, wrapping it around yourself like a sarong, and perch on the pier to now be the one looking down at him. You swipe his sunglasses, settling them on your nose. The world takes on a smoky, golden tint.
"Thief," he says, shaking the water from his hair as he treads water.
"Security fee," you reply, your voice thankfully steady.
You watch him. He does a strong, smooth lap to the middle of the lake and back, his form efficient, cutting through the water like it's nothing. Then he stands where the lake is shallower, his height allowing his shoulders to emerge, the water sluicing off the defined planes of his chest and back. Droplets catch the sunlight like scattered diamonds on his skin. He walks over slowly, the water parting around him with a soft resistance until he's right below where you're sitting. He rests his forearms on the sun-warmed wood of the pier beside your thigh, his skin cool and damp where it almost brushes yours.
"Show-off," you tsk, and your voice comes out in the old, easy tone, the one you've used for a lifetime. It's a little gruff, a little teasing—the voice you'd use to call him a loser for winning a race. It feels like pulling on a well-worn sweater.
He tilts his head back, squinting up at you against the sun. A slow grin spreads. "Just reminding the local wildlife who's on top of the food chain."
"The fish are trembling," you roll your eyes, even though he can't see it behind the shades, swinging your leg so it disturbs the water surface right near his side. "They're telling legends about the splash monster."
Seungcheol laughs, and you find comfort in the sound of it. "Good. I aim to inspire myth." He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead, his thick eyebrows on full display now as he raises one. "You're just jealous because your laps look like ones of a startled frog."
It's the kind of insult that has flown between you for years. Harmless, stupid. You lean into it, because it's safe. It's the script. You raise an eyebrow back at him. "At least frogs are cute. You look like a… a commercial for expensive water. All serious and… slick." A teasing grimace finds its way onto your face.
"Slick?" He raises an eyebrow, feigning offence and pouting about it. "I'm a model of hydrodynamic efficiency. You're the one clinging to that ladder like it's a life raft."
"It's my strategic base," you counter, nudging his shoulder with your knee. The contact is brief, casual. Or it's meant to be. Your skin tingles where you touched him, a spark that travels straight up your spine. You keep your face carefully neutral behind his stolen sunglasses. "For observing the wildlife. And critiquing its form."
He shakes his head, drops of water flying. "You're a terrible critic. You have no frame of reference. When's the last time you swam more than four meters?"
"I'll have you know I executed several excellent laps today. Very contemplative laps."
"Contemplative," he echoes, his voice dripping with mock reverence. "Right. Looked more like you were hiding."
The words land a little too close to the bone. He says it lightly, but it hangs in the air between you. You force a snort. "From your blinding pectorals when you stepped on the pier? Yeah, maybe. They're a public nuisance, Cheollie. Someone should fine you for flashing."
It's the childhood nickname that does it—that seals the mask in place. It says, See? We're just us. Nothing has changed. I can still call you that.
He goes still for a fraction of a second, his smile softening into something even more familiar and sincere. He looks at you, and for a heart-stopping moment you're afraid he can see right through the heavily tinted lenses, right through the performed ease. But then he just hums, looking back out over the lake. "You love it and you know it."
The statement is vague, could apply to anything—the nuisance, the lake, the summer, him. You don't ask for clarification. You can't. Instead, you scoff and hug your knees to your chest, the towel secure around you, your own personal blanket. The familiar, sibling-like banter sits between you, but it feels different now. It's not unconscious. Not for you at least. It's a choice you're making, a dialect you're speaking fluently to maintain an era you're no longer sure you both live in. You watch the water drip from his hair onto the pier in a steady rhythm, and you think this mask of old familiarity is the most fragile thing you've held.
Later that week, the two of you go for a bike ride along the old, familiar path that winds through the woods outside the village. Your destination is a secluded spot on the lake you discovered together back when you were both eleven, armed with nothing but a sense of adventure and a shared bag of mint candy. The shore is soft and shallow there, the trees giving way to a quiet, sun-dappled opening just big enough for a small bunch of people. You haven't been to the spot for a long time, years maybe. It felt like a place that required two people, and going there alone always seemed like a betrayal of its purpose.
When you arrive, it's like nothing has changed. The air is still, the water lapping gently at the sandy shore. The old, mossy log—a makeshift bench some other explorer must have rolled into place years before you ever found it—is still there. You brush off a few pine needles and sit down. He leans his bike against a tree and joins you, his shoulder a warm, solid line next to yours.
The two of you talk about nothing and everything. The easy flow from the other day returns, but here, in this capsule of your childhood, it feels deeper. You discuss ridiculous stories from the university year—the professor who fell asleep during his own lecture while talking, the time the fire alarm went off in your friend's dorm at 3 AM. You talk about the future, the vague, scary shape of it after graduation. Just thoughts, tossed into the space between you like stones into the still lake.
And then, inevitably, the topic circles back. Not with a jerk, but with a gentle, unavoidable pull, like the current.
"Remember the camp?" you say, your gaze fixed on the opposite shore. "The music festival on the beach?"
He nods beside you. "The cold one. Yeah."
You take a slow breath. The air smells of wet earth and sun-heated pine. This is it. This is finally the better time, the right place, to ask the question. To clear the air, to leave it all behind, to find closure. If he'll give you one.
You start from afar, skirting the edges. "I was such an idiot that summer. So caught up in trying to be… I don't know. Cool? Independent? It feels so stupid now."
"We were all idiots," he offers, his voice low.
"Not like me," you insist, your fingers knotting together in your lap. "I pulled away from you because I got scared. My friends… they said some things. About you. About how you looked at me. And instead of just asking you, or ignoring it, I let it get in my head. I convinced myself that the easiest and safest thing was to just… create distance. I thought I was protecting our friendship by doing it."
You risk a glance at him. He's looking straight ahead, his profile serious, listening.
"My overthinking brain ruined it all because it was terrified of ruining it," you whisper, the confession feeling both shameful and freeing. "And I've always kept wondering…"
The question fills your lungs in place of air, the one question that has worried your mind and heart for years. It feels enormous here, in this small, quiet clearing.
"Did it actually mean anything?" you finally ask, the words barely audible. "The way you were with me. The shirt on the beach. Any of it. Was I just seeing ghosts because my friends put the idea there, or… or was there something else?"
You don't know what answer you're looking for. A yes would rewrite your entire shared history. A no would solidify your long-held guilt. Your heart skips a painful beat as you look at him with bated breath, the whole world reduced to the space between this log and the water's edge.
Seungcheol is silent for a long time. He picks up a flat, grey pebble and turns it over in his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if choosing each word from a deep well.
"Yes," he says, and your stomach drops. "And no."
He finally turns his head to look at you, his eyes holding yours. "You were my lifelong best friend. My only real friend. Of course the way I was with you meant everything. Offering you my shirt wasn't a gesture. More of a reflex, I would say. You were cold. That was the whole story."
He looks back at the pebble. "But… were there moments? Yeah. Sometimes. I was fifteen. And you were too. It would flash through my mind, and then it would be gone, because you were you, and I was me, and what we had was too big to risk on a feeling I didn't even understand."
He flicks the pebble into the lake. It skips once, twice, then sinks. Seungcheol lets out a dissatisfied huff. "So, no. I didn't have some big secret crush. But yes, you weren't entirely seeing ghosts. Just… more like echoes."
The answer neither calms nor cuts. It leaves you in a more complex state of swallowing that pill. So, it was real, and it also was not. There was a possibility that flickered and died, choked by the overpowering reality of your friendship. The closure you sought turns out to be not a ribbon, tied in a pretty bow, but something messier that can't be put in a yes or no box.
You let out a breath you were holding and the silence returns, though different. The air feels clearer, the weight of the unsaid finally dissolved and for the first time in years you're looking at the same picture, seeing the same complicated blend of colours. And yet you think it will take time for you to understand what you feel about this revelation.
When his birthday comes around in August, you're the first to congratulate him. First to text him at midnight on the dot, a simple string of celebratory emojis and a Happy Birthday, old man. You get a sleepy, heart-eyed sticker in return minutes later. And then, in the soft, dewy morning, you find yourself walking the familiar path to his house, a small, carefully wrapped present in your hands. You'd bought it back in June, a silly vintage keychain shaped like cherries, a nod to a thousand childhood summer days spent stealing berries and fruit from gardens, carefree and happy.
You haven't stepped foot into his house for a long time. Not since those stiff, polite family dinners during the strained years. It is becoming a quiet anecdote in your head, a growing list: Haven't done this in a long time, haven't said that in a long time, haven't felt this in a long time—all when it comes to him. But his parents are overjoyed to see you, his mother pulling you into a hug that smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. "He's still dead to the world upstairs," she says, rolling her eyes with fondness. "You can wait in the living room, sweetheart. I'll make you some tea."
You hover in the familiar hallway, contemplating. The lingering unfamiliarity with this newer, more guarded version of him suggests you should wait politely, or perhaps just leave the present on the table with a note. It's the respectful, distanced thing to do. But the older, bolder side of you—the side that remembers racing up and down these stairs, the side that wants to reclaim a fraction of that unthinking closeness—insists on a loud, chaotic intrusion. That side wins.
Only, when you go upstairs to carry out your mischief, nothing goes to plan.
You push his bedroom door open with infinite care, avoiding the spot that used to creak. The room is dim, the blinds drawn against the morning sun. It smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that warm wood scent of a wooden house. You can just make him out in the bed tucked into the corner, a mountain of pillows and a tangled blanket. One foot is sticking out from under the covers. You stifle a giggle, creeping further inside to leave your small present on his cluttered desk. Your eyes adjust to the gloom, and you turn to finally execute your plan.
And then you freeze.
His cheek is pressed into the pillow he's hugging, his face turned toward you. His lips, slightly parted, are soft and full in sleep. His long, dark lashes form delicate crescents against his skin, trembling faintly with each dream. You hear the soft, rhythmic sound of his snoring, a tiny, vulnerable noise that makes your own breath catch. You stand there, mesmerized. You always knew, even at your most stubbornly platonic, that Seungcheol was a good-looking guy. It was an objective fact, like the sky being blue. You'd acknowledged it the way you'd acknowledge a well-designed poster—with appreciation, then moving on.
But now, watching him in this private, unguarded state, the knowledge doesn't just sit in your mind. It sinks into your chest, a heavy, sweet ache. It's not just objective anymore. It's a feeling, a physical pull deep in your gut, a faint, intensifying heartache that has nothing to do with nostalgia and everything to do with the curve of his jaw against the cotton, the way his hand lies open and trusting on the sheet.
Before you can snap out of your daze and pounce, his phone on the nightstand erupts into a shrill, pulsing ringtone.
It jolts you so violently you don't even process the movement. One second you're standing, the next you've stumbled to your knees on the rug with a soft thump, your hand clutching at the sudden, frantic beat of your own heart. Seungcheol, meanwhile, just grunts, fumbles blindly for the device, and brings it to his ear without even opening his eyes.
"Mm'yeah?" he croaks, his voice thick with sleep.
You can hear the tinny, excited chatter of a male voice on the other end. Seungcheol listens, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Uh-huh… Yeah, I'm up… What time?" A pause. He cracks one eye open, squinting at the clock. "That's in like, four hours. Why are you calling me now, you psycho?" But he says it with a groan that's more fond than annoyed.
Your stomach twists. They're coming here. His friends. Today.
Something bitter as pine resin, rises in the back of your throat. The emotion is immediate and easy to identify: jealousy. Hot, unwelcome, and possessive. This village, this house, this room—they've always existed in a separate world, a world that belonged only to the two of you and your shared history. The idea of his loud, shiny university friends invading this sanctuary, filling this quiet space with their alien energy, feels like a violation. And he didn't even mention it. The disappointment is a cold stone dropping inside you.
You shove the feeling down, mentally chastising yourself. You don't own this place. You don't own him. He has a whole life you're not a part of, and he's allowed to share pieces of it with whoever he wants. It doesn't help that tangled up with the jealousy is a sting of secret envy. You've tried, more than once, to convince one of your own friends to visit you here, to see the lake, to understand this part of you. The answers were always polite refusals, conflicting plans, a lack of interest, promises of someday that never came. The fact that his friends are not just willing, but eager enough to travel here feels like an indirect, cosmic jab. You need to come to terms with the fact that the universe loves pulling jokes like this on you.
The moment shatters when Seungcheol, finally hanging up the phone, rolls onto his back with a sigh—and his sleep-blurred gaze lands on you, kneeling like a startled deer on his bedroom floor.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Frowns. His brain clearly struggling to process the input: Phone call. Friend coming. Girl on the floor.
A slow, bewildered smile dawns on his face. "Are you… praying?" he rasps, his voice still gravelly. "Or did my supreme birthday majesty finally strike you with the appropriate awe?"
The familiar teasing is your lifeline. You scramble to your feet, brushing nonexistent dust from your knees, your face hot. "You wish. I was attempting a dramatic, birthday ambush, but your stupid phone gave me a heart attack. I think I have permanent hearing damage."
He pushes himself up on his elbows, the blanket pooling around his waist. His hair is a glorious, sleep-tousled mess. "An ambush, huh? What was the plan? A bucket of water? An air horn?"
"A severely disappointed glare," you shoot back, falling back into the rhythm as your heartbeat slowly calms. "For still being asleep when the sun is clearly up. Lazy."
"It's my birthday," he says, as if this explains everything. He finally notices the small package on his desk. "What's that?"
"A peace offering for the premature aging I'm about to give you by dragging you out of bed."
He laughs, a warm, sleepy sound that fills the dim room, and for a second, the jealousy and the envy and the complicated ache are shoved aside, forgotten. Here, in this moment, it's just you and him and a shared joke. But the knowledge of the incoming visitors hangs in the air between you, an unspoken, new fact that has already begun to subtly reshape the borders of the day, and of this fragile space you're trying to rebuild.
"Open it," you insist, nodding toward the gift. You don't move from your spot in the middle of his room. The planned ambush is forgotten, replaced by a sudden, desperate need to see his face.
"Now? Can't a guy brush his teeth first?" he grumbles, but he's already swinging his legs out of bed and padding over to the desk. He picks up the small box, turning it over in his hands.
He rolls his eyes but begins carefully peeling back the tape, his sleep-clumsy fingers surprisingly gentle. He lifts the lid, pushes aside the tissue paper, and goes utterly still.
Nestled inside is a simple, polished silver keychain. Two perfect, glossy cherries, their stems linked together.
A slow, quiet breath leaves him. He doesn't look at you, just runs his thumb over the smooth, cool metal fruit. "Cherries," he says, his voice low.
"From Mrs. Green's garden," you remind softly. Countless summer raids, sticky juice on your fingertips, her shrill voice chasing you off her property. The triumphant, shared sweetness. It's his favourite berries too.
A real, tender smile breaks over his face, it reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners, makes his dimples dent his cheeks. He looks at you then, and the weight of the shared memory is right here in the dim room with you. "I love it. Seriously. Thank you," he says, and he means it. He hooks it onto his phone case immediately, the cherries dangling.
Your mission accomplished, the intimacy of the moment suddenly feels too vast. You take a step back, toward the door. "Okay. Good. Now you can go be human. I'll be downstairs stealing your birthday breakfast."
He's still looking at the keychain, a softness on his face you haven't seen in years, if ever. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Give me ten."
You slip out, closing the door softly behind you, leaving him alone with the gift and the ghosts of a thousand stolen summer days. The image of his smile stays with you, warmer than the morning sun now streaming into the hallway as you come back downstairs while your heart pounds in your chest.
You don't stay at his house for long. Just long enough to sing Seungcheol a ridiculously off-key happy birthday song while he blows out the single candle on the small, sweet cake his mother made for him while he was still asleep. You have the privilege of being the first of his friends to share his birthday cake with him, a fact that feels both trivial and deeply significant as you clink your fork against his. His mother, bustling around the kitchen, launches into reminiscing about your childhood—the times you both tried to make a 'cake' out of mud and stones in a puddle that always forms on the road by their house, the way you'd always race each other while going from one house to the other.
"You were such a pair," she sighs, beaming. "Always attached at the hip."
You and Seungcheol share a glance across the table, a soft, complicated smile passing between you. The memory is warm, but the path from then to now feels newly fragile.
After you're done with tea and the last crumbs of cake, you head back to your house. He walks you to the garden wicket gate, the wood weathered and familiar.
"So," he says, leaning against the post. "My friends. They're gonna descend around four."
You nod, plucking a leaf from the overgrown hedge. "I figured from the wake-up call that nearly sent me to meet my ancestors."
He winces with a chuckle. "Sorry about that." A beat of comfortable silence settles, filled with the buzz of midday insects. Then he reaches out, his hand finding yours. He gives it a firm, warm squeeze. "Come tonight. To the guest house. We're just gonna grill some stuff, hang out. Please?"
He's using the big, pleading eyes on you—the ones you've never been able to resist since you were both toddlers. It's profoundly unfair.
"Seungcheol…"
"Come on," he presses, a playful stomp of his foot cementing the full-blown, faux tantrum. His lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. "It's my birthday. You have to. It's the law."
Just to make it worse he swings your arm and whines. Oh my god, you think.
You try to hold onto your reluctance, the fear of being the awkward outsider at a party for his other life. But you're a done deal and you both know it. "Fine. You menace. But only for a little while."
There isn't a brighter smile than the one that breaks across his face. He lets out a quiet "Yes!" and before you can react, he pulls you into a brief, hard hug, his arms tight around you for one solid, heart-stopping moment. He smells like sleep and his mom's laundry soap and home. "It'll be okay," he murmurs near your ear, letting go just as quickly. "I promise. I won't let you feel left out."
You leave then, the ghost of his hug lingering on your skin, a brand of both comfort and confusion.
You're at war with yourself the entire afternoon. The conflict must be plain on your face because your mother pauses while watering her plants. "Everything alright, sweetie? You've been pacing between your room and the kitchen for an hour."
"Just… deciding what to wear tonight," you say, which isn't entirely a lie, and it seems to satisfy her.
The question feels monumental. Do you dress to impress—within the casual, village-appropriate framework—or do you not give a fuck and wear your old shorts and a faded t-shirt, making a statement that you refuse to try in a space you consider yours? The urge to armour up is strong. But so is the desire to feel like yourself.
You settle for the middle ground. A flowy, comfortable summer dress in a soft rose pink. It's pretty but not fussy. You don't bother with makeup beyond a swipe of lip balm, or with your hair beyond brushing it out. The decision feels like a declaration: This is me. I am comfortable here. There is no one here I need to perform for. It's a reclaiming of your own realm.
At around six, Seungcheol's text comes through: The barbarians are at the gate. Table-setting chaos imminent. Your calm, organizing presence is formally requested.
You smile, give one last spray of your favourite floral perfume—the one you only really wear here in the village—and head over.
The guest house, a small, charming cottage at the edge of their property, is indeed in a state of happy chaos. You're immediately spotted by the group spilling out onto the stone patio.
"Hey! It's the mystery friend!" calls out Mingyu, one of the guys you recognize, waving a bag of charcoal.
The two girls, Violet and Ginger (you've finally sorted their names), offer warm smiles. "He said you might save us from his questionable decorating skills," Violet laughs.
Seungcheol is nowhere in sight. "Where is the birthday disaster?" you ask, slipping into the familiar role of teasing him.
"Carrying the sacred meat from the house!" Soonyoung announces dramatically, just as Seungcheol's voice comes from behind you.
"Incoming! Heavy stuff, make way—"
You spin and quickly sidestep as he manoeuvres past, his arms laden with platters of marinated chicken and vegetables. You instinctively reach out and take the top couple of platters from him.
"See?" he says, grinning at you over the stack. "I knew you were essential personnel. Everyone else is just standing around looking pretty."
You roll your eyes at him, ready to give him an earful for calling you personnel but you're cut off before you can even open your mouth.
"We're creating ambiance!" Vernon protests, and everyone laughs.
It falls into a somewhat familiar rhythm. This time, his friends don't feel like an impenetrable, alien wall. Maybe it's because you're on your own turf—the dappled evening light through the trees, the scent of the lake on the breeze, this place is yours. Or maybe it's because the silent, cold war you'd been waging against his new life has officially ended with your apology by the lake. You don't feel threatened by their easy laughter, by their inside jokes. You observe them now with curiosity rather than judgment.
You help Violet thread vegetables onto skewers. You listen to Chan and Vernon debate the best way to stack wood. You learn that Soonyoung is terrifyingly competitive about lawn games. And through it all, Seungcheol moves, a warm, steady nucleus to the group, his eyes finding you often, a quick check-in, a shared smile when Mingyu attempts a failed cartwheel. You feel your skin prickle every time your eyes meet.
At one point, as you're both inside fetching drinks from the cooler, he bumps your shoulder with his. "Okay?" he asks, his voice low.
You nod, handing him a soda. "Yeah. I take it back. They're… they're nice. Actually."
He looks relieved, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Good. I told you."
The evening melts into a soft, golden blur. The food is delicious, the chatter easy. You don't feel the pressure to be the loudest or the funniest. You chime in when you have something to say, you laugh when something is genuinely funny, and you lapse into comfortable silence, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the deepening twilight. You're not one of them, not really. You don't think you'll be swapping deep secrets with Ginger or planning trips with the guys. But you're not an outsider either. You're a respected ally, a piece of Seungcheol's world that they are politely, kindly making space for.
As the sky turns indigo and the citronella candles are lit, Seungcheol drops into the empty Adirondack chair beside you, letting out a contented sigh. The others are in a heated debate a few feet away about some movie sequel.
"Tired, old man?" you tease softly and receive a playful glare from him.
"Happy," he corrects, and the simple word feels weighted. He glances at you, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. "Thanks for coming. It… means a lot."
"Thanks for making me," you reply, and you mean it.
You both sit there, side by side, listening to the murmur of voices and the chorus of crickets. The divide between his old world and his new one doesn't feel like a canyon here in the dark. It feels more like a seam, and you are sitting right on the stitch, belonging to both sides in a way you're only just beginning to understand. The night is peaceful, and for the first time in a while, the future—his, yours, whatever it may hold—doesn't feel like a threat, but rather a quiet, open possibility.
Things are peaceful for a long while after that. You're content, deeply so, with the state of your friendship with Seungcheol. The two of you have reacquainted yourselves with the people you've become, building a new bridge over the old crack. In a way, it makes you feel stronger when you think about everything you two went through. If you managed to circle back to a close, honest friendship after what felt like an irreparable loss, then there's nothing you won't be able to overcome with just enough effort and care. This knowledge becomes a small but durable pillar in your life.
But as with everything else, this all-encompassing peace doesn't last forever. Or rather, it evolves into something less peaceful, more electrically charged.
When you asked Seungcheol about your summer camp past while sitting on that log by the shoreline, you only asked about that—the past. You had a follow-up question coiled in your chest, about the present, about the now. You planned to ask it depending on his response. But since he didn't give you a definite yes, a clear confession of past feelings, you never came around to voicing the present question. You got scared once again, terrified of ruining what had been rebuilt with such painstaking difficulty. In that moment, yet again, the scales of your hesitation tipped in favour of your old reasoning: having him as your friend was more valuable, more secure, than taking a chance on something that could possibly burn it all down without hope of restoration. You valued his presence in your life much more than any relationship chance.
In the days and weeks that followed, as your comfort level with each other grew into something even easier than before, you began noticing subtle things about his behaviour that left you quietly puzzled. Little things that made it "weird" again, in a wholly different way, that made your mind spin in frantic, hopeful circles. But unlike your teen self that got scared and pulled away, your current self relished and lingered. It craved the confusing, delicious tension of what it was getting. So you allowed Seungcheol his little behaviours—the prolonged glances, the way his attention would focus on you completely in a room filled with other people, the touches that lasted a beat too long. They often felt probing, careful, testing the waters, before he'd snap back into something casually comfortable.
For example, now you watch as he settles onto your couch by your side, setting the greasy takeout boxes on the coffee table for your bi-weekly movie night. Your eyes briefly travel across his body, a habit you've stopped trying to break. He's gotten stupidly big over the past couple of years with his dedicated gym routine. Thick thighs that strain against the fabric of his sweats, big arms that make the simple act of holding a remote look strangely purposeful, a broad back that seems to take up more than its fair share of the world. And a whole ass bakery—a fact you, along with Soonyoung and Mingyu, have mocked him for quite a few times. (Only, in your case the teasing is just a convenient cover for the fact that you stare at his ass every chance you can get). He's built like a bear—no, not that unreasonably huge type like some body builder (ew), there's just something strong yet undeniably soft about him in this shape—and it drives you quietly mad sometimes, when you allow your mind to linger.
And so you observe him from the corner of your eye as you turn the movie on—some big, loud action film he chose instead of his usual romance picks—and take the container of noodles and chopsticks he passes you. Your sofa isn't very big, but it's got enough space for three people to fit comfortably side by side. And yet Seungcheol would always, without fail, choose to sit as close to you as physically possible, ensuring at least a minuscule point of contact. Like right now, your knee is pressed firmly into the solid muscle of his thigh, and it makes you hyper-aware of his immediate presence, of every tiny shift he makes.
"This is the one where the skyscraper collapses, right?" he asks, shovelling a bite of food into his mouth.
"I think so. Or maybe it's the one where they steal something." You try to sound normal, but your voice feels like it's coming from somewhere outside your body, which is currently mapping the exact heat signature of his leg against yours.
He laughs, and you feel it through his thigh pressing more firmly into your knee. You don't pull away. "Same difference. Pass the spring rolls."
You hand him the carton, your fingers brushing. The movie starts with a roar of engines, but the real noise is the staticky buzz in your own veins. He settles back, and in doing so, he doesn't just relax; he seems to expand, his arm coming to rest along the back of the couch when hes' not eating his rolls, his fingers dangling perilously close to the slope of your shoulder. There's no touching. But it's hovering. And you feel like he's probing another boundary between you.
You focus very hard on your noodles, on the explosion happening on screen, on anything but the screaming awareness of his proximity. This is the new, quiet war: your contented friendship against the thrilling, terrifying possibility of a single, deliberate movement—his hand inching closer, your head tilting—that could change the definition of everything.
And yet, neither of you dares to breach that gap.
You're at a club. You're here only because Seungcheol begged you to come with him and his friends, wielding his lethal weapon of baby cow eyes and a practised, devastating pout. Just once, he'd pleaded. It'll be fun, I promise. You can judge us all from a safe distance. The fucker has learned how to play you to get what he wants. You wish you had the same power over him sometimes, but you don't think you do. Your weapons—logic, mild guilt-tripping—are useless against the sheer force of his earnest, playful need. And sometimes that imbalance makes you feel at a disadvantage. It makes you want to build a taller wall, to be more in control of yourself and the situation, because you're never quite sure what the situation is with him anymore.
This is so far outside your scene and your comfort zone, you're really starting to regret agreeing to come. The bass is a physical thing, pounding against your sternum. Strobing lights cut through the smoky air, illuminating flashes of undulating bodies on the dance floor in a way that feels more chaotic than celebratory. You don't like drinking much, you don't get this music, and the sheer volume of people is overwhelming. Your only salvation is that your group managed to claim a secluded booth in a shadowy corner, and you've planted yourself there like a barnacle, a bottle of water in hand, while the others migrate between the bar and the dance floor.
This is the guy who told me he doesn't particularly enjoy clubbing… all men do is lie, you think grimly, watching across the space as Mingyu and Seungcheol line up another round of shots at the crowded bar. You're beginning to suspect his motive. He needed a designated driver. The thought sparks a low, familiar flame of annoyance. You're not his keeper. And yet you're here because he can look at you like the cat from Shrek and make you fold.
You pull out your phone, scrolling through social media with aggressive taps, trying to distract yourself and not fan that spark. You know if you let it grow, you'll be out of here in a flash of righteous indignation, leaving him to deal with the consequences of his own choices.
When a body slides into the booth on your side of the U-shaped seat, you don't even look up, thinking it's maybe Soonyoung returning from his dance marathon.
Only for a second.
"Hey there. You look a little lonely sitting all by yourself."
Your defences slam up, a full-body flinch. You look up from your phone to find a guy leaning into your space, maybe around your age or a little older—it's difficult to tell in the epileptic lighting. He has a slick, confident smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"I'm with friends," you say flatly, turning your body away, a clear dismissal.
"I don't see any friends," he persists, his voice louder to cut through the music. He gestures to the empty seats. "Looks like they left you hanging. Can I buy you a drink?"
"No, thanks." Your voice is tighter now. "I'm good."
"Come on, don't be like that. Just one drink." He leans closer, and the smell of too-strong cologne and alcohol hits you.
A cold thread of anxiety winds through your gut. "I said no. Please go away."
He chuckles, as if your discomfort is cute. "You're not being very friendly."
Your politeness evaporates. "And you're not taking a hint. Fuck off."
The words are bold, but your voice wavers. You're not as confident in your tactics as you're trying to sound. Your heart is beginning to hammer against your ribs. He doesn't move, his smile turning into something colder, more stubborn. He's blocking your easy exit from the booth.
You're clutching your phone, your knuckles white, readying to awkwardly scramble over the back of the seat or slip out the other end to get away from him, when you see them. Mingyu and Seungcheol are weaving their way back through the crowd toward the booth, bobbing their heads to the beat, laughing about something. Mingyu is gesturing wildly.
Your eyes lock onto Seungcheol. The look you give him is a frantic mix of alarmed hope and sheer relief. See me. Look over, please.
You don't even get to stand and meet them halfway. Seungcheol's eyes, bright and slightly glassy from the shots, flicker from Mingyu's face to the booth, to you, to the stranger invading your space. It's like you can visibly see the process happen in a split second: the recognition, the assessment, the click. All the loose-limbed, drunken relaxation drains from his posture instantly. His smile vanishes. His shoulders square. He sobers up in the space of a breath, no matter how much alcohol is in his system.
"Hey!" Mingyu calls out, his tone changing as he reads the room a second after Seungcheol does.
A few seconds later, they're at the booth. Seungcheol doesn't even look at the guy first. His eyes find yours, a silent you okay? You give a tiny, tense nod.
Then he turns. "You got a problem?" His voice is low, but it cuts through the thrumming bass, all rough edges and clear threat.
The guy at your side finally leans back, holding up his hands in a mock-surrender. "Whoa, man. Just talking. No need to get territorial."
Mingyu doesn't bother with words. He just reaches in, his grip firm on the guy's shoulder. "Out. Now."
What happens next unfolds in a horrifying, slow-motion clarity. As Mingyu tries to physically extract him and almost succeeds, the guy shoves back, angry, spitting insults and dropping back onto the seat. "Get your hands off me! She wanted company!"
It's a bad move. A terrible one in fact.
Seungcheol moves. Not with a wild swing. With a frighteningly precise one. He steps past Mingyu, his body coiled, and his fist connects with the guy's jaw with a sickening, wet crack that you feel in your own teeth. The guy's head snaps to the side, and he goes down like a sack of stones, collapsing against the seat.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
tears can’t stop rolling down my face while reading this somehow :’)
i really liked that their friendship isn’t like those typical childhood friendships where they’re joined at the hip and inseparable since young. i’m glad that they talked things out too, communication really is key
Synopsis: On your fifth wedding anniversary, Caleb's first love returns to Linkon City. That night, you catch him masturbating in the bathroom, muttering MC's name.
Huh. So that's why Caleb didn't touch you in your five whole years of marriage.
Caleb: I promised MC I'd celebrate her birthday with her. I'm just fulfilling a promise I made a long time ago.
You: Okay.
Caleb: I'm going on a mission, MC will be acting as my assistant, she has experience as a Hunter, she's suited for the role
You: Go ahead.
When you stopped getting angry, stopped crying, and stopped making a scene, he's lost.
Of course you weren't angry anymore, because you were leaving too.
Warning(s): ANGST. 30k WORDS OF PURE HURT/NO COMFORT. Non-cannonical timeline/events (no evol shenanigans). I had an interesting time exploring Caleb's selfish, egoistical, possessive, but also oblivious sides. MC and Gideon are assholes. Liam and Yvette are shockingly the best couple. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
29.9k words
A/N: This was a monster of a fic to write; I literally made myself cry in the process. Please tell me in the comments how much your blood pressure increased by reading this and how you'd like Caleb to die (or if you think he deserves some redemption). In the meantime, feel free to ship non-mc with any of the other LIs! Thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for this super long piece; I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations <3
T - 30 days
The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom.
Caleb is taking a shower.
At 3am.
He had just returned from god knows where.
You stand at the bathroom door, a little nervous, wanting to discuss something with him. Just as you are trying to figure out the best way to phrase it, you hear a strange sound coming from inside. After listening carefully, you realize with a gasp that he was taking care of himself…
Each breath and groan is like a heavy hammer blow, relentlessly pounding on your heart. The pain spreads like a tidal wave, leaving you sinking in it, unable to breathe.
Actually, today is your wedding anniversary. Your fifth year of marriage, and you've never consummated it.
So, he preferred to take care of himself rather than touch you?
As his breathing grows more rapid, he suddenly lets out a low growl, his voice strained with barely suppressed emotion, "Pipsqueak-"
That one word delivers the final, fatal blow.
Your heart pounds, as if something just shattered into dust.
You try to cover your mouth to stifle your sobs, and turn to run, but stumble on your first step, bumping into the sink and falling to the floor.
"Y/N?" Caleb's voice inside hasn't calmed down yet; you can tell he is trying to control himself, but his breathing is still heavy.
"I...I need to use the restroom, I didn't know you were taking a shower..." you stammer, clumsily grabbing the sink to stand up.
The floor and sink are wet. The more you try, the more helpless the situation becomes. By the time you finally manage to stand, Caleb emerges from the door, his white bathrobe hastily pulled on with the belt fastened tightly.
"Did you fall? Let me help you." He makes a move to pick you up. Tears well in your eyes from the pain, but you push his hand away, your expression a mixture of distress and determination. "No need, I can do it myself."
After nearly slipping again, you limp and stagger back to your bedroom.
No, "escape" is the more accurate word.
For the five years you were married to Caleb Xia, you've been doing nothing but constantly running away.
Running away from the outside world, from everyone's strange looks, and from Caleb's pity and sympathy—his wife is a cripple.How can a cripple be worthy of the brilliant and successful Caleb Xia?
You were not always like this...
Caleb follows you out, his voice gentle and concerned. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."
"No, I'm fine." You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your disheveled state under it.
"Are you really alright?" He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Mmm.” You nod vigorously, back facing him.
“So, are you going to sleep? Didn’t you want to go to the bathroom?”
“I don’t want to anymore now, let’s sleep?” You whisper.
“Alright," he pauses. "By the way, today is our anniversary. I bought you a present. You can open it tomorrow and see if you like it.”
“Okay.” The present is on the bedside table; you've already seen it, but you already know what is inside without even opening it.
It's the same size box every year, containing the exact same necklace.
In your drawer, there are already nine identical ones. This is the tenth.
The conversation ends there. Caleb turns off the light and lies down across from you. The damp scent of bodywash fills the air, but you barely feel the bed sink. In the two-meter-wide bed, you sleep on one side, and him on the other side at the very edge; there is enough space in between for at least another 3 people.
Neither of you mention "pipsqueak", nor what he had just done in the bathroom, as if nothing happened. You lie stiffly, eyes burning with pain.
Pipsqueak, or MC, was his adopted younger sister, his first love, his goddess.
Upon high school graduation, MC went abroad, leaving Caleb behind. He was devastated.
You and Caleb were classmates in middle and high school.
You admit that you had a crush on him at the time.
Back then, he was the school heartthrob, a cool and aloof academic star, while you considered yourself pretty ordinary. Not the most academically gifted, nor the most popular or pretty. You had a face everyone could recognize, but not many could describe. Besides, you had larger dreams back then. You were a dancer; started when you were young. The stage was where you felt the most at home.
So, it was just a secret crush for you; you never thought you would ever stand beside him.
Until you return home for summer vacation after graduating from the conservatory and encounter Caleb in a wreck.
That night, he was drunk, walking erratically, crossing the street without looking at the traffic lights. A car sped towards him, and you, worried and following close behind, pushed him out of the way, getting hit by the car yourself.
You thought you had done good for yourself up to that point, successfully completing your dance studies and hoping to get a position in one of the large dance companies in the city.
The accident left you with a serious limp.
You'd never be able to dance again.
Shortly after, he swore off drinking and married you.
He was forever guilty, forever grateful, forever soft-spoken, and forever showered you with gifts and money.
Yet at the same time, forever indifferent.
The only thing he couldn't give you was love.
In the beginning, you naively thought that time could heal all wounds, dilute all the pain.
But you never could have imagined that five years later, he would still remember the name "pipsqueak" so vividly, calling out to her when he is serving himself.
In the end, you were simply too foolish…
When Caleb gets up for his Colonel duties, you still pretend to be asleep. You hear him talking to the housekeeper outside: "I have a company dinner tonight. Tell my wife not to wait for me and to go to bed early."
After giving the instructions, he comes back into the room to check on you again. You hide under the covers, your pillow soaked with tears.
Usually, when he goes to any of the Farspace Fleet galas, you would prepare his outfit in advance.
But not tonight.
He goes to the dressing room to change himself and heads to work.
You open your eyes, feeling them swell uncomfortably.
Your phone alarm rings.
It's the time you set for yourself to get up and study.
Because of your leg injury, since getting married, you spend most of your time at home, rarely going out. You divide your day into blocks, finding something to occupy your time.
You pick up your phone, turn off the alarm and start scrolling aimlessly through various apps.
Your mind is a jumbled mess, unable to absorb anything.
Until, you suddenly come across a video on a certain social media platform.
The person in the video looks so familiar…
The account name: Pips_apple.
The posting time was last night.
You click on the video, and immediately, upbeat music starts playing, followed by someone shouting: One, two, three, welcome back Pipsqueak! Cheers!
It's Caleb's voice.
He broke his vow of abstinence from alcohol.
He's even a little drunk.
But would Caleb really shout like that?
The Caleb you remember from high school was a friendly, but aloof academic genius. Not only was he serious when doing course work, but even more so on the sports field; he paid no attention to any of the girls who offered him water bottles and love letters.
Later, the Caleb who became your husband was even more polite, his emotions so stable they were almost unwavering. He never smiled, never got angry. He was always detached, so detached that when you occasionally touched his fingers, even his body temperature was cold.
The camera pans across everyone's faces in the video. You see a slightly tipsy Caleb, his eyes sparkling, raising his glass and laughing loudly at the camera: "Welcome home, Pips!"
So, he could smile after all.
He could be passionate too.
He would call girls by their nicknames.
Just not you.
You close the app immediately, struggling to catch your breath. You open your email, and read the acceptance letter on your phone over and over again, at least a hundred times.
A graduate school offer from a foreign university, the thing you originally planned to discuss with him last night. You wanted to study abroad for a master's degree; was that okay?
But now it seems there is no need to discuss it with him.
Five years of marriage, countless sleepless nights.
You needed to get out.
If you didn't find something to do with your life now that MC is back, how would you pass the long hours? Would you spend your whole life waiting for Caleb to come home?
You had already waited for too long.
The pain of waiting... is unbearable now.
Today marks the countdown to you leaving him.
T - 29 days
Today your plans are a little different than the usual.
Your offer was likely part of the program's last round of admissions, so you wanted to confirm it as soon as possible. The first item on your agenda is to pay the confirmation fee to the school. You breathe a sigh of relief as your phone lights up with the notification from your bank card deduction.
In the evening, you change your clothes and prepare to go out.
Your housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, is surprised. "Madam, where are you going?"
Without Caleb's company, you seldom leave the house.
"Oh, friend of mine is performing at the theatre tonight and asked me to meet them," you say. Actually, you were going to stay in a hotel in the city. You have an interview tomorrow morning with an alumni of the program in the area. You were worried about traffic and not making it on time.
“But…” Mrs. Chen looks at your leg, “Shall I go with you?”
“No need, it’s a get-together with my girlfriends.” Your expression remains unchanged.
“Then I’ll inform the Colonel.” Mrs. Chen is uneasy, genuinely afraid something might happen to you, and didn’t want to take responsibility for whatever goes down.
“No need, don’t disturb him. I’ll call him after and have him pick me up.”
As you step out into the street, you instinctively lower your head and hunch your shoulders, hiding your face into the collar of your coat. Since injuring your leg, the confident and vibrant you on stage has disappeared.
Mrs. Chen always said that it was best if your husband goes out with you.
Caleb always said that you should stay home if he isn't with you.
Neither of them knew.
The only thing you were afraid of more than going out alone was going out with Caleb.
Because everyone who sees you looks at you with the same question: "How did someone like him marry a girl like that?"
T - 28 days
Your interview goes surprisingly smoothly. After slowly wandering around Linkon City alone for the first time in many years, you hail a taxi and head home. In the car, you silently gaze at the lights outside the window, when suddenly, you see Caleb's car parked on the side of the street.
"Wait, please stop for a moment," you quickly call to the driver.
Caleb's car is parked in front of a restaurant.
Yesterday before leaving for work, Caleb had casually mentioned that it was his turn to treat his friend group to dinner.
You get out of the car as if possessed.
Upon arriving, you tell the server at the front, "reservation under Mr. Xia," and give them the the last four digits of Caleb's phone number.
The waiter leads you to a private room. "Thank you," you say, hesitating in front of the door.
From outside, you can hear lively voices.
"I need to get home early today, I got home drunk last night and my wife was furious at me!"
"Come on~ Are we still tight? Who's the one that used to always toot "bros before hoes"? Now you're henpecked? Sounds like Caleb's the only real one left!" MC jokes, her voice cheery and light.
So this is the kind of person she was.
This is the kind of personality that Caleb likes.
Unfortunately, you are far from it; you couldn't even pretend to be if you tried.
Inside, Caleb's friend continues, "How can Caleb be the same as me? Y/N wouldn't dare raise her voice at him!"
"Hey, by the way," MC's soft voice rings out again, "Caleb, I heard your wife is disabled? Why?"
No one answers MC's question.
Your heart clenches.
Caleb's group of friends start talking amongst themselves.
"Seriously, Caleb, we feel sorry for you. Look at you, you have money, power, you're handsome, a real catch. What kind of woman couldn't you marry? Why did you have to marry a cripple?"
"Honestly, dude, you're the most outstanding among us. Now that you've married Y/N, whether you're at a meeting, a social event, a press conference, or any other occasion that requires a partner, you can't even take her out. Don't you think you're losing out?"
So that's how it is…
Caleb always said he didn't need you to get involved in his affairs; he was more than happy to provide for you. Everyone praised you for living a life of luxury, but as it turns out, it is simply because he doesn't think you are presentable enough.
A bitter laugh comes from Caleb. “She was so kind to me after all; I owe her.”
“You owe her? You've given her so much; you've paid it back ten-fold by now!”
“Exactly! You should have just given her a lump sum back then. Was it necessary to jeopardize the happiness of the rest of your life?”
“I'm telling you, you should really think about it. What can she do for you? She's useless at social events, and you'd even have to worry about her spilling water at home. "Caleb~ have some water" like this? Like this?"
A burst of laughter erupts from the room, mixed with MC's exaggerated gasp. "Caleb! Does your wife really walk like that?"
You feel all the blood rush to your head as the anger and humiliation tips you off balance. You force the door open and are immediately met with a roar of laughter.
T - 27 days
One of Caleb's friends, Gideon, carries a cup of water in both hands, walking with an exaggerated limp, and calling out in a high-pitched voice, "Caleb, Caleb, have some water, Caleb, ah—I fell down, Caleb, hug me—"
The mocking performance is a hit. MC, sitting next to Caleb, leans on his shoulder as she shakes from laughter.
You turn to look at your husband, hoping that the person you loved most would show some sort of reaction.
Caleb, however, remains completely silent.
Gideon turns around with a triumphant smile, "How does that sound, Cale-"
Before he could finish the question, he sees you standing in the doorway, and his smile freezing. "Y/N..."
Everyone looks towards the door.
They are stunned.
MC quickly removes herself from Caleb's shoulder, smiling as she reaches out her hand. "Ah! This must be Caleb's legendary wife! Please come in, I'm Caleb's childhood friend."
You look at everyone in the private room, heart turning cold.
Caleb finally stands up and walks towards you. "Y/N, what brings you here? They were just joking, don't take it to heart."
You stare at the man in front of you, feeling utterly unfamiliar with him, more unfamiliar than ever before.
He calls this joking? So he's actually siding with them?
"Yes, sister-in-law... sister-in-law! I'm sorry, I was just joking, don't be angry," Gideon apologized, putting down his cup.
Caleb walks up, intending to put his arm around you.
You suddenly remember MC laughing on his shoulder, his hands pleasuring himself in the bathroom, him calling out "Pipsqueak" as he came, and suddenly the thought of his hands on you is utterly filthy.
You dodge his arm. “Y/N,” Caleb looks at his empty hands in surprise and sighs. “I apologize on their behalf. Don’t be angry, okay? I’ll bring you something when we get back; whatever you want.”
MC glares at Gideon playfully. “Go on, apologize! You've made the Colonel's wife angry! Do you think everyone is like me, clumsy and clueless, letting you joke around like that?”
Gideon immediately gets defensive. “I already apologized! I didn’t know she'd suddenly appear out of thin air; I was just joking.”
“A joke is only a joke if the person it is about finds it funny.” You summon all your courage to spit out the words.
"Alright, that's enough," Caleb puts himself between you and Gideon.
"Y/N," Caleb's gaze is as calm as ever, "They mean no harm; they were just joking. For my sake, forgive them. Shall I have the driver take you home?"
"Sister-in-law..." MC pouts as she stands beside him, "If you're really angry, be angry with me. Don't ignore your husband. They only organized today's gathering because I came back... Caleb, why don't you ask your wife to stay for dinner? I'll offer her a toast as an apology."
"Sorry," you look at the two of them with a scorning smile. "I don't drink alcohol, especially not this tea-flavored liquor."
Caleb's expression turns serious. "Y/N, MC was trying to make it up to you, why are you so sharp-tongued?"
Make it up to you?
Only a fool would think so.
Is Caleb a fool?
No, he isn't. He is simply biased; whichever side his heart leans towards is right.
You look at the two people in front of you, and the several people behind them. They were all on the same side, while you are just an outsider who had intruded into their world. No, in fact, you've never truly entered their world; not even the periphery.
You struggle to hold back tears, letting out a soft "heh," before turning to leave.
Behind you, MC's voice calls worryingly, "Caleb, your wife!"
"It's alright, she's very understanding. I'll go comfort her when I go back." He sneaks a glance at your retreating figure and texts the driver to pick you up.
You wipe away your tears forcefully, gait getting more unsteady. Surely, they'll continue to laugh at you after you left, right?
You are crippled; you aren't good enough for Caleb Xia.
This realization had haunted you like a curse for the past five years.
By the time Caleb's driver arrives, you are no longer by the restaurant. Caleb frowned at the text from the chauffer. He calls you, but you didn't answer. He tries again, but your phone is switched off now.
His buddies speak up more. "Caleb, how did you manage to spoil such a girl? With your status and appearance? There's women willing to grovel at
feet! You're too good natured, letting your wife give you the cold shoulder."
Caleb doesn't say anything.
"Marrying her is already a huge blessing! Who else would want her if not you?"
MC quickly interjects at just the right second. "Gege, don't listen to everyone saying bad things about Y/N. They're just want the best for you. Don't take it to heart!"
"I'm not angry," Caleb puts away his phone. "It's alright, she won't go anywhere."
After all, for the past five years, you really haven't been anywhere except stay at home; you had nowhere to go.
T - 26 days
You don't go home.
You check back into the hotel you stayed at the previous day.
All the grievances and pain erupt the moment the hotel room door closes.
The image of Gideon limping, mocking you, kept flashing before your eyes, the laughter echoing in your ears like a curse.
Actually, you already know what Caleb's peers say about you in private, just never mentioned it to him before.
They were his ride-or-die colleagues, you understood.
He worked very hard for the safety of Linkon City; you understood.
Therefore, you didn't want to cause him any trouble or fallouts with his friends and coworkers
But now it seems that you were overthinking things.
How could he have a falling out with his friends because of you?
Those were his brothers since his DAA days!
And you?
Merely a debt he owed to himself as repayment for gratitude; a burden. Without you, his life would be happier.
"She's just a cripple! Who would want her if you didn't marry her?"
"What more could she ask for than marrying someone like Caleb?"
"If I were the Colonel, I'd rather be the one crippled by a car accident than marry someone like that."
Your heart and lungs ache terribly.
With trembling hands, you open a photo album on your phone you haven't dared touch in five years—a record of your training and performances during your undergraduate years.
Since you could no longer perform on stage, you sealed all your dance-related photos and videos here, password protected, and never opened them again.
Now, your trembling fingers randomly click on a video.
Perfectly in time with the music, you twirl, leap, and land lightly on your feet
Back then, you were radiant, graceful, and received thunderous applause…
So, was saving him a mistake?
Honestly, the moment you pushed Caleb out of the way, you never thought of marrying him.
He was the one who said he wanted to marry you and planned a grand proposal, knelt before you with a huge diamond ring, and gave you hope…
For the first time in five years, you collapse onto the bed and sob uncontrollably.
You cry for a long time
So long that no more tears flow from your eyes, leaving only pain in your chest, burning and licking like flames.
Yet the more it hurt, the clearer you became about your situation.
You go the bathroom and wash your face thoroughly to calm down.
Looking at your lifeless reflection in the mirror, you silently tell yourself, "Crying once is enough. Don't cry anymore. Now please take care of yourself for once."
T - 25 days
Perhaps because you didn't sleep a wink the night before out of nervousness for your interview, you actually sleep quite well today. You wake up on time and turn on your phone.
Countless messages flood in all from one person—Caleb.
Walking alone on the sidewalk, head down, you review the student visa application process until a pair of leather shoes appear in front of you. You didn't expect someone to deliberately block your path, and bump into them.
If the person didn't catch you, you definitely would've fallen.
Unfortunately, that person is the last one you wanted to see.
Caleb.
"Y/N!" You can tell he is angry, but trying his best to speak in a controlled manner.
“Y/N, why didn’t you come home?” He holds your shoulders, voice softening as gentle and tender as ever.
You should know why I’m not going home, you think, hurriedly stuffing the notes you took from your interview back into your bag, fastening it tightly.
“What’s this?” he asks, looking down at your bag.
“Nothing, just some paper.” You feign composure, fingers gripping the bag so tightly they turn white.
“Give it to me,” he offers.
No, you can't let him see them.
You clutch the strap tighter. "Do you need something?"
"Give me your phone," he demands.
You hesitate for a moment, then take your phone out and hand it to him.
The phone is off.
He glances at it only once before handing it back. "I called you so many times and sent you so many messages. Why didn't you reply? Are you still angry?"
You breathe a sigh of relief. He wasn't asking where you were the night before.
If it's only about that…
You stay silent for a moment, and decide you didn't want to be angry anymore.
You just want to get away.
Seeing your silence, Caleb assumes you're still angry and sighs. “Y/N, you're supposed to be the understanding one. Why didn't you come home?”
You swear you didn't want to get worked up about it anymore, but Caleb's words are somehow innocent yet cruel enough to break even a saint.
“So you still think what happened yesterday was my fault? Was I being unreasonable? Should I have praised Gideon for such an accurate depiction as soon as I went in?!” You couldn't take it anymore.
Caleb's face slightly twitches in embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was, you can’t control what others say, so just manage your own reaction and pay them no mind.”
“I can’t control it, but you can!” you shoot back. “But what were you doing then? You and your pipsqueak, hugging and all over each other.”
“Y/N!" His expression finally changes into something that resembles anger, more intense than anything you've seen.
You laugh inwardly.
The name “pipsqueak” is his Achilles’ heel, an untouchable minefield. You have nothing else to say.
You clutch your bag, planning to walk past him, but he reaches out and pulls you close by the waist.
“I’m sorry, it's my fault. I raised my voice just now,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand MC. We’re just ordinary friends, like everyone else. I treat her like my sister. She’s not married yet. Don't talk about her like that.”
You don't understand. They were the ones acting like that, MC brushing up against him so brazenly; why is he so afraid to admit it?
"Oh," you reply monotonously.
“Y/N…” Caleb can sense the coldness in your voice. “Why are you still angry? I haven't even confronted you about going to a hotel by yourself without telling anyone, about not reply to any of my messages and calls.
Yes, it's all your fault. You're the unreasonable one here.
Earlier in your marriage, hearing this from Caleb would have been your worst nightmare. But now? You don't intend on striving to be good enough for him anymore.
T - 24 days
Caleb insists on taking you out to eat to "smooth things over".
“Caleb, I’m not hungry.” You don't touch your chopsticks. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” He smiles slightly. “I’ll go with you wherever you want. I’m free all day.”
You stare at his almost imperceptible smile, thinking hard about what you can say to those dreamy, purple eyes.
"Caleb..." your throat closes up, betraying your resolve.
“Hmm? Y/N?” He takes your hand. “What’s wrong? Want to cry? If you want to cry, just cry. Don’t hold it in.”
His voice is so gentle, so incredibly gentle.
Just like back then, when you first emerged from the operating room, the nurses wheeled you back to the floor. He stood by your bedside, his voice so gentle it was almost painful, saying, "Y/N, does it hurt? If it hurts, cry it out, don't hold it in..."
Back then, you thought such gentle care was a good remedy for pain. Unfortunately, it took you many years to truly understand that a man's gentleness and care could never be transformed into love...
"Caleb, let's get a divorce," you say softly, pulling your hand away.
He frowns; clearly, he didn't expect you to say that.
After a brief silence, he picks up a piece of fish, and gently removes the bones with his chopsticks, putting it in your bowl. "Y/N, I know you're still angry, but bringing up divorce is irrational. What will you do if you divorce me? How will you live on your own?"
T - 23 days:
Your breathing quickens
In everyone's eyes, for the last five years, you've been Caleb's dependent; without him, you were a pitiful creature, unwanted and unable to survive.
He thought so too.
"I can do it!" For the first time, you speak up against him, wanting to stand up for yourself.
He just smiles, still assuming you are being stubborn, and places the deboned fish in front of you. "Eat. You're allowed to be angry for a while, but you can't be angry until after you finish eating."
"I'm not angry, I really want a divorce!" How can you make Caleb understand that you mentioning divorce isn't just an emotional outburst?
“Y/N.” he puts down his chopsticks, “I canceled two meetings and a practice flight today just to come and spend time with you. I might not have that much time tomorrow or the day after. Let me say it again, MC is a good friend. I treat her no differently than I treat Gideon and the others. She also likes you a lot and has always wanted to be your friend. With your attitude… how can I bring her to you?”
“Then there’s no need for us to get close.” You don't think MC actually wants to be friends with you.
“Y/N!” Caleb's voice carries a hint of warning.
You focus on eating instead. Even if you were angry, it's not worth taking your anger out on your own stomach.
"That's right," Caleb's tone softens again. "Don't mention the word 'divorce' again."
You pause, then continue eating with your head down.
The next day, you book a physical therapy appointment at AKSO Hospital.
T - 22 days
You need to get used to going out alone, so you decide to do some window shopping. Wandering aimlessly through Universum, you spot a familiar figure at a designer jewelry store — MC.
Looking at the store name, a feeling of unease settles over you as you unconsciously walk closer.
“Buy it if you like it!” comes her friend's voice.
“I can't do that, Tara!" MC exclaims, "It's too expensive. Even though Caleb gave me his card and told me to use it as I please, I feel awkward buying such an expensive item!”
Your steps falter, too heavy to take another step.
“Since he gave it to you, it’s for you to use. When has your brother ever used pleasantries with you He's probably over the moon that you're willing to spend his money.” Tara replies.
“That’s true…” MC twirls, showing Tara the necklace she tried on at different angles. You see it too.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Tara? I really, really love this necklace! I liked it back in high school, and Caleb promised to buy it for me after graduation, but..."
But?
You laugh bitterly at the irony.
But instead, Caleb gives you this necklace every year for your birthday and anniversary.
Originally, you had thought that even if Caleb was heartless, at least he remembered your birthday and your anniversary; even if the gift he chose wasn’t thoughtful, it would at least be expensive.
But it turns out he isn’t heartless, nor is he indifferent; on the contrary, he is incredibly thoughtful and devoted. It’s just that what he holds dear has nothing to do with you.
T - 21 days
You try to talk about the divorce with Caleb again, this time taking the initiative to meet him as he gets off work. You walk into the grand foyer of the Farspace Fleet HQ, preparing to text and let him know you're here, when you hear his voice.
"And that concludes your orientation tour."
You slowly turn to see Caleb, his adjutant, Liam, and MC walk out of the elevator. You wait until they make their way closer to the front door to approach the group.
"It's been a pleasure showing you around," Liam adds, saluting to MC, "I look forward to working with you, Mrs. Xia".
You nearly choke on your breath, face red and still sputtering as you appear in front of Caleb. Liam looks at you with confusion. "I'm sorry, and you are...?"
Caleb's face morphs from surprise to horror, and you see the message behind his furrowed brows and pleading eyes: "don't say anything"
You remember the sneers, the joking, the pity.
"I'm a good friend of the Colonel," you say. "In fact, we have a dinner appointment tonight."
Caleb nods vigorously in agreement, quickly dismissing Liam as you, Caleb, and MC walk towards the parking garage.
When you arrive at Caleb's car, MC doesn’t move, smiling sweetly.
“Okay, Gege, you guys go home. I’ll take a taxi myself. Y/N, I’ll return Mr. Xia back to you.”
Back to you? What does she mean, back to you?
When did you ever agree to lend your husband out?
She takes the opportunity to cling to your arm, shaking it sweetly. “Y/N, don’t be angry. Today’s misunderstanding wasn’t intentional. Liam just assumed things because Caleb has never personally brought a cadet around before. I didn't have time to explain the situation."
Her eyes subconsciously flick to your leg before she continues.
“You won’t be angry with us, right?”
“Us?” you sneer. “Who is this ‘us’? Who exactly is with whom?” You hate strangers getting close to you — especially her. You pull your arm away.
You swear you only pull back lightly. You don’t shove her. You absolutely do not push her.
Yet she falls to the ground.
“Y/N!!” Caleb shouts your name.
MC reacts faster than both of you. She scrambles up and blocks Caleb completely — pressing herself against him. “Caleb, don’t be angry. Don’t blame Y/N, I’m just careless. She just gently touched me and I lost balance myself. Gege, please don't get angry at your wife because of me, it’ll make me sad…”
Only Caleb believes this act.
Especially when she deliberately raises her wrist — the scraped skin clearly visible — right in front of him, the glint of the necklace she bought yesterday, the same as yours piercing your eyes.
Caleb sees the scrape. His brows knit together, eyes filled with obvious concern.
“Y/N! What’s wrong with you? Why are you so prejudiced against her?”
“Me? Prejudiced against her?” you laugh. “What prejudice could I possibly have? After all, she’s Mrs. Xia now.”
“You—” He is momentarily speechless before lowering his gaze to MC. “Does it hurt?”
“No…” she whimpers, yet she lifts her wrist closer to his chin.
He actually lowers his head and gently blows on it.
You have never seen him look at you like that.
“I’ll put some medicine on it later. We can’t let it scar.”
Not even after your car accident. Not when you lose your leg. Not when your body is covered in scars.
Back then, he gently asked you, “Does it hurt? If it does, cry.”
But that wasn't heartache.
It was guilt.
He never caressed your wounds. When faced with your scars, he escapes. He avoids. He refuses to look at them.
“It’s okay, I'm really alright!” MC’s voice grows even softer
“Y/N,” Caleb calls, looking up at you. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”
“Why should I apologize?” A sharp sting rushes into your eyes, blurring your vision. You can barely see his face anymore. “Because she calls herself my husband’s wife, I have to apologize?”
“Y/N! Why are being sarcastic? Didn’t she explain? Liam simply misunderstood. Why are you holding onto this?”
He is angry again.
He always is, whenever you speak up against her.
You smile and shake your head.
“No, Caleb. You’re wrong. I don’t want to hold onto this at all. I didn’t even expose you two on the spot. Whoever wants to be Mrs. Xia can take the position. I already told you I want a divorce. You should just agree. Then everything becomes perfectly legitimate.”
You don’t expose them because there’s no need. Since you are going to divorce him anyway, why add more trouble to your life? It isn’t worth it.
“Your temper is getting more and more outrageous!” he snaps. “There’s a limit to throwing tantrums! Apologize right now!”
“I won’t.” You turn to leave.
“Stop!” He rushes forward and grabs your wrist.
“Where are you going? You pushed her. Her arm is hurt. You're not leaving without saying sorry."
You stare at the hand gripping you.
Despair crashes over you like a tidal wave.
You look into his eyes and say, slowly, clearly, word by word:
“Yes. All I have to deal with is being a cripple for the rest of my life. But oh no, she scratched her arm”
A flash of sharp pain crosses his eyes.
He loosens his grip and steps back.
The moment you are free, you turn and run toward the elevator.
No matter how disheveled you look, you don’t care.
You absolutely cannot let him see the tears streaming down your face.
From the day you were injured, through your wedding and five years of marriage...
This is the first time you use your injured leg to hurt him.
Before, you were so careful about protecting his feelings. You were afraid he felt guilt and remorse, so you never mention the accident five years ago. Even when you had to endure gossip and cold stares, you swallowed everything alone.
But now, is he in pain too?
You can honestly understand to a certain degree.
He is doomed to carry the burden of you for the rest of his life, unable to shake himself free. How can he not be?
His true love is right beside him, yet because of your existence, he can't even be with her openly. How can he not be in pain when the urge to let go is pitted against the torment of his conscience?
So, Caleb, please let me go, okay?
T - 20 days
You return home alone and lay your ten jewelry boxes out in front of you. You stare at the necklaces for a long time, lost in thought.
For a moment, you want to smash each one against the wall.
But you don't.
Impulse solves nothing.
After calming down, you download a secondhand resale app and start looking for sellers who buy luxury goods. You quickly find one in the city and arrange to drop them off tomorrow.
Having dealt with this, you turn on your computer and begin focusing intently on your visa application.
You have less than three weeks until you escape your personal hell.
T - 19 days
You are so engrossed in your work that you don't even notice Caleb's return.You hurriedly close your laptop when you hear "What are you doing?" coming from the
doorway.
Caleb returns, maintaining his usual gentle demeanor, as if nothing happened. He walks to your side and asks in a soft voice, "Watching a show? Studying? What's got you so hooked that you're still up?"
He's trying to make conversation.
You press your hand tightly against the laptop; the VISA webpage is still open. "You wouldn't care for it"
"I don't even know what it is? Here, let me see. You asked me to tutor you back in high school." He reaches out to try to pry the screen up but you hold on tightly, refusing to let go.
He assumes you're still angry, so he stops trying to take it from you. Instead, he sighs and squats down, staring at your profile. "Still angry?"
"No." You're not lying. You've had many feelings: anxiety, disappointment, despair, but definitely not anger.
Anger meant that as long as he coaxed you, things would be fine; there was still hope for your marriage. But for you, any last drop hope had already evaporated. Five years… that was enough.
“Y/N, MC and I really have nothing going on. We're just close childhood friends. She came back from abroad, and we all got together to welcome her. The misunderstanding at work today was purely accidental. You have to believe me.”
His voice grows increasingly sweet. You look into his eyes, unable to see the passion behind the soft words.
Gentleness is like a program written into his body, running on autopilot.
“Caleb” you finally say, “Aren’t you tired?”
He's taken aback, seemingly not understanding what you mean.
You give him a bitter smile. "You have someone else in your heart, yet you still fuss over me every day. Aren't you tired?"
Caleb's eyes widen. "I don't..."
"Caleb, stop lying to yourself! I know some things don't sound so honorable when brought up; it'll make everyone look bad. But actually, divorce is better for both of us. Really. MC is more like the Mrs. Xia you envision yourself with-"
"Y/N!" Caleb interrupts you. "Are you still holding onto MC? I've told you so many times."
"Caleb, the one who can't get over MC isn't me." You stare at him straight in the eyes. "It's you."
He freezes again. "Y/N..."
"We both know it, isn't that right?" You try to appear calm. You can't have him think you're just "throwing a tantrum". "It's time to put an end to our five years together, Caleb. Let's say goodbye gracefully. Let bygones be bygones."
Caleb stares at you for a while, then stands up. "Y/N, you're overthinking it. You'll see later that MC's return won't change anything. It's late, get some rest."
"Caleb Xia! I know you feel guilty towards me, but not anymore. I really don't need a marriage based on guilt. Let me go, and let yourself go too, okay?"
Before you even finish your sentence, Caleb takes off his coat and heads into the bathroom.
You look at his coat lying on the small sofa. In the past, you would've hung it up for him, then found his pajamas and put them by the bathroom door.
But this time, you don't move.
For the past five years, you had always thought that your legs were weak and that you couldn't contribute anything to your family. In fact, Caleb managed everything perfectly, making you feel like a mere decoration, unable to help him in any way. Yet, you still tried your best to take care of him when you could.
Honestly? You might have overlooked the core: perhaps what Caleb needed wasn't your insignificant care, but a presentable Mrs. Xia, someone who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him in front of the world.
So you truly don't understand what he's clinging onto, why he refuses to divorce you after all this…
Caleb comes out of the bathroom and goes straight to sleep, seemingly refusing to speak further.
You don't bring it up again. Forget it, every conversation is exhausting for you anyways. You're better off using that time to think about your future, strive towards what you have always wanted, and when you could leave. Whether or not the divorce is finalized by then won't matter.
You glance at Caleb beside you; he's already fast asleep.
In the dim light, you can only see a blurry profile of his face. The distance between the two of you seems endless.
Caleb, I've decided not to blame you anymore. I hope you have a happy life after I'm gone.
T - 18 days
You wake up feeling refreshed. As you finish getting ready and make your way down the stairs, you see the look of shock in the housekeeper's eyes.
You're wearing makeup today, and in your favorite dress.
For five years, you barely dressed up. Your leg, covered in scars, not only restricted your movement, but also your self worth and yearning for beauty. You didn't think you were worth dressing up.
“Very beautiful, Madam,” Mrs. Chen's admiring gaze doesn't lie. “Where are you going?”
“The theatre.” You shift your weight, a little nervous despite the excitement coursing through your veins. You even wore stockings so that the scars on your leg wouldn't be as visible. After settling your feelings, you decide to buy a ticket to see a ballet performance. The only thing you wanted to see at the moment, the only thing you knew would comfort you was dance.
You take a deep breath as you sink into the plush velvet seat in the dress circle. From your elevated view, you can almost feel the warmth of the stage lights and the buzz of adrenaline behind the colossal curtains, your heartbeat quickening as it gets closer to curtain call.
"Y/N?"
You nearly jump as you hear your name, looking wildly around to meet a pair of sea-blue eyes.
"R-rafayel?"
You squint as the name comes off your tongue slightly unfamiliarly. It's been nearly 10 years since you saw this old classmate of yours, but the tuft of dark purple hair gives him away. The two of you were never in same homeroom back in high school, but his name was very famous among the art students.
"It's been such a long time, how have you been?" He smiles and offers you a hand.
Your brain short circuits for a moment, not quite sure how to answer.
"My apologies," he quickly follows up his words. "I remember you were a performing arts student, and followed your career briefly after graduation. I know you stopped dancing and got married, married to the man that you saved."
You're even more stunned now. But before you have a chance to formulate a reply, the lights cut out, signifying the opening of the show.
Tonight's performance is by the Linkin City ballet, performing a classical piece that you've rehearsed countless times in the past.
As the orchestra strikes the first chord, the dancer deep within you is awakened.
Even though you're sitting in the audience with a real possibility you'll never be on stage again, your toes subconsciously tap lightly on the ground to the beat of the music—it's muscle memory etched into your body…
At the end of the performance, you can't help the tears spilling from your eyes. Sitting in the audience, listening to the thunderous applause, watching audience members go up one after another to present flowers to the dancers...
Not because of sadness, not because of pain, and certainly not because of despair.
But because of the dance itself, and the resonance you felt in your heart.
This was once your passion and your deepest love.
But you had forgotten it for five years.
You log onto your empty social media account for the first time in years, and simply post: Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest love.
After the curtains fall for the final time, you turn to Rafayel, still gently clapping beside you.
"I've been unhappy since I quit dancing," you admit, gaze flickering at your bad leg. "But I've had enough of moping around and feeling sorry for myself." You wipe away any remaining moisture off your face. "Sorry, this just reminded me of how happy dancing made me feel. I'll be going abroad soon to get a masters."
You swear Rafayel's eyes light up slightly in the dim concert hall as he gives you a smile. "Y/N, Little Swallow, I believe you will soar high, even if your wings were once broken."
Back in high school, your nickname was Little Swallow, because you were best known for your somersaults and leaps; high and graceful.
Hearing the name again after so many years has your heart racing again, as if you are back in your youth, sweating profusely in the practice room.
A bundle is placed into your hands. You look down to see a bouquet of flowers, something Rafayel originally brought for one the dancers, probably.
Rafayel simply pats your head. "It's not shameful to have a leg injury, it's not shameful to have scars on your legs. What's shameful are those who laugh at you; they are the truly despicable ones! Kind people will only cheer you on." He turns away, but not before calling out, "Let's keep in touch! I'll be in the same city as your program for my next artist retreat. Let me know if I can help with anything." He emphasizes again, "Anything!"
You stand there, watching him disappear into the distance.
This is the first time someone has told you: your disability isn't shameful; what's shameful are those who mock you.
Words you've wanted to hear for nearly 2000 days, but never had spoken to you.
Tonight, it brings you a fresh wave of tears.
T - 17 days
You didn't think Caleb would be back after everything going on these days, but the sound of the door opening wakes you up from sleep.
Caleb stinks of alcohol when he enters the room.
He's been drinking again.
How much did he have to drink? He throws a chair against the door and collapses directly onto the bed.
You don't have anything to say to him anymore, whether it's to scold him to drink less or coax him to take a shower. You get up, intending to sleep in the guest room.
Just as you reach the door, Caleb's voice sounds behind you. "Where are you going?"
You don't answer.
The bed creaks behind you. Caleb gets slams the door in front of you closed and grabs your wrist. "Where are you going if you're not sleeping here?"
"I'm going to the guest room, let go of me."
You can't really argue with a drunkard. The more you struggle, the tighter he grips your hands.
"Stop fooling around, Y/N. What's the point? Since you've apologized, I'll make it up to you" his voice slurs.
You're dumbfounded??? What the hell is he referring to?
"When did I apologize?" You haven't even seen him, let alone apologize to him?
Caleb chuckles softly, mumbling, "Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest? I'm back."
You scoff, wait, this guy actually thought you posted that for him?
“Y/N” He suddenly hugs you. “I know, I know you love me. You'd give everything for me, so no matter what happens, I will never betray you…”
You are stunned for a moment.
He's right.
You've loved him very, very much.
He had said these words at your wedding. At that time, you thought it wasn't a confession, but a promise.
He had given you a promise for a lifetime.
A lifetime is so long. Long enough that you thought one day he would fall in love with you properly. Even if he never loved you, it didn't matter; you thought your love for him would be enough…
“Caleb Xia.” You have something you want to ask him.
“Hmm?” His warm breath brushes against your ear, spreading out, carrying the scent of alcohol.
"But your Pipsqueak is back! What will happen to Pips if you're with me?"
"Pipsqueak? Pipsqueak..." He murmured the name, suddenly choking back tears. "Pipsqueak, I won't forget. I promised you, I won't forget..."
You feel as if you just got dunked in ice water.
Is he so drunk that he's mistaking you for MC?
"What promise? What did you promise Pipsqueak?" you ask numbly.
"Everything... Everything, Pips..." His arms tighten around you.
You gasp as he suddenly lifts you up and pushes you down on the bed, his breath, heavy with the smell of alcohol, glosses over your face, nose, and chin...
He tries to find your lips, but you avoid them.
The smell of alcohol makes you nauseous.
When his hands begin to tear at your pajamas, you immediately turn away.
"Pips, be good, okay? Stop making a fuss..."
Still calling you Pipsqueak...
You struggle fiercely, finally freeing a hand and slapping him hard across the face. A crisp sound rings out in the bedroom
"Caleb! Look carefully at who I am! I'm not your Pipsqueak!" you shout in the darkness, your voice hoarse.
His body stiffens briefly. Taking advantage of the moment, you forcefully wriggle out of his grasp.
He lies on the bed, still drunk, murmuring, "Pips, I'm sorry, I have to go home. I promised her I'd take care of her for the rest of my life... I owe her..."
You cover your ears. Those words have haunted you like a curse for five years; now, whenever they echo in your mind, your head buzzes as if filled with static.
You scream at the figure beside you, "I don't want you to owe me anything! Caleb Xia! Do you hear me!? I don't want you to owe me anything! I just want you to set me free!"
Caleb's phone vibrates at that moment.
You turn your head to see the name of the person calling: "Baby Apple."
Ha, Baby Apple…
In Caleb's phone, your contact is "Y/N"
When you were newlyweds, you had fantasized about the day Caleb would call you "sweetie," "darling," or any other nickname that was exclusively yours, or even just "Wife."
But no, whether in everyday conversations or in his contacts, it was always just "Y/N".
To reassure yourself, you convinced yourself that this was just his personality—not clingy, straightforward, and with a strong personality.
You were wrong.
The words "Baby Apple" on the screen are particularly glaring. You're torn between picking up or letting it ring, but you click on the green receiver anyway.
A soft, delicate voice makes your hand tremble.
"Gege, are you home yet? Are you alright?" MC sounds drunk too, her voice slurred and incoherent. Ignoring the silence on your end, she continues. "I know it's hard for you... I also... know that Y/N has sacrificed a lot for you... You don't need to feel guilty towards me... I... we're fine like this now... I don't care whether I'm your wife or not... I just... just glad that you remember me and treat me the same as before... let's stay like this Caleb... She can live in your house, and I can live in your heart, I'm content..."
The phone finally slips and fell to the ground.
She lives in your house, I live in your heart.
You stagger out of the room and go to the guest room.
You collapse on the bed, trying to squeeze all the sounds out of your head.
You never want to think about this again.
T - 16 days
When you wake up, it's Caleb's voice that you hear. He's talking to Mrs. Chen.
"Where did these flowers come from?"
"Madam brought them back last night."
"Madam went out last night?"
"Yes."
"Alone? Where did she go?" Caleb's voice rises noticeably.
"She said she went to see a performance."
"A performance? Who sent the flowers?" He seemed unconvinced.
"I don't know."
"What performance? Where did she see it? What time was it?"
Mrs. Chen hesitates. "Sir, I really don't know."
The guest room door is pushed open.
You immediately pretend to be asleep.
"Y/N, I know you're awake; your hand just moved."
You open your eyes, internally sighing.
"Who did you go to see the performance with yesterday?"
Why is he so fixated on this question?
You don't answer him, simply pulling the covers over your head and turn your back to face him.
“Y/N,” He sits down, “Be good, okay?” He reaches out to dig you out from under the comforter.
You remember him pinning you down on the bed last night, calling MC's name and telling her to be good. You feel utterly disgusted and forcefully slap his hand away.
He gives up, then suddenly changes the subject, "Y/N, what was the "passions and loves" you mentioned last night?"
"It wasn't you!" you huff.
His face stiffens for a moment, but it quickly turns into a knowing look. "Alright, stop being stubborn. I know you're still sulking and jealous. Didn't I come back as soon as I saw you post that yesterday?"
He seriously still thinks you're just throwing a tantrum when you said "not you"?
You poke your head out from under the covers. "I told you..."
Seeing you finally come out, his expression softens as he takes the opportunity to stroke your hair. "That's good. I'll be back tonight, but you don't have to wait for me. Just go to sleep if you're tired."
Without waiting for you to say anything more, he turns and leaves.
You don't care whether or not he comes home.
Actually, this scene is exactly the same as before.
Before MC appeared, he was always like this, speaking to you gently, telling you to go to sleep early, and stroking your hair.
You've never argued, not even once.
But so what? What does a marriage without arguments even mean?
If you were to describe Caleb Xia with a single word, it would be "good."
However, you know the truth painfully clearly: all the good things Caleb does don't stem from his love for you, but rather an act of atonement.
The words "never to dance again" were a devastating blow to both you and him back then.
You still remember Caleb's reaction upon hearing those words; after the initial shock, he seemed utterly ripped from his soul.
From that moment on, the vibrant Caleb died.
You were both simultaneously bound by the shackles of "forever"— you forever lost the stage, and he forever atoned for his sins.
"I owe her" these three words became the unbearable weight of his life.
From that moment forward, there was no more Caleb Xia; what lived was only your husband—a walking robot, devoid of warmth and emotion. A stagnant pool, mechanically fulfilling the duties of a husband, a partner.
But now he's alive again…
MC returned, bringing light back into his life.
He's started smiling again, his eyes sparkling with light and fire.
You sigh heavily. Even after all this, why wouldn't he let you go, and let himself go too?
T - 15 days
You step out of the taxi, heart pounding as you approach tall glass doors. After watching the ballet piece, you are once again filled with determination and decided to sign up for a beginners dance class. You've been going to your physical therapy sessions dutifully, hoping one day, with enough hard work and practice, you'll be able to stand on stage again. You smile at the wide range of participants already there. They greet you warmly, introducing themselves one by one before the instructor walks in.
As the class begins, you practice some very simple basics - posture, form, and stances. However, due to your injury, you quickly run out of stamina and spend a good portion of the class on the floor to rest inbetween. You're wiping the sweat off your brow with a towel and bidding goodbye to some new friends as a familiar voice calls from outside the studio door.
"Y/N!"
It's Rafayel?!
"What are you doing here?" you ask, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment as you're stuck wondering how much of your clumsy work he had just seen.
"The performing arts center commissioned a piece from me. It's going to be hanging on the top floor, so I came today to take a look at the atmosphere around here," he supplies, giving you a bright smile.
"Nice," you feebly offer.
Rafayel breaks the silence with a soft sigh, "Y/N, I can see the start of a rebirth."
You know what he's referring to, you starting to pick up dancing again. But can you really call what you're doing right now dancing? You could barely stand up straight.
"Don't be like that! You haven't practiced for five years, and you did really well today! I have a photo if you don't believe me." Rafayel takes out his phone, smoothly passing it to you to enter your number. It turns out he had recorded the last part of your dance lesson today.
"Ah, my phone died" you say, rummaging through your dance bag.
Rafayel shrugs and presses "send" anyways. "Here, let's go grab something to eat and you can watch yourself on mine.
The two of you head to a cafe, sitting outside on the patio as you make conversation over coffee and sandwiches. Rafayel shows you the video as you furrow your brows at your posture. You sigh dejectedly. Who would've imagined that the girl once known as "Little Swallow" would struggle like that?
While Rafayel's words of encouragement still doesn't allow you to forgive yourself for falling so far behind, you agree with his sentiment: you were going to grow new wings and explore higher skies.
It was at this moment that Caleb drives by, catching a glimpse of your smile brighter than the sunset, sitting next to Rafayel, your heads slightly leaned in together as you watch something on his phone.
T - 14 days
You feel a strange sense of oppression slowly growing behind you. You look up to see Caleb standing behind you, face partially covered by shadow.
His complexion is stormy; he looks exhausted, and his hair is somewhat disheveled. As he approaches you, the setting sun behind him seems to ignite, mirroring the flames in his eyes.
“I called you all day, and your phone was off?” He is clearly suppressing his anger.
You don't know where this anger came from. Isn't he very busy? He usually never calls you anyways; why would he be offended that your phone died? Afterall, you weren't even angry when he went to take care of MC, what right did he have to dictate how you spend your time?
“Oh, I didn't expect you to call,” you say calmly, stirring your drink.
"Didn't expect me to call?" Caleb glances at Rafayel sitting beside you, gritting his teeth. "I'm your husband. If I don't call you, who will?"
You shake your head, pulling yourself up using the armrest. "Who knows? I could have an ex-boyfriend," you say sarcastically.
His expression changes, and he frown deeply. "Y/N."
Rafayel simply smiles, and turns to address Caleb. "Colonel Xia," he greets him. "Have you ever watched your wife dance?
Caleb freezes. Despite being the High Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, trained in all kinds of interrogation and logic, he could not decipher the meaning behind those words.
Rafayel chuckles and bids the two of you goodbye, Caleb's gaze burning into the back of his silhouette.
"Y/N, I've underestimated you this whole time," Caleb says as you get into his car. "You're quite something." His voice carries a threat and suppressed anger.
Your mind flashes to the stench of perfume on his shirt, and scoff, "Not as good as you."
"Since when did you get in contact with him again? What does he do? I don't want to waste time finding that out myself." His hands rest on the steering wheel, his fingers long and slender. On his left ring finger is a new ring.
His wedding band has been off since the night of your wedding ceremony. What's he wearing now?
You smile faintly and hold out your hand.
On your ring finger is a jade ring, small enough for everyday wear.
You were the one to pick out your wedding rings. You wanted a small, non-flashy stone because you wanted to wear it everyday, forever. It was a custom pair; his was also jade.
The one on his hand is pure silver band.
Caleb watches your movements and subconsciously pulls his left hand back.
You place your hand on the dashboard. "Colonel, can you please explain when your ring changed color?"
T - 13 days
Caleb freezes for a fraction of a second, before muttering, "it's a formality, it's not that serious."
You nearly laugh out loud. Of course, what can be more serious than marriage?
Perhaps your observation ignited the tiniest shred of shame in him, for his tone softens considerably, his previous accusatory attitude gone. "I'm asking you this for your own good, Y/N. There won't be another man in this world who treats you like I do. Of course, I'm not perfect; I have my flaws. But I'm sincere, trusting, and unguarded with you. Your name is on all of my assets. It's hard to say what other people's intentions are."
You are immediately reminded of MC's words: She's in your house, but I'm in your heart.
You put on your earbuds, hoping to drown out whatever other demeaning things he has to say.
Seeing this, Caleb hesitates, then drives off.
He drops you off at home, saying, "I have more work to do at the office, don't wait up for me," before leaving again.
You stare at the door blankly. You forgot how you used to care so much about those things.
Slowly, you take the wedding ring off your finger. Since it obviously doesn't have any true sentimental value anymore, you might as well sell it for cash.
Actually, if you were going to sell it, might as well sell it as a pair!
You look high and low around the house, but can't find the other one.
Suddenly, you remember that Caleb keeps a safe at home, something you've never thought to open.
An idea strikes you.
You don't know the safe's combination.
You try Caleb's birthday, but it didn't budge. You don't even bother to try yours.
You think a little harder, hesitantly putting in the security code for the front door and garage.
It opens!
Inside are a stack of legal documents, property papers, and various other things that must be very important. You easily find the jewelry box with the same brand as your wedding ring, but there is another one in the very back, placed on top of a notebook.
You open the latter and see the another silver ring matching the one on Caleb's finger, along with a necklace with a small apple charm.
Your hand rests on top of the notebook, mind teetering between looking and not looking.
Ultimately, your self control wins, but as you move to put it back, a photograph slides out, falling to the floor.
It's a photo of Caleb and MC from their high school days.
Honestly, it doesn't mean much. You knew for a long time that Caleb had feelings for someone else before. But since you married him, at least when you married him, you told yourself you didn't care about his past.
You sigh, picking up the photo, and put it back in the notebook.
Fuck it, trying to protect your already shattered heart is pointless now. You open it to a random page, planning to just stuff the photo back in, but you freeze as your eyes land on the writing: 100 Little things about Pipsqueak.
The first thing listed is: Pips' birthday is May 1st.
Your hand slips, and the notebook falls to the ground.
The code to your house is 20501
The combination to this safe is 0501.
The air in the room seems to thin. You press your palm to your chest, gasping for breath.
The second line reads: "I finally bought myself a house. It's in the style that MC likes. The password is her birthday."
So, for the last five years, you've been living in the house meant for Caleb and MC...
T - 12 days
You bring the pair of rings to the antique watch shop, having scheduled a time with the owner. The owner is delighted, having previously bought the 10 necklaces you chose to part ways with as well. He ushers you to sit down in the private room behind the counter and pours you a cup of tea.
You excuse yourself to use the restroom, hearing the door open as more customers enter the store.
The voices are familiar.
Shit.
Looking behind you, you see MC's appear, with Caleb in tow.
You really manage to run into her everywhere, huh?
It's midday, right when Caleb usually has meetings. He sure has lots of free time now.
You go do your business, ducking behind the curtains as you return to avoid being noticed.
"Caleb, look! This store has so many of these necklaces! They're limited edition zodiac ones!" MC points to something in the display case. If you aren't mistaken, it's definitely one of the pieces you sold.
The old man takes it out. "You have a good eye, young lady. The necklaces were acquired recently. They only make a limited amount every year. These ones are no longer being sold."
Caleb looks closely and frowns. "Are they really that rare?"
"Yes, this limited collection began exactly 12 years ago, a zodiac edition with this year being the last edition. It's much more expensive than the regular model. I think I've got the only ten that exists in Linkon," the owner explains with a smile.
"No way..." MC exclaims, "can you prove their authenticity if they're really that valuable?"
"Of course! I've got the certificates as well as the invoices for each."
"These ten necklaces, did you receive them all at once?" Caleb, who has been mostly silent, suddenly asks.
"Yes," the owner nods with a smile, "from the same customer."
Caleb's eyes sharpen. "Show me the invoice."
The owner takes out the invoices and hands them to Caleb.
He stares at them harshly, suddenly letting out a cold laugh.
"Sir...?" The old man is taken aback, unsure what the issue was.
"It has nothing to do with you, just give me all of them." Caleb says gruffly.
Even MC sensed something was wrong and softly asks, "Gege?"
The owner notices you waiting for him. "You're back? Everything alright?"
Caleb and MC looks your way as well, seeing your figure in the back.
You're not sure if it's just your imagination, but Caleb's eyes almost seem to be filled with anger.
"Can you sit down for a moment? I'll show them the necklaces first, and then I'll look at your ring."
"What ring?" Caleb's voice is dangerously low, was full of suspicion upon hearing this.
His gaze falls to the pair of jade rings behind the display case.
"These two?" He taps the glass of the display case with his finger, his tone getting even more oppressive.
The owner clearly has no idea what is going on, why his customer was asking this, or how to answer. These were items provided by someone else; why is he asking about them?
You don't intend to put him in an awkward situation, so you answer Caleb directly. "Yes, these two."
Caleb's gaze is burning. "Mrs. Xia, you're really something."
It wasn't a compliment, but you reply calmly, "Thank you, you flatter me."
"Get over here!" he suddenly roars.
You sit down, picking up your cup of tea.
He walks over to you instead, looming in front of you.
Perhaps out of consideration for the outside world, he tries to suppress his anger, his voice full of sarcasm, "I never thought I'd experience firsthand what it means by 'it's hard to guard against a thief from within the family'. One day, I wouldn't even know if my entire house was robbed."
You ignore him.
"Are you short of money? Is the money I give you not enough?" he hisses.
"No, not at all," you say, "I've been decluttering lately, getting rid of anything useless."
"Useless?" He's furious, pointing to the rings in the display case, "You're saying wedding rings are useless?"
You look at him calmly, "Otherwise? If you say they're useful, have you ever worn it for a even day since the weeding ceremony?"
Caleb is speechless, indignant. "One day, you'll sell me off without me even knowing!" "
You laugh and turn to at MC. "Do you want this? I'm selling one Caleb Xia, secondhand! I'll even give you a discount, I promise the price is favorable."
MC is stunned.
Caleb however, clearly doesn't find this funny. He turns to MC and says, "Pipsqueak, you head back first."
She's unwilling, protesting, "but Gege!"
"We'll talk about the necklace later, you go back first!" His expression is serious. MC knew when not to push his buttons. He's in a bad mood, and she didn't dare to provoke him. Lips trembling, she says gently, "Alright Gege, I'll go back first. But don't be too angry. Y/N must have her reasons, please don't scold her."
You roll your eyes.
As soon as MC leaves, Caleb immediately presses you. "What exactly are you doing? Tell me!"
"I told you," you say calmly, "I'm decluttering things I don't want anymore."
You pause, then continue. "Including you, Colonel Xia."
"Are you serious?" His face is very unpleasant.
"Yes." You were never anything but serious about this.
"Y/N! I think you've been provoking me too much lately!" His eyes flash with anger.
You personally think that his temper has been a bit too volatile lately; the usually stable and gentle Colonel was gone, and MC was largely to blame.
He calls the owner over, harshly putting his black card on the table.
"I'll take all of them."
The owner wraps everything up, afraid of knowing too much about the uncomfortable relationship between the three of you.
Get in the car!" he demands, dragging you out by your wrist.
“It looks like I misjudged you,” he says once he starts driving. “I always thought you were a sensible and understanding, person, but now it seems you're getting too full of yourself. Look at Pips…”
“I don’t want to see her, ok? You can go spend your time with her if she's that great.”
You put on your headphones for real this time. You're in no mood to hear about how wonderful MC is to him.
He drops you off at the entrance of the neighborhood and tells you to get out. “I have a meeting later-”
You get out and slam the door shut. You don't give a fuck about what he's doing tonight.
T - 11 days
At 11pm, you hear Caleb enter the front door.
You shut down your laptop and turn to scroll lazily on your phone, overhearing him greet Mrs. Chen.
"I told you to cook it according to my wife's taste, why did you make it spicy?"
"Madam said...spicy." Aunt Chen's voice was tinged with panic.
"And she didn't eat a single bite?"
"Yes..."
"Get me a bowl of rice."
A few minutes later, Caleb enters the bedroom. His tie is loose, the top button of his shirt undone, the sleeves rolled up to his wrists.
"Aren't you going to come out and have dinner with me?" he asks, the anger from earlier seemingly gone.
For the last few years, he's always come home pretty late, rarely for dinner, but made sure to eat when he came home. You cherished those moments, bustling around him, serving up his food and keeping him company for the little time before going to sleep.
What good was your attentiveness in the end? Who knows, perhaps it only served to annoy him?
“What did you eat tonight? From now on, you don’t need to cook according to my taste. Tell Mrs. Chen to make what you like,” he says.
You roll your eyes. He really thinks you're still trying to gain his favor.
He pulls up a chair and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Y/N,”
What is it now?
He takes a deep breath. “MC really liked that ring. Since you sold it anyway, I gave it to her. I just transferred you some money. Take it and buy something you like.
Of course.
So that’s what it's about. No wonder he's suddenly being so friendly with you.
You have your back to him and simply say, "Oh," then add, "Okay."
T - 11 days until leaving Caleb Xia: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?
"So well-behaved today?" His voice softens. "I wanted to buy something for you, but you obviously don't like what I buy."
"Hmm."
"What's wrong? You're asleep already?" He frowns. "Are you feeling unwell? Let me see."
He leans over, wanting to see your face. "Don't tell me you're secretly crying?"
In his dreams!
You give no reaction.
After tucking you in tighter, he looks at your quiet form, hesitates, and finally says, “Y/N, I'm going on a mission tomorrow.”
A mission!
You immediately open our eyes. This means you can go in person to meet with a lawyer and get your interviews and forms stamped without him knowing!
You sit up, eyes shining brightly. “How many days are you going?”
“Three or four days, possibly up to a week.” He frowns, thinking your reaction is a bit over the top. What does this mean? You were letting him go?
“No, it’s okay. Who are you going with?” you follow up haphazardly, heart pounding with joy.
His expression grows increasingly hesitant. "Gideon." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe MC too."
"Oh." You lie back down. "Sounds good, tell me before you come back, I'll have Mrs. Chen prepare good food."
He looks at you incredulously. "You're not angry?"
You shake your head. "Go to sleep early, you have a business trip tomorrow, you need to get some rest."
"Y/N, trust me, a lot more of us will be going together..." He moves closer to you, but you push him away.
"Go take a shower, I've already showered, don't get too close to me."
He frowns. "What do you mean? You think I'm dirty?"
Well, he does reek of MC's perfume.
The next day, you're still groggy when Caleb gets up.
You had expected him to pack his things and go without leaving you with any words, but unexpectedly, he insists on waking you.
"Ugh, sleepy!" You smack his hand away.
"Mrs. Xia," he drawls, standing by the bed. "Your performance is falling. You don't feed me, give me mooncakes anymore, or ask me about my day, and now I'm leaving for a mission and you won't even help me pack my luggage?"
It's true. If this was before, you'd be fretting all over him, his luggage already prepared the night before.
You roll your eyes. Fine, you'll pack for him then!
You go into the walk-in closet, and start placing folded clothes and personal belongings neatly into his suitcase. Before you close the zipper, you head over to the bedside drawer, take out a box of condoms, and was about to throw it into the suitcase as well.
Your arm is grabbed roughly.
"Where did this come from?" Caleb demands, eyes darkening.
To be honest, you originally prepared it for your honeymoon though you never ended up using it. It's probably expired by now, but you thought it would be funny.
You smile. “I prepared this especially for you. Tell me, aren't I a wonderful Mrs. Xia?”
“You…” Caleb picks up the box and throws it forcefully into the trash can, “That'll be unnecessary! Even if I had a child, I could afford to raise it. Besides, I don’t plan on having one anytime soon!”
He zips up the suitcase, locks it, and leaves with a huff.
T - 10 days
You head to physical therapy again. While sitting in the waiting area for your appointment, your phone suddenly goes off. Your surprise turns into annoyance as you see the caller ID: Husband. Fortunately, there's not many people beside you. After picking up the call, you quietly say, "Hello".
"Why are you speaking so softly? What are you doing?" Caleb asks on the other end.
"I'm at the doctor's, it's not good to talk loudly." You quickly take out earbuds, further lowering your voice to a whisper. "Why am I getting so many calls these days?"
It's really annoying.
He seems even more offended on the other end, "Your own husband can't call you? Are you annoyed at me?"
More than annoyed!
You roll your eyes "No, not really, it's just quite unsettling. What's wrong?"
"Mrs. Xia!" He scoffs on the other end, "Can't I call you if there's nothing wrong?" "
You're speechless for a second.
This person is getting more and more irrational.
"What instructions does the Colonel have for me?" you roll your eyes, not believing him.
"You're kidding me!" His tone softens a bit, "I'm transferring flights, it's not boarding time yet, just wanted to see if you're up."
So he really is bored!
"Don't you have anything to say to me?"
You pop a grape into your mouth, mumbling an "oh".
"Y/N!"
??? Why does it sound like he's about to get angry?
"What are you eating that's more important than your husband's safety?"
You finally swallow the grape, "You... you've been attacked?"
A long sigh comes from the phone, "Never mind, you eat, just hearing your voice is enough, I'm about to board too." The call ended abruptly.
You look at your phone, listening to the dial tone, feeling utterly bewildered.
On the other end, MC glances at him several times. "Gege," she calls.
"Hmm? Let's go get ready to board."
"You seem to miss Y/N a lot. You've made so many calls since we left" she says tentatively.
Caleb doesn't notice her gaze, only frowning slightly. "Hmm, I don't know why, but I feel uneasy about this trip. I have a feeling something's going to happen."
"You...are you worried something might happen to Y/N? Then ask Liam or someone to go check on her."
Caleb sighs. "Y/N doesn't know Liam that well. I don't think she'd appreciate it anyway."
"Then what should we do?" MC asks worriedly. "Should I not have asked to come on this mission with you?"
Caleb glances down at her and smiles. "It's okay. I called her already. Hearing her voice is enough to put my mind at ease."
"Caleb, you actually...love Y/N very much, don't you?" MC asks with a smile, but a darker current ripples under her eyes.
He pauses. "Y/N can't live without me. She's my responsibility, so Pips..."
"I understand, Gege." MC smiles, interrupting his words gently and sweetly. "Don't forget, I'm the person who understands you best in the world."
T - 9 days
It's a peaceful few days without having to see Caleb. Instead of the anxiety that once filled you every time he went away, you feel calm. As you begin packing your things, you get an invitation from one of your old dance buddies. Mina is visiting home on her trip back from abroad, now a professional dancer on Broadway. You eagerly agree to meet with her, catching up over lunch as the two of you reminisce over the good old times. She's initially a little hesitant to show you photos of herself on stage, worried it'd make you sad, but you quickly reassure her that was not to worry about. Later, as she helps you down the steps of the restaurant, you ask what her plans are for the rest of the day.
"Oh! Umm, I'm actually getting dinner with a larger group of our old classmates..." She looks at you with a flicker of hope in her eyes. "If you don't mind... would you like to join us?"
"Of course!" You say with a smile. "I haven't seen everyone in so long. Do any of them know what happened with me?"
You're referring to your leg.
"That's where I need to apologize," Mina looks guilty. "I told them you injured your leg without asking your permission first... but nothing else!"
You understand. Your classmates, whom you haven't seen in a long time, would definitely ask how you were doing. Your leg injury was a fact, and you don't plan on hiding it forever.
"It's okay, really!" You're done feeling sorry for yourself. Your goal is to step out of the world Caleb had created for you, and in doing that, you will inevitably face all sorts of stares and judgement.
"Then I'll reply to them!" Mina says happily.
"Let's go! They said they're heading out soon". The meet-up location is nearby. By the time you and Mina get there, some of your classmates have already arrived. The enthusiasm they show you exceed your expectations. They mention your leg, even gathering around to examine it, but without malice, as if your leg wasn't anything serious, like a minor inconvenience like a cold. You liked this atmosphere; it's much better than deliberately trying to protect your pride. Everyone is treating you as a normal person, just with a leg injury.
It's a pleasant evening. The group sings old songs from high school on the karaoke. After three or four hours, you all get tired and sit down to chat, reminiscing about the past and having some drinks to liven things up. Even you, encouraged by everyone, drink quite a bit.
Among your classmates, some have had good times, others have experienced setbacks. Talking about the past, people begin talking about regrets.
Someone says, "If I had known this would happen, I would have studied harder in high school and not skipped so many classes."
Another adds, "If I had known he also liked me, I definitely wouldn't have been a coward on graduation day; I would have confessed to him. I've missed my chance all these years."
A good amount of sentimentality is triggered by the alcohol, and for a moment, everyone's eyes are filled with tears. From your teenage years to approaching thirty, everyone has had some regrets.
"Y/N, what about you? If you could do it all over again, what would you do?" someone asks you.
You hold a glass of wine in your hands, ruminating in thought.
The image of osmanthus blossoms from that Mid-Autumn Festival many years ago flashes before your eyes, twinkling like stars.
You smile faintly, "If I could do it all over again..."
Caleb pushes open the door to the private room.
"If I could do it all over again, I want to eat all the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival in our second year of high school by myself! I'm not sharing it with anyone!"
Was it the alcohol? The bitterness in your heart is amplified. You take a deep breath and look up, only to see someone standing in the doorway under the flickering lights.
Caleb.
Your classmates don't quite understand what you're referring to, and assume it is some old pastry shop that has closed, the mooncakes never to be tasted again. You can't see it, but Caleb's fists clench at his side, knuckles turning white.
"Hey, Caleb!"
Finally, someone notices him come in.
You're a little dizzy, seeing two Calebs approach you.
"Caleb Xia! You're so late, shouldn't you take three shots as punishment?" A classmate named Xavier places three glasses down in front of him. “Sorry, I'll have to decline.” Caleb puts his arm around you, looking down at your tipsy form. “I’m here to pick up my wife. I have to drive later.”
“Call a cab!”
Caleb gives a polite smile. “That won’t do. If I drink too much, who will take care of her?”
You are a little drunk, but still conscious enough to hear him and what's going on. Under the influence of alcohol though, your actions are more unrestrained. Your first instinct is to push Caleb aside, muttering, “I don’t need you to take care of me. Go away.”
“Y/N, you’re really drunk. Let’s go home.” Caleb tries to pick you up.
“No! I don’t want to go home…” You struggle in his arms.
“Do you hear that? Y/N isn’t going home!” Xavier pushes Caleb's shoulder, forcing him back down.
Mina senses something is off. Xavier had quite a bit to drink today and was probably drunk by now. Worried about the boys starting trouble, she quickly tries to break it up. "Alright, it's getting late. We've had our fun, let's start packing up."
"No way!" Xavier doesn't back down, gripping Caleb's shoulder tightly. "You're not leaving until you finish this drink!"
Caleb, as the Farspace Fleet Colonel, is incredibly perceptive. His expression darkens. "Xavier Shen, I'll let it slide since you've had too much to drink, but you'd better watch yourself!"
"Watch myself?" The rage in Xavier's eyes are now impossible to conceal. "Caleb Xia, I'm telling you, watch yourself!"
Xavier moves to grab his collar, but not before having his wrists clamped forcefully by Caleb. "Xavier Shen! Did you come here to cause trouble?"
"Yes!" He shouts, "I came here to cause trouble! Caleb, what the hell did you do to Y/N? What exactly did you do to her!?" He roars, his eyes bloodshot.
Caleb's eyes sharpen, his hand still gripping his wrists, veins bulging on the back. "Listen here, Shen. My wife eats well, sleeps well, lives in a mansion, and I pamper her like a princess. Who are you to concern yourself with our marital affairs?"
"Is that so?" An incredulous laugh follows. Xavier didn't believe Caleb at all, both men rising from the sofa. "Then tell me, how did Y/N become like this? What happened to her leg? She's a dancer! When she dances on stage, she's as graceful as a swan. What did you do to her? Take good care of her? Why then did she become like this after getting married? Five years, and you've been covering it up, saying she doesn't want to come out and socialize! You're lying! Do you beat her at home!?"
"My wife and I are doing just fine! Why her foot is like this is her privacy, there's no need for me to explain it to you, Xavier! Don't forget your place in front of me, and don't you dare try to play any tricks on my wife!" Caleb yanks harshly, pushing the other man away so hard the buttons on his collar pop off.
Already quite drunk, Xavier loses his balance, staggers a couple of steps, and falls onto the coffee table, knocking over a bunch of bottles and plates.
"Caleb, I've wanted to beat you up for ages!" He scrambles up and lunges at him.
Fearing trouble, rest of your classmates rush forward to restrain him. "Caleb! Take Y/N and leave! He's drunk, and you haven't been drinking - calm down Xavier! Don't cause any more trouble!"
Caleb tugs at his collar, giving Xavier one last cold look, then puts his arm around your waist and lifts you up. "Let's go, my wife. Don't come to parties like this again."
You're practically dragged and carried away by Caleb.
"Why didn't you let Y/N attend the class reunion!" Xavier shouts from behind you. "Caleb Xia, what skeletons do you have hiding in your closet?!"
Caleb stops. "I don't feel guilty about anything. You better not be the one with things to hide!"
"Me? Guilty?" he laughs. "Alright then, Caleb, I have a question for you! Were you the one who threw away all the love letters I put in Y/N's locker back then?"
Love letters?
How did you not know that Xavier Shen had written you love letters?
You glance back, only to be swept up in Caleb's arms and quickly carried out of the private room.
Everyone else is left exchanging bewildered glances: Xavier liked you back in high school?
Xavier struggles against the boys, shouting, "Let me go! I'm going to beat Caleb Xia to death! That fucking hypocrite!"
"Xavier, you're drunk, stop it." They don't let go, afraid he'd really chase after you.
“Call him back here!" Xavier demands. “I’m going to call him here! I’m going to teach him a lesson!”
“Xavier! Get your head screwed on straight!”
“Don’t stop me! Do you know how much Y/N loved to dance? She was in the practice room before class, after school, and weekends too! Sometimes she’ll even do a somersault while walking! She’s such a passionate dancer, a perfectly healthy person, and now her leg is injured - there's no way she's not heartbroken about it! That bastard Caleb Xia keeps lying to us, saying Y/N doesn't like going out. He's done something to her, I bet my fucking life on it!”
Caleb's already brought you to his car, carefully placing you in the passenger seat.
The minute he gets into the driver's seat, he catches you trying to open to the door, and he immediately locks it.
"Open the door! I want out!" You feel your head spinning, the alcohol really settling in."
"You're drunk, Y/N." He says, sighing.
"I'm not drunk!" You insist. You clearly heard many voices back there, and you heard Caleb call you his "wife." Something is wrong! He's never called you "wife" before, only ever by name, or at most "Mrs. Xia" when he's angry at you, and you can sense that he uses the term sarcastically. Moreover, you can tell he's in an unhappy mood right now!
He rolls down the window, letting you get some fresh air.
"What did you mean by what you said in the private room?" Caleb's voice sounds particularly cold in the cool breeze.
"What...what did I mean?" What was he talking about? You said a lot of stuff today.
"You said you wouldn't give your mooncakes to anyone else, what did you mean?" He rests his hands on the steering wheel, looking ahead, his eyes sharp.
"Um...not...not for Caleb Xia." Your head feels heavy, and you close your eyes tightly.
"Why?"
You smile, sad laugh escaping your lips. "Because I don't want to pursue him anymore...I gave my mooncakes to the wrong person..."
"Is that so? The wrong person?" Caleb leans closer, "Who are you going to give them to then?"
"Give them to..." Your mind is a little confused. Who else would you give them to?
"To Xavier?" He suddenly speaks as if interrogating you, his tone fierce.
The name reminds you that you had supposedly gotten multiple love letters. You frown, eyes getting hazy, looking at the face before you, murmuring, "Why did you throw away my love letters? They were from someone else."
"I'm the class monitor!" Caleb says sternly. "The school doesn't encourage early relationships!"
You furrow your brows... that reasoning...
You punch his shoulder hard. "What's it to you? You're just the class monitor, not even my homeroom teacher! The love letters he gave me are my privacy, what does it have to do with you! Why did you throw them away, you bully!"
Your eyes are blurry. Although your punches don't hurt much, each one lands with force, solidly striking his shoulders and chest.
"Are you angry?" He grasps your hand. "You're angry because I threw away your love letters?"
"Of course I'm angry! If someone wrote me a love letter..." You vaguely recall how you felt back in high school. The mess of hormones in early puberty, the insecurities you had, the self-consciousness about every little thing about you. Mina and the girls around you all received gifts and notes from boys, but you never did.
You weren't very close with your parents, having grown up by your grandparents' side. But it seemed to you that no one, not even your parents, loved you, let alone any boys. You weren't sad about not receiving any confessions, but if you did, it at least would have been an important form of affirmation; at least you were good in someone's eyes.
“What if you did? Would you date him?” Caleb presses on relentlessly.
Your frown deepens. When did you ever say you wanted to date someone?
“Let me tell you, those boys were all immature squirts back then! Whether it's Xavier or whoever else you wanted to give your mooncakes to! You're easily moved by anyone who shows you kindness! You'd only ended up getting taken advantage of!”
Your face contorts into a grimace. You're barely holding onto your consciousness and Caleb's stupid face seems to multiply into four in your vision. You shake your head, trying to shake the other three Calebs away. “No... Xavier isn’t that kind of person you’re describing.” The Xavier you recall is a sleepy boy, getting in trouble for napping in class, often found under the shade of trees with a stray cat in his lap.
“Then what kind of person is he?” Caleb suddenly raises his voice. “And the other person you had in mind, who is he?”
“He’s… genuine... and very kind. If he’s good to someone… he’ll always be good to them…” A flash of white hair enters your mind. You try to remember a face, thinking really hard, but only seeing the creases of someone's summer uniform. You didn't interact with him much in high school, but you knew he secretly kept a crow as a pet on his dorm window ledge—a pitiful little thing he picked up one day and never let go. "He's... a good person..." you mumble. ".... Q...qin..."
You black out.
T - 8 days
You wake up to a splitting headache, nauseous and parched. The midday sun is high in the sky. Stumbling down from the bed, you trip and fall with a loud 'thud'. You rub your eyes, trying to clear the fog still in your brain, but before you find your balance again, you're being lifted and put back into soft sheets.
Caleb stands at the bedside, looking displeased, but to your surprise, doesn't scold you about your clumsiness as he usually does.
You purse your lips, also not particularly eager to talk about what happened last night.
He brings you a try of light breakfast foods; some chicken soup congee, pancakes, and a few side dishes. "Eat. Mrs. Chen is off today. I cooked."
You stare at the food in front of you, head still in a daze.
The colonel... cooked for you?
This is the second time you've ever eaten something Caleb has made for you. The first since you got married.
Slowly picking up your spoon, your mind flashes back to the last time you experienced this.
You were only in your first year of high school, your homeroom had organized a camping trip.
Outside, all your classmates run around joyfully, like lambs in a field. Yet Caleb was already a quiet and reliable person, getting ready for lunch.
He was always clean and tidy, presentable and strong. That day on the camping trip was the most disheveled you had ever seen him.
He knew how to cook, but that didn't mean he was able to do it easily outdoors.
He couldn't figure out how to start the fire. He struggled earnestly, face and hands stained with soot.
You were different. When you were young, your grandparents brought you back to the village often. You built fires, scaled trees, and caught insects with all the other children over there. Despite being in a different group, you felt bad watching him struggle like that, so you go over, emptied his stove, and started a fire for him.
He stared at the blazing flames, momentarily stunned. Perhaps too self-conscious of his disheveled appearance, he didn't even thank you.
But afterwards, his performance became much more consistent. Judging from the way he cooked, it was clear he was used to doing domestic chores at home.
His group thanked him by saving the chicken leg for him. But he didn't eat it. As he passed your group, he places the drumstick in your bowl.
That was the moment your heart started pounding for him, despite being the first of only a handful of times you ever interacted with him.
That night, your dreams were filled with his image; his determined face, covered with soot, his slender fingers as he cut the vegetables, his meticulous and focused expression as he cooked…
The next day in class, you watch his profile as you absent-mindedly filled a whole page with his name, “Caleb Xia”…
Later, that piece of paper disappeared, but those words were etched firmly in your heart, impossible to erase.
The next time you ask him a question was after parent-teacher conferences. The teacher took note of students whose parents did not show up. You were one of them. Coincidentally, he was too.
Classmates whisper about what happened. A few of the students failed to inform their parents about the meetings, afraid of punishment for their poor grades.
But Caleb wasn't like that.
He was at the top of the class.
"Caleb Xia! You got first place in the entire grade, why aren't your parents here? If I got your score, my parents, grandparents, and even my dog would come!" someone yells.
Other students chimed in, "Yeah, Caleb, you got good grades, why aren't your parents here?"
He replies simply. "Don't ask, they're dead."
Later, you witness something you probably shouldn't have seen.
Caleb stands in an inconspicuous corner by the school's back gate. A dark car pulls up in front of him, the window rolled down, and he throws a wad of cash at the driver, hitting him in the face.
The person in the car points a finger at him, cursing, “You scoundrel! You think just because your parents offed themselves that you're safe with little old grandma?"
You're stunned. Unaware of his family's situation.
Caleb is stubborn, refusing to reply before he turns and walks away.
The driver calls after him shouting, "You'll join us one day, Caleb! Let's see how you survive!"
The sunset was blinding, bathing him in a golden light. He laughs defiantly, "Don't worry! I'd rather be bought out by a rich old lady than go with you!"
What kind of talk was that! Coming from a high schooler!
You don't know where you got the courage that day, but you walk up to him, eyes wide, voice panicked, "Caleb, whatever you do, don't sell yourself out like that!"
You don't know if you were imagining things, but you saw something that looked like glistening tears in his eyes in the setting sun.
They flash for a moment before he turns away, coldly smiling, "So, you're going to sponsor me?"
You fall silent.
That was Caleb's most irrational moment. Even now, more than a decade later, you never saw him as vulnerable again.
The next day, you take a math problem to him and ask how to solve it.
He raises a single eyebrow, not saying a word.
You thought he had refused, your head hanging low.
Finally, he tore off a piece of scratch paper and began to explain while drawing on it. He talked for the entire break before finally asking, "Do you understand now?"
You nod frantically. Then throw down five dollars and run back to your seat, completely unaware of Caleb's expression behind you.
You didn't have an allowance either, saving up those five dollars from running small errands here and there for other classmates and neighbors.
After school, Caleb blocked you on your way to the dorms. He stood under a sycamore tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting dappled shadows over him.
You don't dare to lift your head, trying to walk past him.
He stands in front of you. "Why aren't you looking at me?"
The heat was unbearable, making your face flush. You're too embarrassed to say anything.
He scoffs, "you were quite bold earlier when you wanted to buy me out."
You lower your head even further. "I...I didn't mean..."
A five-dollar note is thrust in front of you. "Isn't this it? You think you can keep me for five dollars?
Before you can even clarify that you just wanted him to tutor you, he interrupts you, shoving the money back into your hands, swiftly leaving you behind with a single sentence: "I don't need your pity."
Your heart ached.
Later, he skipped three days of class. When you saw him outside school with a black armband pinned to his sleeve, when he returned to class and said, "Y/N, my grandmother passed away," your heart ached like that again; the pain crashing down like a tidal wave.
That Mid-Autumn Festival, everyone went home for a reunion dinner with their families and ate mooncakes, including you.
You went to your grandparents' house.
But he no longer had a grandmother to go back to.
After dinner, on your way back to school, the osmanthus trees near the dormitory were in full bloom, their fragrance rich and intoxicating.
By sheer coincidence, you see him standing there, alone.
You hand him a mooncake, filled with fresh meat, made by your grandmother.
That night, you sat together under the osmanthus tree, eating mooncakes.
Neither of you said a word. After finishing the mooncake, he went to the classroom, and you went back to your dorm.
The warm feeling from that night haunted you, driving you to accept his proposal 5 years later, despite not knowing each other well at all.
You once saw a comment online that said "Feeling sorry for a man will make you unhappy for life."
You didn't know what that meant back then.
Now, you understand.
T - 7 days
Only a week left.
It's routine now, heading to your physical therapy appointment. With your departure so close, you try a more rigorous session. Carrying weight, light hops, landing on your bad foot.
Due to the strain, your entire body aches from head to toe. You're sweating almost immediately. Within five minutes, you are completely drenched.
“If you can’t keep going, just say so. Don’t force yourself,” the therapist comments.
Sweating heavily, you nod. “I know. I’m fine. I can manage…”
Before you finish speaking, you collapse to the ground with a thud.
“Are you alright?” they rush forward to help you up, but someone pushes past them.
You are suddenly lifted into someone’s arms. When you look up, you meet Caleb’s anxious eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You try to struggle, but your muscles give you. Held in his arms, you see a dark storm swirling in Caleb’s eyes.
“What exactly is she doing?” Caleb asks the therapist this time.
“Sir, she’s in physical therapy. Rehab.”
Caleb scoffs. “Rehabilitation? What kind of rehab is this? Looks like it's doing more harm than good.”
“Caleb!” you grit out. “You stay out of this!”
He's already carrying you out.
“Caleb!”
“Sir, Ms. Y/N's recovery—” You and the nurse speak at the same time, but Caleb abruptly cuts you both off as he walks away.
“She’s not doing it anymore.”
“Caleb, you have no right to decide my affairs!” Anger burns in your chest. When you needed him most, he was never there. And now he suddenly appears just to interfere with your plans?
You're already out in the hall, in full view of nurses, patients, and waiting family members. He carries you straight through the clinic.
“Caleb!” You hate your own helplessness right now, but very time you try to move, your muscles scream in pain. You can't simply jump out of his arms.
Zayne Li, a previous upperclassman and now doctor, happens to walk out of his consultation room and notices the commotion. He approaches the two of you with concern.
“What’s wrong? Y/N, is the rehabilitation not going well?”
"Dr. Li, can you explain why my wife is in so much pain? Are you sure your rehabilitation training facilities here are sound?" You're shocked by how Caleb treats an old acquaintance, glaring at the doctor. His tone carries not only doubt, but a hint of accusation.
Zayne explains patiently. “This rehabilitation program Y/N chose is indeed intense and very challenging. But if she perseveres, I can promise it will be effective. The pain is like bones being rebuilt. As her husband—”
“As her husband, I refuse to let her undergo such a cruel course!” Caleb interrupts sharply.
His face is ashen as he carries you away.
You are furious. Turning toward Zayne, you say quickly, “Dr. Li, I’m sorry, I—”
“Shut it!" Caleb snaps.
He carries you straight to the parking lot and shoves you into the car.
The nurse runs after you, handing you your bag.
“Ms. Y/N, you…”
“I’ll come again tomorrow,” you say with a faint smile. The pain today was almost unbearable, but you have no intention of giving up.
Once you set your mind on something, the word "quit" isn't in your dictionary.
Just like years ago, when you discovered your love for dance, you pursued it without hesitation.
Like when you fell in love at sixteen, you pursued it wholeheartedly, even if it meant running repeatedly into a wall and coming away bruised.
And like now, determined to get back up on your feet—you will never look back.
Caleb closes the car door, and gets into the drivers seat.
“You won't be coming back here tomorrow.”
“Caleb!” You're livid. “What right do you have to interfere with my freedom?”
“Because,” he says slowly, word by word, “I’m your husband.”
You think about everything that's happened and could only laugh at his statement.
“My husband? A man who dedicates his whole life to another woman is my husband? Caleb, don’t be ridiculous.”
So funny that you almost don’t even feel sad anymore.
Caleb turns the rearview mirror toward you.
“Look at yourself. Look at what you look like now.”
You glance at your reflection.
Your hair is soaked with sweat. Your face is damp, and your clothes cling to your body after the brutal training. You look disheveled—truly disheveled. Even now your lips tremble slightly, and your hands still shake.
But you don’t think anything is wrong.
This is proof of your effort.
“What’s wrong with me?” You touch the healthy flush on your cheeks, satisfied.
“Y/N, you don’t need to…” Caleb sighs. “I know you’re being stubborn. MC is back. She’s more beautiful than you, healthier than you, more capable than you. You’re upset, so you push yourself like this, wanting to prove yourself to her.”
You stare at him. Is he out of his goddamn mind?
“Y/N, you don’t have to suffer like this. Seeing you so exhausted makes my heart ache.” His gaze softens. “You don’t need to compare yourself with anyone. No matter what state you're in, you’re still Mrs. Xia. That will never change.”
“Anxious? Me, competing with your MC?” You interrupt incredulously, unable to hold it in it any longer. “Caleb, how dare you!”
“First, I have never compared my beauty, health, or ability with your dear Pipsqueak. Second, my life is full of wonderful things, none of which involve you or her. And finally, I've told you a hundred times: whether or not I’m Mrs. Xia, I don't give a shit!"
What on earth makes him think your entire life revolves around MC?
But Caleb refuses to believe you. His expression shifts from gentle to mocking. “Y/N, if you weren’t jealous, would you be so determined to make me jealous? You’re wrong. It will only push me further away.”
You roll your eyes. Talking to someone like this is exhausting.
“And you say you don’t care?” Caleb sneers. “The more someone lacks something, the more they pretend not to want it. Y/N, don’t think I don’t know. You had a crush on me in high school. You asked me to help you with homework just to get my attention. You gave me mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival because you wanted to pursue me. After university, you even risked your life to save me. And now you say you don’t care? Who would believe that?”
You freeze.
You thought that after everything you’ve been through, nothing could hurt you anymore. But you underestimated how deeply this relationship could still wound you.
He knows everything.
Yes, you once liked him, but that was a secret you kept to yourself.
You asked him to tutor you because you wanted a way to pay him without hurting his pride.
You gave him mooncakes during Mid-Autumn Festival simply because you wanted him to feel a little warmth on that lonely holiday.
And later, when you saved him…
Even though it left you with a limp, you never expected repayment—let alone marriage.
You had already accepted defeat in this marriage. You built a hard shell around yourself, telling yourself not to feel pain anymore. Yet somehow, every act of kindness you once showed him has become an arrow he now shoots back at you, piercing straight through your armor.
You suddenly feel too tired to explain anything. When the day finally comes that you leave him completely, he will understand whether you ever cared about the title of Mrs. Xia.
Seeing you fall silent, Caleb reaches out and wraps an arm around your shoulders again. You hold your breath.
You remember a Mid-Autumn night long ago. The two of you sat under an osmanthus tree eating mooncakes. He smelled faintly of sweet osmanthus. That fragrance drifted through your youth for years, warming you.
But now, when Caleb comes close, all you smell is suffocating perfume.
Disgusted, you turn away and slap his hand aside.
“Don't touch me. I told you—it disgusts me.”
Anger flashes through Caleb’s eyes.
Yet he doesn’t shout. Instead, his voice softens.
“Y/N, I know you love me. The vow I made will never change. You will always be my Mrs. Xia."
These words have never sounded so grating against your ears.
T - 6 days
Today is the day you are scheduled to pick up your visa. You pack your purse carefully, pausing when the little rectangular piece of plastic that has always lived in your shared bedroom drawer is gone. Where did your ID go? You look everywhere in the room. Still nothing. Your pulse rising, you think back to the last few days. You haven't touched it at all. Caleb! He was rummaging through here this morning.
You immediately pick up your cell phone to call him. Shockingly, he answers on the first ring.
"Caleb, do you have my ID?" You ask, slightly breathless.
"Good morning to you to," he says sarcastically.
"Caleb! Is it with you!" You press on.
"Yes." His reply is short and straight to the point.
"Why did you take it?" You're exasperated, concerned you'll have to reschedule for later.
"Why do you need it?" He shocks you by turning your question against you.
"None of your business! I need it today."
A slight pause from him on the other end. "Come get it then."
"Get it... from your workplace?" You say incredulously.
"If you want it, come get it." He hangs up.
You stare at your phone dumbfoundedly. Then immediately call a cab to the Farspace Fleet HQ.
You've never really came to his workplace in the five years you spent together. The only other time you recall entering the building wasn't the most unpleasant experience for you either.
You text him as you enter, informing him of your arrival.
He doesn't reply this time.
You call, but it doesn't go through.
You frown. Was he in a meeting?
You don't have all day, so you are forced to go to the front counter and reveal your identity.
"The Colonel's wife?" The receptionist looks at you and laughs. "Young lady, everyone who comes here claims to be the Colonel's wife. If you're going to think of an excuse, find one that's less cliché."
"I'm serious. Call the Colonel, and tell him Y/N is here. He'll know to come down." You're not in the mood to play games.
"That's what they all say. If we did that, you'd think the Colonel wouldn't have time for anything other than dealing with people like you all day." The receptionist rolled her eyes and muttered.
"People like me?" You frown. "And pray, what am I?"
"Shameless women who want to climb the social ladder without working for it!" the receptionist laughs. "At least other women come here with presentable features, but now we're getting cripples? You should at least know your place!"
Is it really true that birds of a feather flock together? You can't wrap your head around her thinking. Why is it that no stranger outside of Caleb's circle harbor any ill will towards you and your leg, while everyone around Caleb is like this?
You're thinking of going home and getting your marriage certificate to prove your place; you certainly aren't going anywhere by talking to the workers down here.
Just then, the elevator door opens, and Liam walks out. Seeing the Adjutant, the receptionist immediately turns respectful.
"Adjutant Lin!" She greets him properly.
"Madam Y/N, I am the Colonel's Adjutant. Please come with me." He leads the way, letting you into the elevator. The two of you head straight to the top floor.
"The Colonel is in a meeting right now," he explains, leading you to a small office. "Please wait in here for now."
You thank him and put your bag down.
A few minutes later, a knock is heard, and a lady emerges from the door.
"Ms. Y/N, I am the Colonel's secretary. Would you like something to drink?"
"Anything is fine, or just water," you reply.
She returns with a glass of juice. "Is passionfruit drink ok?"
"That's wonderful, thank you." You take the glass.
"Just sit tight, I'll come get you once the meeting ends." She smiles, and closes the door behind her.
Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty, and thirty.
You watch the time tick by, growing impatient. Finally, you get up to open the conference room door, only to find it locked from the outside.
Damn it!
You still need to pick up your visa this afternoon.
You frantically call Caleb's phone, but strangely, no one picks up despite the call going through. You're smart enough to know that this is most certainly a setup, but you don't have the time nor heart to figure out who orchestrated this entire thing or what their purpose was. You just wanted to get your visa.
You pound on the door, frantically, yelling, but no one answers.
You sit down and pick up the passion fruit lemonade, drinking it down in one gulp. Hands trembling, you quickly type out an email rescheduling your visa appointment.
Suddenly, your face begins to itch.
This isn't passion fruit lemonade at all…
You check the time: another ten minutes had passed. Neither Liam nor the secretary had returned, and nobody else knew you were here…
You feel your throat closing, as your breathing gets heavier.
You drag yourself, limping to the door, continuing to pound on it as you are no longer able to make any noise. You catch sight of a red box.
Throughout the office, everyone is methodically going about their work when suddenly, the building's fire alarms start blaring loudly.
"What's going on?" People run out of their cubicles and offices to see what's going on.
"Someone pulled the fire alarm on the top floor! Everyone evacuate!"
Caleb also hears the noise, and comes out immediately.
"What's going on? How can there be a fire up here?" His eyelids have been twitching all day. He had a strange, ominous premonition.
Thunk... thunk... thunk...
It sounds like someone is weakly banging on the door.
"Who's in there?" Caleb asks urgently, kicking the door.
MC appears from behind him, clinging to his shoulder. "Gege! Don't go in there! It could be dangerous!"
"Someone's in here!" Caleb shouts.
"Caleb... Help... help me... Caleb..."
A weak cry, barely audible over the commotion in the hall.
Caleb's eyes widen in shock. "Y/N! Y/N! Is that you in there? Y/N answer me!"
He forcefully shakes off MC's hand, barging against the door with his shoulder. "Someone! Help! Open the door!"
With a loud bang, he breaks the door down.
You're on the floor, fallen to the side. Body red, face nearly turning purple.
"Y/N!" he cries, quickly picking you up. "Call an ambulance!" His roar echoes throughout the entire floor.
His voice startles you, as you weakly open your eyes, looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar face in front of you. You want to raise your hand to check if it is real, but your arm refuses to move.
You try to speak, but no sound comes out. You manage a weak smile and barely manage to mouth the words: "if... I'm dead... won't... owe me anything... you'll... free.."
"Stop it! You won't die!" Caleb runs down dozens of flights of stairs.
You close your eyes. You don't mind saying goodbye to all of this.
"Y/N, don't sleep on me, ok? Wake up! Wake up, you hear me?" The last thing you her is Caleb's frantic voice.
T - 5 days
You wake up in the hospital after getting an acute dose of epinephrine. Zayne gives you a thorough examination, and finds no other acute problems. After determining you're stable enough to step down to the observation area, he scolds you seriously. "Walking around without an epipen with a serious allergy? You could've died from anaphylaxis! How could you be so careless?"
Caleb is still somewhat shaken by it all. "An allergic reaction? Y/N, what did you eat that caused this?"
You sit there silently.
"Let's observe her a little longer. There are still a few results pending. We'll see what happens when the results come back," Zayne says before leaving.
Caleb sighs and sits down beside you, continuing to carefully dab at your neck and shoulders with the cotton swab.
It stings a little. You frown and turn away.
"Don't move, Y/N. I'm trying to clean it. Don't want any infections from your blisters."
The words sound familiar. In the early days after your injury, he had said similar things. But it was that gentleness, this feigned gentleness, that gave you false hope and expectation in him.
He's acting so kind again - what's he trying to do?
You no longer trust anything he says.
“I remember you’re allergic to apples. Did you eat apples before coming to the HQ today? But Mrs. Chen knows not to buy them... Did you eat something new on your way here?”
His tone is like coaxing a child…
You purse your lips, giving him a cold laugh. “I didn’t eat anything. I’m calling the police.” your tone is firm.
“Call the police?” Caleb frowns.
There's a rustling sound outside the room. You turn around to see that MC had arrived.
T - 4 days
MC stands outside holding a bouquet of flowers, looking cautious and timid. "Caleb, how is Y/N? I wanted to come see her, but I was worried she wouldn't want to see me."
"Y/N's fine, she just needs some rest," Caleb says, knowing you indeed dislike her. "I appreciate your sentiment, but she's in a bad mood right now, you should go back."
"Hmm..." MC purses her lips, eyes rimmed with tears. "Caleb, I'm sorry, it's all my fault. As your personal assistant, I was careless, causing Y/N to suffer like this. I'm so glad she's alright, otherwise... otherwise, I don't know what I would do..." She starts crying.
You, still in the room, hear everything. MC joined the Farspace Fleet as Caleb's personal assistant? So that's why she went on the mission with him. However, since she's his assistant, everything that happened today makes sense now.
You grab your bag, turning on your phone.
"What are you doing?" Caleb comes back seeing you enter your password.
"I told you, I'm calling the police." You successfully unlock it.
MC rushes into the room, Gideon behind her now. "Y/N, tread carefully. This is the Farspace Fleet HQ we're talking about. Are you sure the authorities will respond to this? What happened in the meeting room was an accident, I swear."
"Oh? And how would you know it was an accident?" you scoff. "Were you the one who locked the door?"
MC's face immediately turns pale. "How could you say that about me! It was Secretary Lu who led you to the conference room, she was the one who brought you the apple juice. She said the door was locked from the inside!"
"Apple juice?" You look into MC's flustered eyes. You have a pretty good idea of what's going on now. "I never said I drank apple juice, how did you know it was apple juice?"
MC avoids your eyes. "No, I... As Caleb's personal assistant, I checked everything before coming here! Secretary Lu explained everything that happened from picking you up to asking you to wait in the conference room."
"Is that so?" You turn to look at Caleb. "There aren't many people in this world who knows I'm allergic to apple juice. Not even my parents."
Only your grandparents. And Caleb.
Caleb's face stiffens.
You remain unusually calm. "Caleb Xia, your secretary kept telling me she gave me passion fruit juice. How did it turn into apple juice? Did Secretary Lu deliberately tamper with it, or did someone switch the drink around? And Caleb, who have you told about my apple juice allergy?"
MC's face is deathly pale.
You don't wait for her to reply. "And the doors? There's security cameras all over the Farspace HQ. A quick check will bring everything to light. Of course, if the cameras were tampered with... that's a whole different issue. So I'm going to have to call the police about it".
Caleb's face drops, his expression changing drastically. "Pips... did you really...?"
She runs forward to grab his arm. "No Gege! I swear! It wasn't me, it must've just been a joke!"
"A joke?" you sneer. "Your group seems to love joking around the most. I've lived for over twenty five years and never knew that you guys had jokes that could kill people!"
"No, no, no.." MC shakes her head violently, "Gege, listen to me! It wasn't me, I promise-"
"She's lying" you say flatly, dialing the tone.
Gideon, unable to contain himself any longer, smacks the phone out of your hands. "Who's lying! You're the one lying, for your own selfish reasons, slandering an innocent person!"
His line of thinking is really quite creative, giving everyone else a new inspiration to ride off of.
"Y/N," MC cries, looking at you with disbelief, "I can't believe you hate me this much, that you'd put your own life in danger to frame me! If you hate me that much, just kick me out! Don't torment Caleb like this! Do you care for him at all? Do you know how terrified he was? I never thought it'd all be staged!"
Gideon scoffs, "isn't acting pitiful her specialty? Wasn't her saving Caleb five years ago the same thing? She wanted to force him into marrying her!"
You knew all too well how cruel Gideon could be, and how little he thought of you. Yet you never expected him to say something so shameless: that you saving Caleb five years ago was self-sabotage to trick him into marriage!
Sometimes, when anger reaches its peak, it paradoxically turns into calm.
You look at Caleb, despite knowing time and time again that he won't side with you.
But in this moment, you just want to ask him one question: if he thought the same as Gideon.
Then it wouldn't just be a matter of you being foolish. You would've been better off saving a dog five years ago.
"Caleb," you stand, not a ripple of emotion behind your eyes. "Come here."
Caleb, sandwiched between Gideon and MC, looks at you.
"Caleb, don't go!" Gideon and MC say it almost simultaneously.
His gaze meets yours. After a brief silence, Caleb stands up and walks to you.
You look at the man you had risked your life for, the man you "traded" your leg for.
You calmly ask, "Do you think so too?"
He doesn't speak.
"You also..." you stare into deep amethyst eyes, the echo of the conversation you had with him after he interrupted your physical therapy still ringing in your ears. "You also think that today's events were done on purpose? You also think that I saved you five years ago expecting you to marry me?"
Something in Caleb's eyes narrow, and he looks away.
"Say it, Caleb! Look at me!"
A minute of silence passes.
"Yes."
You gasp, as if that would force you to swallow the pain, but your vision still blurs uncontrollably.
The quiet but resolute "yes" feels like a boulder crashing into your chest, the lingering pain still reverberating over and over after the initial damage.
How could someone who has been hurt to this extent still be sad?
smack!
Your handprint remains on Caleb's face where you slapped him; your fingernails leaving a thin trace of blood, particularly striking on his handsome features.
"Get out."
"Y/N-"
"Get the FUCK out or I will."
You don't even wait for him to make a decision - you stumble out of the room without looking back.
T - 3 days
You collapse onto the bed when you get home, your body still throbbing with pain. Mrs. Chen calls you for dinner, but you're too exhausted to move.
"Bring it in," say. Except for the initial period after your accident when you were bed-bound, you never got into the habit of eating in bed.
You cherished your home with Caleb so much that you couldn't bear to see anything dirty or out of place. Looking back, you laugh at your stupid thinking. What good is a house if you don't use it?
After you finish eating, Mrs. Chen takes the plate away and asks if you want to take a bath.
You nod. "Please run me some water, and then change the bedding to clean ones."
"Okay." She leaves to start running the water.
You try to get out of bed and make your way to the bath yourself, but after only a few steps, your legs feel weak. Your body's overexertion and emotional outburst from earlier don't make your condition any better.
Mrs. Chen comes back out and is worried to see your trembling, unstable figure. "Madam, shall I help you?"
You take a deep breath and nod.
She helps you to the bathroom and didn't let go until you're comfortably seated in the bathtub.
"Thank you," you say.
You lean back, the warm water soothing every inch of your skin, easing the soreness and making you feel much more comfortable.
After a while, the water cools, and you call for Mrs. Chen again. You still don't want to open your eyes.
Footsteps approach and stop at the edge of the bathtub, but you hear no movement afterwards.
You frown. "Mrs. Chen..." You open your eyes to see Caleb.
"Why are you here?" You're startled, instinctively covering any part of your body above the water. "Get out!"
You call loudly for Mrs. Chen.
"Mrs. Chen won't come in." He looks down at you, his gaze deep.
"Mrs. Chen!" you continue to call, unwilling to give up.
"You think Mrs. Chen is going to listen to you, or the person who pays her salary? He leans down, his face suddenly very close to yours, so close that you can clearly see his bloodshot eyes and your own reflection in his pupils.
"What exactly do you want?" You grip the edge of the bathtub tightly, your defenses fully raised.
He reaches into the soapy water, grabbing your shoulders and lifting you entirely out of the tub.
You feel a chill run down your spine. This is the first time you've been completely exposed in front of Caleb. Humiliation and panic overwhelms you in an instant.
"Let go of me, you dirty bastard!" You begin to struggle in his arms, but it's an useless endeavor.
“If you want to fall and get hurt, then keep being stubborn!” His deep voice carries a threatening tone.
You come to your senses and slowly stop. You can't risk getting hurt now. You're leaving in a couple days. You can't afford to have any more accidents.
“Not moving anymore?” he asks, revealing no emotion.
“Caleb Xia, don't make me hate you.” You say.
He gives you a bitter smile. “Don't you hate me enough already?”
You remain silent.
Your relationship with Caleb has indeed reached a point of no return.
He snorts coldly, wrapping you in a bath towel, and walks out of the bathroom back to the bedroom, placing you on the bed. He sits you on the edge and goes back, reappearing with a hairdryer.
As he plugs it in, blowing hot air into your wet hair, you're momentarily stunned.
What's he trying to do? Apologize? Make it up to you? Or is it just all for MC again?
The only sound in the room is the roar of the hairdryer; neither of you speak.
After he finishes, he rummages through the bedside drawer, clumsily tying your hair up into a knot.
Several bruises on the top of your back and shoulders from falling reveal themselves
He stares at them for a moment, then forcefully rips away the towel wrapped around you.
"Look at yourself! What are you doing to yourself these days, doing that stupid rehab?!"
What does this have to do with him at all?
You quickly pull the blanket back over herself, glaring at him with hostility. "Caleb, believe me, I really will kill you."
He sits down opposite from you, his eyes filled with sarcasm. "We've been married for five years, and this is your attitude when I try to touch you?"
What else does he expect? What attitude should you have?
You smile mockingly. "Caleb, I told you. Your hands are dirty. Also, if you touch me, aren't you afraid your Pipsqueak will be heartbroken?"
He doesn't reply, only pushing you down onto the bed, but doesn't move to pull away the blanket.
You feel his warm hand on your calf.
He's massaging your scars again?
You give up struggling, already somewhat familiar with his methods.
Unsolicited kindness is always suspicious; he must want something from you.
He continues applying ointment to your bruises, from your leg up to your arms, then your back.
Once he's done, he covers you with a blanket, meeting your cold gaze.
You look at him with no hint of gratefulness, just waiting.
He tucks you in more tightly, forcing a bitter smile. "Y/N, how did we get to this point?"
He's asking you why things had come to this? Didn't he know?
He sighs deeply. "Y/N, let's talk about this calmly."
You consider it for a moment. Since MC appeared, you've always been calm, never wavering. It's him, on the other hand, who was always emotional because of MC.
“Caleb Xia, I don’t know what we have to talk about anymore,” you say indifferently. “I’ve already made myself clear.”
Caleb's hand reaches under the covers to find your hand and grasps it tightly. “Y/N, I didn’t want this. From the beginning until now, I swear I've been sincere in wanting to live a good life with you.”
“Is that so?” you sneer. “From the beginning? Didn't you think I was a venomous woman who used a self-inflicted injury to force you to marry me?”
Caleb closes his eyes, remaining silent for a long time.
“Colonel Xia,” you smile, “Please let go of my hand and get me a bottle of disinfectant”
When Caleb opens his eyes, the bloodshot veins are particularly noticeable.
He doesn't ask why, just gets up to fetch it, and hands it to you.
You prop yourself up on the bed, and begins methodically spraying it on your hands, arms, legs, stomach, back—everywhere he had just touched.
Caleb's expression instantly changes. "What are you doing?"
"I'm disinfecting myself. I told you, your hands are dirty." You finish spraying and calmly place the alcohol bottle on the bedside table.
"You…" Caleb is aggravated again.
You simply turn over and lie down to sleep.
After a while, Caleb finally speaks to you again, his voice soft. "We've been married for five years. In these five years, I haven't wronged you, have I?"
Five years... your heart clenches. You don't want to look back on the past five years.
"I'm so grateful to you for saving me back then, and for giving me a chance to atone. For the past five years, I've given you everything I could. So can you do just one more thing? If you agree to this favor, I'll do anything you ask from now on."
Here it comes…
"You want me to drop the case and reconcile with MC and your two cronies?" You cut to the chase.
T - 2 days
Yes," Caleb says, his voice utterly broken. "I'm sorry, Y/N, I have to protect MC. She was the only light in the darkest moments of my life."
Your heart sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
What in the world is Caleb thinking? Telling his lawful wife that another woman is his only light, and expecting you to help him?
"Y/N," he continues, "you know that my grandmother was the most important person in my life. MC was good friends with Zayne, an upperclassman whose parents were doctors. Through her connections was how my grandma was able to get treatment after she fell ill. One evening, when I visited Grandma, there was a bottle of origami cranes beside her pillow. The nurse said it was a gift from a volunteer. They said that with the blessing of a thousand cranes, Grandma would definitely recover.
Caleb chokes up a little. "Grandma didn't recover. The blessing of a thousand origami cranes only stayed a myth. But Y/N, do you understand the loneliness of that time when my world was completely dark, and I was struggling to bear everything alone? The girl who helped me share the burden while I was taking care of Grandma, the girl who lit up my dark world with origami cranes, was MC. I thought I would never see her again after she left, but she ended up coming back to me. I'm sorry Y/N. No matter what kind of person MC is, in my heart, she will always be that light."
You listen silently, finally unable to help but smile.
Caleb Xia, are you really sure that the girl who folded the origami cranes was MC?
T - 1 day
What was it like to have a crush on someone in your youth?
It was having your heart feel empty when he didn't come to class; even though there was only one empty seat, the whole world became hollow;
It was the world suddenly brightening when he steps into the classroom. The sunlight outside the window shining like gold, but it couldn't possibly compare to the radiance surrounding him at that moment.
It was when his smile warmed your heart, and when he frowned, your heart clenched;
It was the satisfaction in watching him from afar, letting time quietly slip by, wanting to give your everything to him but not wanting him to know…
That year, when you learned that the weariness and pain Caleb tried so hard to hide was because his grandmother was seriously ill and hospitalized, every weekend, you'd wear a mask and get up before dawn every morning, catch the bus to the hospital, and help his grandma with breakfast and keep her company. You lied about your identity every time, simply saying you were a volunteer.
You weren't sure if paper cranes could actually make wishes come true, but being young and full of sincere wishes, you secretly folded a bottle full of paper cranes for his grandmother.
There certainly weren't a thousand total, but the bottle was full. It took you a long time folding, and you wrote a blessing on each piece of paper before carefully folding it inside.
While wishing Caleb's grandmother a speedy recovery, you also prayed for her own grandparents' health.
At that time, you felt that you and Caleb had so much in common.
None of your parents were in the picture.
You both depended on their grandparents' for survival.
You were both struggling to grow up against the odds, trying your best to maintain your lives, your pride, and self-respect.
You once thought that you and Caleb were like two trees growing side by side, far apart, your branches never intersecting in the air, yet your roots in the soil were always tightly intertwined.
In the end, you've been deluding yourself.
You just smile without speaking or explaining anything to him.
If it were before, perhaps you would have explained to him that you were the volunteer.
But now, there is truly no need.
You traded your leg for his life, saving him from being run over by a car. If in his eyes, it was all a ploy, a way to trick him into marrying you, then what would the origami cranes you folded all those years ago mean to him? Were they, like the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival, just a means to woo him as well? Even if he didn't think of you as so calculating and despicable, what difference would it make?
He simply doesn't love you. You've tried for five years already. The fact is, you saved his life. Regardless of his motives for marrying you, the end result is the same: he doesn't love you. So why add another layer of trouble? You've known him since you were twelve. 15 years now. If love could truly change people, you would have done so long ago. The truth is, no matter what you did for him, it wouldn't change a thing.
Besides, you already have a clear future and plans. You'll cut ties completely with this person and stop this entanglement for once and for all.
Only a smile remains on your face.
A smile that is both laughable and pathetic.
"What are you laughing at?" Caleb was probably lost in his own memories, so it's understandable that he felt a bit resentful that his heartfelt story is met with nothing but a laugh.
You lower your eyes, a faint smile still on your lips. "It's nothing, I'm just very touched. I'll do as you wish under one condition."
He looks at you expectantly.
"I'll have my lawyer send over some papers. At long as you sign them, MC is off the hook."
"You... really?" Caleb isn't sure if you're being sarcastic.
"I'm serious." You lie on the bed, looking up at him, the faint sadness in your eyes gone, replaced by a genuine smile. "I wish you a long and life."
T - 0 days
When Caleb leaves this morning, he tells you to wait for him at home, the same as usual.
However, he lingers at the door for a minute longer, gazing at you with eyes filled with an unfamiliar emotion.
There's no point thinking about it anymore. Nothing in the world will convince Caleb Xia that his wife would want to leave him.
Will he realize you're truly gone when he sees the empty closet?
It won't matter if he doesn't; your letter, the lawyer, and the divorce papers will tell him.
You look back one last time at the home you lived in for five years.
You write one last line in your notebook: "0 days until I leave Caleb Xia: Goodbye, I'm going to fly higher."
You turn off the lights and close the door.
You stick a paper crane on the door; let this paper crane wait for him in your place; perhaps, it will tell him the answer.
***
T + 6 days:
Caleb feels like he's actually gone insane. The first night you don't come home, he plays it off as another one of your temper outbursts. Afterall, the paper crane on the door was your way of mocking his past with MC, wasn't it?. The second night he blows up your phone. Nothing goes through. By the third day, he is contacted by your lawyer with the divorce papers prepared and already signed by you. You ask for none of his assets and no compensation. He nearly destroys the office table in anger. After another two days to calm down, the panic and unease in his chest grow to new lengths. He stalks the entire city. Tries going after your telephone records, search history. He finds your preparation to leave him starting long, long before he suspected anything out of the ordinary. He looks at himself in the mirror and wants to laugh at the pathetic sight before him. He can't possibly go to work in this state, so he turns around to go home instead.
He takes a shower and sits in the chair in your bedroom, lost in thought.
This is the chair you used to sit in.
You'd sit here watching dramas, reading, oh right, probably studying how to get away form him too.
Your belongings are still on the table: pens in the pen holder, and several books you read, the most recent being art history, lying on the desk. Fiddling with the paper crane.
He opened a drawer, which was also full of books. Digging through its contents, he finds a notebook.
He pulls it out and opens it.
The contents read: Countdown to leaving Caleb Xia.
T - 22 days: The jewelry he gave me were all mementos of someone else.
T - 11 days: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?
His eyes sting.
"I don't even want this person anymore…"
So, from that moment on, you truly wanted a divorce.
Every time you brought it up, it was from the heart. It wasn't a tactic to keep him, nor was it a way to force MC to leave. You genuinely wanted to leave him…
Looking further, you had recorded every single thought that, in the month before you left, seemed trivial to him. With each passing day, your heart seemed to die a little more.
He lowers his head, forehead resting on the notebook.
His eyes ache terribly.
In those 20-odd days, if he had even a few moments of empathy, if he had considered things from your perspective, he might have still had a chance to salvage the relationship. But he didn't.
He went down a path of no return, finally leading to a complete break between you.
He thought you would never leave him, never leave this home, which is why he stood on MC's side time and time again.
He thought, "She's my wife, she's family, she'll never leave. No matter when I come back, she'll be waiting at home..."
You loved him so much, you've liked him since high school, even risked your life for him. How could he have believed that you really wanted to divorce him?
T + 24 days:
Caleb sighs, a bitter smile on his face.
He doesn't know what was wrong with him; why everything had been so bitter lately.
The food he eats taste bitter, the water tastes bitter, even the air around him seems to carry a faint bitterness.
That afternoon, Liam comes to his office, inviting him out to dinner with Gideon.
Sitting behind his desk, Caleb feels listless. "Forget it, I'm too tired. You guys go ahead, I'll cover it."
"Colonel," Liam protests, before switching to addressing him by name. "Caleb. Do you think I'm starving? I can see you're unhappy these days, and I figured getting together with you and Gideon would allow you to have some fun.
Caleb shakes his head, hating how his hairs bristled at the mention of his friend. "I hate crowds, forget it."
"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon pops in, looking at him, his eyes filled with worry. "You used to love being with your brothers, having fun together. As long as the crew is together, your worries would disappear. I can invite MC along too, she'll make you feel better."
Caleb freezes.
What is wrong? He didn't know what was wrong either. It's just an instinctive reaction; he didn't want to go.
Later, at the bar, Caleb is still trying to think of why he feels uncomfortable.
"Maybe... I'm getting old?" As you get older, you grow weary of crowds and want to be alone in peace and quiet.
Liam laughs. "You're old? You...you're old? What am I then?"
Well, if not, then Caleb couldn't find a reason.
"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon sighs. "We all know you didn't want to marry Y/N in the first place. You didn't love her. Isn't it better that you're getting a divorce now?"
"Yeah..." Caleb's eyes glaze over. "Isn't it supposed to be better? But, Gideon, why am I not okay? I'm really not okay at all."
"Is it just that you've gotten used to it? It's hard to let go of someone suddenly in your life, like when I had a dog when I was little. I had it for years, and one day it got into an accident and passed. I cried for a long time." Liam tries to help.
Caleb shakes his head. "That's not how it works, Liam. Didn't you love your dog? You cried."
Liam is stumped. "Oh, right. I definitely loved it."
All three of them fall silent.
Liam thinks for a long time before slowly saying, "Caleb, you didn't fall in love with Y/N, did you?"
Caleb feels as if he's been struck on the head. He had never considered this question before.
"Let me ask you this," Liam continues, "you're single now, right? If you had two choices: one, go back to Y/N, and she'd still be your Mrs. Xia; two, marry MC. You could marry MC if you want to! Which would you choose if you had these two options in front of you?"
Caleb doesn't hesitate at all. "Liam, what are you saying? When did I ever plan to marry MC? Since she came back, the thought of marrying her never even crossed my mind!"
Liam is stunned. "I literally thought MC was your wife the first day you brought her to the headquarters! Wasn't it because you had Y/N before? Now that you're divorced, you're still not considering MC?"
"Liam, MC and I are a thing of the past," Caleb says with a small laugh, "What are you thinking?"
"Then, why are you so good to her?" he stammers.
"Am I not good to you?" Caleb retorts. "Am I not good to Gideon?"
"Then...how...can this be comparable?" Liam didn't know what to say.
"How is it different? The two of you are my brothers since we were trainees at the DAA, and we've all worked our way up to our positions now. When MC was with me, she was still a high schooler, encouraging me on when I was was nothing but a new recruit. She didn't get to reap any of the benefits of that work, she had a hard time abroad. Of course I have to pamper her when she comes back, she's my little sister, right, Gideon?"
"Uhhh.... Anyway..." Liam thought it was VERY different.
"Of course it's different!" A voice booms from behind. It's Yvette.
Liam quickly stands up. "Darling, why are you here?"
"I came to see what nonsense you're spouting, you idiot!" Yvette's face darkens. "You guys are still talking about that two-faced bitch?"
"No...wife, please... don't say such nonsense. How could MC be two-faced?" Liam quickly looks at Caleb, fearing for his job.
“Try saying another word for her” Yvette points at Liam's nose, as if she's about to slap him into oblivion
“No, I won’t say anything… I won’t…”
Yvette's anger finally subsides. “Let’s go home!”
Liam hesitates. “Darling, how about we have dinner with the Colonel today?”
“No way!” Yvette's temper flares again, pointing at Liam once more “I don’t hang out with your kind of people! You’re going home to eat too! He deserves it! He’s not worth wasting time on!”
Liam looks troubled, hoping his wife would show some mercy.
Strangely, Caleb doesn't seem offended at all. He asks Yvette with a smile, "What kind of person am I?"
Yvette turns to look at him, scoffing. "I didn't want to talk about you, because you scumbags and bitches get angry and it's bad for my baby. I don't want my baby to see the ugliness of this world while still in my belly. But since you're asking like this, I've changed my mind."
Liam sweats profusely. "My darling, no, let's just let our baby grow peacefully. Don't change your mind."
"No!" Yvette declares. "I've decided to teach our baby to distinguish right from wrong!"
She turns to face Caleb again. "Colonel Xia, I'm not trying to be mean, but stop acting like you're some sort of saint. What's with all this talk about MC being there for you when you were down on your luck, about her suffering abroad and wanting to compensate her? Is it so hard to admit you're a cheater? Aren't you just trying to cover up the fact that you're greedy and have always looked for something better?"
Caleb's face turns ashen. "I didn't, MC and I didn't..."
Yvette's spirit is still high. "I don't give a fuck if you and MC slept together or not! That's not my business. I only care about Liam! But Caleb, this isn't about physical cheating!"
Liam is getting increasingly anxious hearing his wife absolutely tear through his boss without any restraint. Was this something she could just casually say? Out in public?? He immediately covers her mouth.
"Let her talk!" Caleb's expression darkens.
"I'll say it!" Yvette slaps away Liam's hand. "Colonel Xia! I told you you're a cheater! The ultimate scumbag! You enjoyed Y/N's wholehearted love while flirting with MC under the guise of "taking care of a sister? What brother buys you a house, bags, and luxury goods? What kind of siblings share a room together while out on a business trip? Oh right, Liam used to get that privilege when you were cadets, but is the stuff in your brain the same shade when you sleep with MC?!"
Liam tries really hard not to laugh. "The stuff in your brain isn't the same color"? His wife's mouth was really something…
But then again, even he didn't believe Caleb and MC's brains were pure when they were together…
"What are you laughing at?" Yvette turns around to scold her husband. "Your boss doesn't have a brain, it's filled with tofu! You think you're so great? Yours is filled with tofu dregs!"
"Darling, please;;; if you want to scold me, let's go back home to do it"
"Let me finish!" Yvette hadn't wanted to say all of this, but since she was asked to, she wouldn't be happy until she was finished. She glares at Caleb. "With your filthy thoughts, ask yourself, with your non-existent conscience, when you sided with MC again and again like no tomorrow, wasn't your heart soaring? Like you were back in your youth! Wasn't that right? An old man like you, suddenly rediscovering the feeling of pure love, wasn't your life full of passion? And then what? Clearly, you were emotionally unfaithful, I don't know if your filthy body has cheated on her! But whether it's emotional or physical, it's still cheating! And yet you still insist that there is nothing between you and MC. Caleb Xia, if you openly admit to cheating, I'd respect you as a man. But to cheat and then pretend to be deeply in love, I can only give you one word: scumbag! No, add another: despicable!
Finally done, she glares at Liam, "Aren't you leaving?"
"Oh, oh, oh." Liam apologizes to Caleb with his eyes, quickly removing himself from the premise.
T + 25 days
Caleb checks his personal set of security cameras at work. You weren't lying. MC is clearly seen talking to the secretary, putting the apple juice in her hands. Gideon walks in, and Caleb slams his laptop shut.
"Colonel?"
A shudder runs down his spine as he meets Caleb's dark gaze.
T + 31 days
Yvette's brutal words live rent free in Caleb's head.
Five years ago, when MC first left, it was during a period of setbacks for him. He spent his entire youth preparing to get into the DAA. But now that he was there, he realized with a start that he, a small town boy, was so woefully unprepared compared to his peers. Years of hard work were on the verge of being wasted. He had a habit of shutting others out when he was struggling. MC knew it. And did her best to call him out of her own accord, always checking in, trying to make him feel better.
But it came the day she couldn't take it anymore. She up and left him, cutting off all communications suddenly.
He wasn't stupid; of course he knew the reason why. However, he also had the self-awareness not to drag her down with him.
Later, he heard that a wealthy second-generation heir had gone abroad with her.
He knew all of it.
His depression during that period was partly due to the breakup, and partly due to his career setbacks—a mixed bag.
He got drunk sometimes, but not entirely out of despair. Most of the time, it was from entertaining his peers, or trying to network with higher-ups, practically begging and pleading for a chance. However, the night you saved him, he was truly heartbroken. He had faced rejection after rejection, losing all confidence and almost giving up.
Then you saved him, trading your leg for his rebirth.
From that moment on, he carried the weight of another person's life on his shoulders. It was at that moment that he told himself: I absolutely cannot give up, I cannot give up. There are still people waiting for me to take responsibility for, waiting for me to support them.
Fate can be truly miraculous sometimes.
It was after that car accident that things suddenly took a turn for the better.
When you got discharged from the hospital, it was also the time his performance soared.
After that, his missions only ever returned successful. Offers and promotions came in waves, and his power increased exponentially.
And then, MC returned.
Somewhere deep in his heart, he faced her with resentment and bitterness, thinking: "The person you looked down on back then has now made it big, standing proudly before you. How do you feel?"
He would never admit it though.
Just like the necklace of MC's dreams. The first birthday he spent with you, he thought to himself, "so what? The decorations MC liked, the style she fawned over, I've given them all to another girl. I can afford to do so."
So, five years later, when MC returned, he carried this resentment, enjoying her adoration and affection, feeling a childish satisfaction. The person who abandoned him back then was now obediently fawning over him, trying to please him, and the resentment in his heart finally subsided.
But the scales in his heart had been tipped.
Just as Yvette said, he despicably indulged in two relationships, becoming lost in this ambiguity.
He basked in MCs adoration and retaliated by showering her with affection and indulgence, as if this would prove to his former, down-on-his-luck self: I've made it big, I'm omnipotent.
He never even considered it love or lack thereof.
He simply wanted to frantically prove to MC his power, his influence, that he could spoil a woman to the extreme if he wanted.
Of course, in doing so, he hurt you.
But at that time, he didn't think about any of that; he was simply gradually losing himself in his relationship with MC.
He explained to you that he was only remembering MC's kindness from when she made the paper cranes and that nothing ever happened between them.
Perhaps this reason held some semblance of validity? He always needed a plausible excuse to mask his dark and despicable psychology.
But it was also true. He could do anything for MC, except betray you —by betraying you, he meant maintaining boundaries and not doing anything physically inappropriate.
But Yvette said that emotional infidelity also counts as infidelity.
Does it?
Did he cheat on you?
He wasn't sure himself.
He couldn't distinguish whether his feelings for MC were of resentment or love.
The only thing he was certain of was that you loved him, loved him to the point of self-sacrifice. So, no matter how his heart swayed, you would always be his Mrs. Xia, and that would never change.
That day after he told you the story about the paper cranes, MC tried to embrace him from behind at work. In that moment, he realized: he couldn't possibly cross any physical boundaries with her.
His destiny belonged to you.
That night, he wanted to see you more than ever.
So, he returned without delay, even before dinnertime.
But you were already gone.
So even you could leave him too…
Even with the wealth and luxury and everything he could give you, you could still abandon it so easily.
That's right, he laughs at himself, why would you care about money?
That silly girl who used to live frugally, worrying about his financial situation, trying to pay him $5 for every math problem he tutored you in - how could you care about money?
He was wrong…
He'd been too arrogant for too long, forgetting the path he'd come from, neglecting the most important person in his world.
How ridiculous, only realizing you were the most important person after losing you.
And before that?
It seemed everything came before you.
Work was more important than you, because he needed to develop his career, earn money, and support you for life;
His pride was more important than you, so he absolutely couldn't lose face in front of MC, forcing you to apologize, even though you were never actually in the wrong.
His thinking was simple: even if he had wronged you, it wouldn't matter. You loved him so much; all he had to do was sweet talk and make it back up to you.
In fact, many times, between you and MC, he chose to side with MC simply because he knew you would forgive him…
But you didn't.
You wouldn't forgive him forever, nor would you wait for him forever.
T + 52 days:
Liam stops by Caleb's office. It's past midnight.
"Colonel..." he starts, stiffening as Caleb's dead gaze shifts onto him from the screen.
"You've been here for the past 5 days straight. I think... you should go home now..."
Home? Caleb laughs, a hollow sound, devoid of any positive emotion. Where would he go now? What is home to him?
He admits that in the past five years, he didn't love going home as much.
Mainly, when he first got married, he was afraid to go home and face you, your overwhelming love, and your injury. Guilt and remorse weighed on his heart like a brick, so much so that he couldn't even be intimate with you. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but just seeing your leg overwhelmed him with guilt, making it impossible to continue.
And this created a vicious cycle: the greater the psychological pressure, the less he tried, and the less he tried, the greater the pressure…
He even saw a therapist for some time, but it didn't help.
Over time, he became increasingly adverse to returning home to see you, and staying at his office until midnight.
He had many excuses: logistics, planning, meetings with important stakeholders, out on missions, and most often, just being busy with work.
He did indeed spend most of his time working, but no matter how late, he always had a direction in his heart—home.
Whether it was his conscience or something else, going home every night was a routine, just like his work.
And now, his home was still there, but he didn't know where he should go after you left.
He always told himself that it was his responsibility to be good to you for the rest of his life, but he didn't even know when it started to become more than just a responsibility.
It turned out that when the girl who always smiled at him like a sunflower was no longer there, home was no longer home, and going home lost its meaning.
But you had promised him that you would never leave him, whether in poverty or wealth; you had promised him that you would leave a light on for him no matter how late he came home.
He truly believed that this light would illuminate him forever, so he gradually took advantage of you, until ultimately, he became the one who extinguished it.
T + 93 days
Caleb's phone rings. Looking down, it's Zayne.
“Caleb, what's up? I can't come out for dinner, but feel free to talk on the phone. I'm busy, I have to work overtime.”
“Oh…” he says wistfully, “Then it's nothing.”
He just had nowhere else to go and wanted to find a place to talk about the past, about people he once knew.
“Oh, by the way, do you remember Sylus Qin?” Zayne suddenly askes.
“I remember…” A name that wasn't so pleasant.
“He's gone.”
Caleb is taken aback. "Gone?"
"He passed away. He actually passed a while ago, abroad." Zayne sighs. "It was an accident, don't tell Y/N."
He's... gone?
A voice echoes in Caleb's mind again:
"Hey, Caleb, that Y/N from your class..."
"Get lost!"
Zayne remembers something else. "Oh, right, you can't tell Y/N anyway, otherwise you wouldn't be asking me to dinner and rambling on and on about your past."
Caleb remains silent.
Lately, he keeps dreaming about when he was sixteen or seventeen, so he would occasionally chat with Zayne about it.
Zayne only ever told him the same thing: "Only those who are unhappy reminisce about the past; those who are full of vigor only stride forward. Caleb, let Y/N go. She deserves a better future."
Caleb feels a sudden, sharp pain in his heart, and his vision blurs.
Now, he couldn't let it go even if he wanted to…
But he had no right to not let it go…
“Zayne,” he says in a barely suppressed voice, “I regret it so much…”
The more spirited and arrogant he had three months ago, the more desolate and regretful he feels now.
“Caleb Xia,” Zayne sneers on the other end, “You deserve it. Don't play victim with me now, look at your sordid affairs. How to spoke to her in front of me, in front of everyone else? You think none of us notice? How you had absolutely no respect for your ex-wife as a person?"
“Zayne, I can't…”
Before he can finish speaking, Zayne hangs up the phone.
Caleb immediately dials him back.
After the third call, Zayne picks up again. A long silence ensues, until Zayne asks him, "Anything else to say? If not, I'm hanging up. I'm busy!"
Caleb chokes for a moment before finally saying, "Zayne, if I said I love Y/N, would you believe me?"
"Bullshit!" Zayne curses, a rare occurrence. "Stop your pretentious nonsense! You don't love anyone but yourself; you're a selfish, self-serving piece of shit. Ask yourself honestly, who do you truly love? Whether was your mistress or Y/N, you only love whoever you need. Did you really even love MC or only what her reactions gave you? I wouldn't have cursed you if you hadn't said that, but hearing you say it out loud disgusts me! You bastard!"
T + 136 Days
Caleb goes back to his hometown. Somewhere he hasn't been in many years. He traces the steps he once took to school, watching teenagers shout happily as they play with each other.
Somehow, he finds himself in front of Sylus' house. To pay respects, he tells himself. He hesitates for another second before bringing his hand up to knock on the door.
Two young men greet him. They can't be much older than 20. They stare at Caleb with the same, beady eyes. "Who are you?"
"An old classmate of Sylus." He offers, taking his high school yearbook out from his backpack as proof. "We played soccer together. I know its a few years late, but I wanted to come pay my respects."
The twins lead him down to the basement, where many boxes of Sylus' belongings remained. Caleb flips through old textbooks and worksheets, jerseys and field-day awards, CDs and comic books from their youth.
Something small and pink falls out from a book in his hands.
He bends over to pick it up: a single paper crane
Paper cranes?
He picked up the fallen origami bird, its image overlapping with his memories of paper cranes.
The page he turned to was a tutorial on how to fold paper cranes.
Sylus had written notes on it with a pen.
"Some silly girl is folding paper cranes for that Xia boy, and she won't let me help! How long will it take for her to fill that jar? Silly girl!"
"Haha! I secretly stole one from her pile! Mischievous act of the day complete!"
"Hehe, this silly girl writes something inside every single paper crane. I wonder what she wrote on the one I stole?"
"Written something?" Caleb frowns, picking up the paper crane from the ground and quickly unfolds it. Sure enough, there's a small line of writing inside: 'No matter what happens, you must be happy!'
Caleb's mind goes blank for a moment. He reads the words on the page again, then turns and runs.
The noise he makes downstairs alerts the twins, who ask him if everything was alright.
"Sorry Luke, Kieran. I have important work to do. I have to go back," Caleb says urgently, bidding farewell to the boys.
He drives nonstop to Skyhaven, taking the stairs to the top floor and enters his office.
He opens his desk drawer. Inside is a small glass box containing a paper crane.
He had buried all the other paper cranes with his grandmother, leaving only this one as a keepsake.
The unfolded paper crane he had taken from Sylus' house lies open on his desk. The handwriting was all too familiar to him—yours.
The other paper crane, which he had kept in the small glass box, was clearly made of the same paper but a different color.
He takes a deep breath, and without further delay, unfolds it with trembling fingers.
The orange paper crane reveals writing on it as well.
This one reads: Grandma, you must recover. Caleb only has you.
The same handwriting.
The way you write is distinctive, always rounded and plump, with a kind of innocent charm, completely different from MC's.
Looking at these words, his heart sinks as if it's been chained to an iron anchor, falling lower and lower into a bottomless abyss.
He had lost far more than he imagined…
Folding the two pieces of paper together, he finally breaks down in tears.
Y/N, I'm sorry…
He sits in his office, the whole world utterly silent.
If this were the end of time, how wonderful that would be; he no longer looked forward to waking with the sun the next day…
But he could only stay awake, waiting for the night to pass.
But the nights are too long.
His life is only darkness now.
T + 613 days
You carefully make your way onto the stage, eyes momentarily blinded by the sharp glare of stage lights. The applause is thunderous as a bouquet of flowers are presented to you from the dancers. Your thesis project, a fully choreographed piece, was being performed on stage by a full cast for the first time. You insisted on giving yourself a very small role, just a few small steps in the beginning as your leg continues to heal, but it was already more than enough to fill your heart as tears of joy threaten to spill from your eyes.
Caleb watches your brilliant smile on his phone, in the darkness of his room. It's true that in the 1800 nights he was married to you, he has only wished you the best. Now you're out there, accomplishing your dreams. How much he wishes to be able to proudly say, "that's my Y/N!". But he cannot. Not now. Not that he ever had the right to say it. He reads the comments on the live stream religiously and replays your small segment of dance over and over until his vision blurs.
Tonight, Caleb dreams of high school.
Back then, all of you were naive and full of youthful exuberance. It was a time of awkwardness and passion, everything direct and intense.
He dreams of Rafayel Shen.
Rafayel loved to draw. Caleb had found Rafayel sketching you in the middle of class, and tore up his drawing after school. The two ended up having a fight, still a sore spot in their relationship to this day.
He dreams of Sylus Qin.
They were playing soccer together, and you would watch them play from the most inconspicuous spot in the cheerleading squad on the playground, always leaving silently afterward.
Sylus puts his arm around Caleb's shoulder, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. "Hey, Y/N from your class looks real sweet."
The young boy instantly knews what the other was up to, coldly announcing, "Get lost, I won't hesitate to beat you up if you mess with her.
Some boys would try to slip confession letters into your locker.
You never received any, because Caleb always stopped them.
Some boys would put treats in your desk.
You never got to eat any, because Caleb always kept them for you, glaring at all the other boys in warning.
It was once a childish but pure love, as bright and clear as morning dew.
Why did it change like this?
Caleb is lost in his dreams, unable to find the answer.
He lost you.
He meets Zayne and ask him why you were missing. Zayne simply says, "Caleb Xia, you scumbag."
He meets Rafayel, who grabs him by the collar, and the two get into a brawl.
He meets Sylus, who smiles and says, "You bullied her, so I hid her. You'll never find her now."
He sees many, many people, but you are nowhere to be found…
"Caleb!"
A clear voice suddenly rings out behind him.
He turns around and sees a girl with a bright smile perform several somersaults, appearing before him.
"Y/N!" He opens his eyes, but all he sees is an empty ceiling. He lies on the bed, his phone still clutched in his hand, battery dead.
A dream.
His Y/N is gone forever.
Tag list: @quill-for-glory, @flameo-hotman, @chyukiz, @royale-skeleton-key, @placeofsupercooltopics, @madnesslusy, @kiwiwiiiwiwiw, @younghideoutberserker
The early morning air in Manhattan was biting, even through your thick coat, as you climbed the steps to Mingi’s brownstone. Well, not his brownstone. Just the top floor. The kind of apartment that looked sleek in photos but was mostly creaky wood floors, bad heating, and a view of another building’s fire escape.
You held the coffee tray in one hand, the key in the other. The spare he gave you two years ago when he first moved in. “In case I oversleep or die in the shower,” he’d said with a crooked grin. He wasn’t dead. Probably just being Mingi. And you knew exactly what that meant.
You let yourself in quietly, the scent of his place immediately curling around you, warm cedar, leftover takeout, something clean and a little citrusy that was probably a candle you told him to buy months ago. The living room was dim, blackout curtains half drawn, his black CK duffle kicked against the side of the couch. His coat lay half on, half off the armrest, along with a pair of sunglasses he definitely didn’t need at night.
You set the coffees down on the counter and made your way to the bedroom, the door cracked just enough to hear the hum of his fan and the low rhythm of his breathing. There he was. Face half buried in the pillow, long limbs tangled in the duvet, blue dyed hair messy and damp like he fell asleep right out of the shower. He wore a black long sleeve and sweats, chest rising slow and steady. The softest version of Mingi. The one no one got to see but you.
You leaned against the doorframe for a second, just watching. Because sometimes it was easier to look at him when he wasn’t looking back. You padded over, crouched next to the bed, and poked him in the shoulder. “Mingi.” Nothing. You poked harder. “Mingi. Wake up.”
He groaned as you reached up and flicked his forehead. “I will pour hot coffee directly into your nostrils.”
“Y/N…” he whined, dragging the word out like it personally hurt him. He cracked one eye open, voice thick with sleep. “Why are you here?”
“Because you’re supposed to be at the fitting in forty minutes, and I knew your dumb ass wouldn’t set an alarm.”
Mingi blinked again, this time slower. Then he smiled. That slow, lopsided smile that made you feel like gravity forgot how to work. “You brought coffee?” he mumbled. You stood and tossed a sweatshirt at his face. “I brought my patience. You’ve got twenty to get dressed or I’m staging a public breakup.” He chuckled low in his throat, muffled by the hoodie. “You’d never leave me.” You paused in the doorway. Your voice was light when you replied. “You don’t know that.” But oh, if he only knew.
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The studio was already buzzing when you and Mingi arrived, the kind of quiet chaos that only fashion people knew how to make look chic. Rolling racks of clothing, or in this case, very little clothing, makeup brushes scattered across a vanity, an assistant yelling something about lighting presets while sipping a green juice like her life depended on it. “Go check in,” you told Mingi, not even glancing at him as you typed something into your phone.
“Yes, boss,” he said behind you, voice syrupy and amused. You didn’t look up until you heard the stylist greet him with a loud, “You’re here! Finally!”
And then a, “Oh good, you already shaved.”
You paused your email. Blinked. Shaved? That could mean anything. Right? Wrong. Fifteen minutes later, you regretted every life decision that led you to this exact moment. Because Mingi was now standing on the center platform of the set, barefoot, tousled hair falling into his eyes, wearing nothing but black Calvin Klein briefs. The ones with the thick white waistband hugging low on his hips. The ones they said would photograph “iconic” against the slate backdrop.
And iconic he was. Tall, lean, toned in that deceptive way models could be, shoulders broad, waist slim, abs just visible under the studio lights. His skin smooth. Bright blue hair glowing under the lighting perfectly. And then there was the way he looked at the camera, casual, smirking, head tilted like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were trying not to look. You were trying really fucking hard.
But your eyes kept betraying you, flicking up every few seconds from your clipboard, your phone, the model release forms, the stupid budget breakdown that suddenly made no damn sense. “Y/N,” the photographer, David, called over to you. “Can you fix his waistband real quick? It’s bunching weird on the right side.”
You almost choked. “I… what?” Your voice cracked like you were 13 again. “The briefs. Can you just adjust them? I don’t want to touch the model directly.” You swallowed. Mingi turned to look at you, cocking a brow. And of course he was smiling. Like this was the most amusing thing that had happened to him all week. “You good?” he asked, low enough only you could hear. “You look kinda flushed.” You crossed the set, all business, praying your knees wouldn’t give out. “Shut up.” He grinned wider. “Not the first time you’ve seen me in underwear.”
“No, but it’s the first time you’ve been smug about it,” you muttered, fingers brushing the elastic as you tugged it just slightly on one side, dangerously aware of how warm his skin was, how close you were, how good he smelled. He leaned in a little, whispering, “I don’t mind if you look, you know.” You froze. But before you could reply, the photographer clapped once. “Perfect! Let’s roll again!” And just like that, Mingi was back in model mode, turning to face the camera, posture shifting, lips parting just slightly like a tease. You stepped back, breath caught somewhere in your throat. You had no idea what was worse, how good he looked… Or the fact that you didn’t want to stop staring.
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Lunch break found the two of you tucked into the corner of the studio lounge, the buzz of the shoot quieted now by the smell of overpriced takeout and the gentle thrum of lo fi music playing from someone’s portable speaker. Mingi was halfway through a bowl of pasta, twirling the noodles with a plastic fork like it was a competition. His hoodie was sleeveless, black, of course, and he’d rolled the hem of his shorts up so far one thigh was practically out for public consumption. You, being a professional, did not look. Except maybe once. Or twice. “You need to eat,” he said, nodding toward your untouched wrap.
“I will.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
He made a noise, something between a hum and a sigh, then looked up at you with sauce stained lips and zero shame. “You always do this. Hover and stress and forget to eat. You know I’d survive without you for, like, ten minutes.”
You raised a brow. “Bold assumption.” He grinned, chewing as you tapped open your calendar app. “Alright, Casanova. Diesel PFW is next Friday,” you said, scrolling. “You have a call with the stylist on Tuesday, fitting on Wednesday, and a red eye Thursday night.” He groaned dramatically. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. They’re flying in a custom leather look for you. And the campaign’s supposed to be gender neutral, so don’t be surprised if they throw you in a mesh corset.” He tilted his head. “Would you like that?” You blinked. “What?”
“If I wore that.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. “I like whatever you’re comfortable in.”
He smiled again, slow and knowing. “Liar.”
You cleared your throat. “Do not flirt with me over rigatoni. You still owe me an apology for showing up late this morning.” He held his hand out dramatically. “I am but a humble, hot model. Forgive me, dear manager.” You rolled your eyes and shoved his hand away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you.
He leaned forward then, elbows on the table, voice softer. “Hey.” You looked up. “You good?” he asked, no teasing this time. “You’ve been quiet. Even for you.” You paused, fingers fidgeting with the corner of a napkin. “Just tired.” He watched you for a long second, like he didn’t believe you, but let it slide anyway.
“Alright,” he said, sitting back. “But when we get home tonight, you’re putting your phone down and we’re watching something stupid. Deal?”
You nodded. “Deal.”
Even if you knew that sitting next to him on his couch, watching a dumb movie, shoulder to shoulder in the dim light, wasn’t going to make any of this easier. Because you were falling. Had been for years. And lately, it was starting to feel like it was going to eat you alive.
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Mingi’s apartment always felt warmer at night. Maybe it was the old pipes groaning with heat, or the way his couch had a permanent body shaped dent from years of lazy weekends, or how his throw blanket always smelled like laundry softener and cologne. Either way, you were curled up right beside him, legs bare, a bowl of popcorn balanced between you, and a shared bottle of wine forgotten on the floor.
You’d borrowed one of his old oversized tshirts, black, cracked print of some forgotten band, and paired it with your pajama shorts. He hadn’t said anything when he came out of the bathroom and saw you in it. Just blinked. Slowly. And then smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now he was stretched out next to you, one arm slung across the back of the couch. The fabric of his black tank strained slightly at the chest every time he shifted. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, and you had never been so aware of someone’s breathing pattern before.
On screen, an episode of The Boys, some poor supe just got obliterated into a wall. You snorted. “Okay, I forgot how violent this show is.” Mingi laughed, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “You say that every time.”
“Yeah, and every time I’m surprised all over again.”
“You’re cute when you’re squeamish.”
You tossed a kernel of popcorn at him without thinking. “Don’t start.” He caught it in his mouth like a damn golden retriever and grinned. “Too late.” You rolled your eyes and reached for the wine, but he beat you to it, hand wrapping around yours mid grab, thumb brushing your knuckles. You froze. Just for a second as he poured the wine anyway and handed you your glass without a word. But something shifted in the air, the soft weight of it settling between you.
You glanced over at him. He was already looking. “What?” you asked, tone light. He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head slightly, lips parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite find the thread. “You used to sleep over all the time.” You shrugged. “Yeah. That was before you were a hotshot Calvin Klein model with a fanbase that wants to lick your abs.” He grinned. “They can want all they want.”
You smirked. “So modest.”
“No, I mean…” He turned slightly toward you now, serious again. “I like it better when it’s just you. You’ve always been the only one who really saw me. Not the brand. Not the campaigns. Just me.” Your stomach flipped but he looked away before you could answer, focusing back on the show. “Stay over more. When we’re not traveling. Just like this.” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “Okay.”
And then you were both quiet, sipping wine, your thigh brushing his under the blanket, hearts beating out of sync. And even with the show still playing… all you could think about was how easy this was. And how terrifying it would be if it ever changed.
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Brooklyn smelled like old rain and warm asphalt by the time you made it out of the subway. Mingi had barely given you time to change, dragging you with him in that whirlwind way he always did, one text, one quick “be ready in ten,” and suddenly you were in a cab together, headed for a place you hadn’t been in way too long. His parents’ restaurant sat on the corner of 3rd and Carlton, same faded red awning, same mismatched neon signs in the window. You could still see your initials etched into the side of the alley gate, a dumb little thing you’d carved with a house key during your second year of college when Mingi dared you to.
He held the door open for you with a dramatic bow, grinning. You rolled your eyes and stepped inside, instantly hit with the same comforting mix of garlic, sesame oil, and home. It was warm in here, cozy in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. A few regulars were tucked into booths, and the staff greeted Mingi like he hadn’t just missed four Sunday family dinners in a row.
His mom popped her head out from the kitchen the moment she heard the bell. “Oh my god, you finally brought her!” she beamed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Y/N!” You barely had time to react before she was hugging you, pulling you close like it hadn’t been almost a year. “We thought you abandoned us.”
“Me?” you laughed, hugging her back. “Your son’s the celebrity now, not me.” Mingi slid into a booth near the back, same one you used to claim as your “study corner” even though all you did was order dumplings and complain about exams. He leaned back, arms stretched along the top like he owned the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of did. You slid in across from him, eyes scanning the room, smiling softly. “Looks the same.”
“Feels the same,” he said, watching you. You didn’t meet his gaze. Not when he looked at you like that. “Remember when you used to work here during summer break?” he added. “Spilled bubble tea on that guy and cried in the freezer for twenty minutes.” You groaned. “Why would you bring that up?”
“Because you made me swear not to tell anyone,” he smirked, “and I think I’ve finally earned the right to bring it up.” His mom came over before you could throw a napkin at him, placing two bowls of jjajangmyeon and an entire tray of banchan between you. “Eat,” she said firmly. “You both look like you need good home cooked food.”
It was easy, the way you both fell into rhythm again. Laughing, eating, talking with his parents when they came to sit for a bit. His dad asked if you were still single. His mom very unsubtly told Mingi he should bring you around more. You played it cool. You always did. But halfway through dinner, when Mingi leaned back and looked around with that quiet expression on his face, you asked, “What?” He shook his head. “I just forgot how much this place feels like you,” he said.
Your heart stuttered. “What does that mean?” His eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. “Nothing.” But it didn’t feel like nothing. Not even close. You ate in comfortable silence for a moment after. Mingi was halfway through his second helping when his mom slid into the seat beside you again, sipping barley tea and watching him with that sharp, motherly suspicion she always saved just for him.
“So,” she said casually, “you’ll never guess who dropped by last week.”
Mingi, mouth full, blinked. “Who?”
“Cadence.”
The name landed like a wet napkin on a fresh plate of food. Mingi’s chopsticks froze mid air. Your fingers tensed slightly around your glass. “She came in here?” he asked after swallowing.
“Mhm,” his mom said, tone neutral in that disapproving mother kind of way. “Sat right there at the counter. Ordered a salad she didn’t touch, asked if you were in town. Left her number. Again.”
You said nothing. You kept your face smooth, focused on your noodles like they were the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen as Mingi’s brows twitched. “Did you keep it?” His mom scoffed. “I told her you were very busy, and then I accidentally dropped the napkin in the sink.” You snorted into your tea before you could help it and Mingi grinned. “You’re evil.”
“She wasn’t very polite,” his mom replied, a little too pointedly. “Not like some people.” Her hand gave your arm a gentle pat, and you knew what she meant. You always knew. Mingi leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his hair, now slightly messy from the warmth of the restaurant. “Why does she always do that? It’s been a year.” You didn’t say, because you dumped her and she can’t stand not being the one who walks away. You didn’t say, because she always hated that I knew you better than she ever could. You just shrugged. “Maybe she wants free dumplings.”
“She can get those from a menu like everyone else,” his mom muttered as Mingi shook his head, but his smile was fading. “I’m not calling her.”
“No one asked you to,” his mom said smoothly, and then stood, gathering empty dishes like the conversation never happened. “You brought someone much better.” Your cheeks burned as she winked and disappeared into the kitchen. Mingi was quiet for a beat. You could feel him watching you, could feel your heart pounding in your throat. But you didn’t look up. Instead, you asked, “You want to split dessert or no?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you a moment longer. “Only if we get the mochi.” You nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Good choice.” Because if you did look at him, you weren’t sure what you’d see there. And you weren’t ready for that.
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Mingi’s suitcase lay open on his bed, half full of black shirts and leather pants he was definitely not going to wear in Paris but insisted on bringing “just in case.” You were sitting cross legged at the edge of the bed, folding a hoodie he’d left crumpled on the floor. Again. His bedroom was quiet, only the low hum of music from his phone speaker and the soft zip of garment bags being shuffled through. He had on a tank top clinging to his torso, pajama pants slung low. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Driving you insane.
“Do you really need three different black button ups?” you asked, placing the folded hoodie into his suitcase. “Yes,” he said, from inside his closet. “One’s silk. One’s mesh. One’s wrinkled but makes my collarbones look like art.” You snorted. “You’re unbearable.”
“Yet here you are,” he called out, emerging with a stack of hangers. You rolled your eyes and held out your hand. “Give me those before you try to fold a blazer like a t shirt again.” He handed them over with a cheeky grin but then got quiet as he perched on the opposite side of the bed, watching you work. “Do you think Cadence will be there?” Your hands paused mid fold. You didn’t look up. “Last I heard, she’s modeling for Prada now. So… probably.”
He didn’t respond right away. You heard the rustle of fabric, the shifting of his weight as he leaned back on his hands. “Cool,” he said finally. “That’s cool.” You nodded, lips pressed tight. “Yeah. Big deal. Good for her.” Still no response. You stole a glance at him, his head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling like he was thinking too hard. Like he didn’t really care about Cadence, not really, but couldn’t figure out how to ask what he actually wanted to ask.
“Why’d you ask?” you said, trying to keep your voice light. He looked over at you, jaw tight, eyes a little darker than before. “Dunno. Just curious, I guess.” You knew better. But you let it go. Because if you asked why it mattered, if you said, who cares, or, it’s been a year, or, she never liked you the way you deserved, you’d be saying too much. So you reached for another shirt and changed the subject.
“Okay. So we’re down to three pairs of pants, four shirts, one just in case I get invited to a gala suit, and exactly zero socks.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You love me.” You didn’t look up. Just smiled faintly. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.” But not loud enough for him to hear it.
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The Paris air had that sharp, spring bite to it, cool and crisp despite the sun cutting through the clouds. Mingi tugged his hood over his head as the two of you stepped out of the car in front of Hotel Marceau, your shared rolling suitcases bumping along the cobbled stones. The hotel was gorgeous, of course. Modern inside, but with old world bones, arched ceilings, marble floors, velvet accents, staff too pretty to be real.
You were checking in at the front desk, scanning emails while Mingi flirted lazily with the receptionist, “Mingi, please focus,” you muttered when the elevator dinged behind you.
“Yo! No way….. Mingi?”
You both turned as two tall figures strode into the lobby, one of them, immediately recognizable, Luca, the Saint Laurent campaign kid, lean and angular with bleached brows and a wired energy. The other was worse. Trevor. You knew Trevor. Blonde. Tall, sculpted, lips like sin, attitude like a spoiled rich boy who’d just walked off a Balmain billboard. He was trouble. And worse, he remembered you. “Mingi, man,” Trevor said, coming in for a quick model hug. “Didn’t know you were in town already.”
“Landed this morning,” Mingi said, slinging one hand in his pocket. “They’ve got me walking Diesel, Mugler, Off White.”
“Of course they do,” Luca grinned. “And who’s this?” Before you could open your mouth, Trevor’s eyes landed on you. “Oh, I remember you,” he said, grinning like a man who knew exactly the effect he had. “Y/N, right? You were managing Mingi at the Mugler backstage last season. Looked a little too good to be working, if I remember.”
You blinked. “That’s… flattering.” Mingi didn’t move. But the shift in his energy was immediate, straightening, gaze sharpening, lips pressed into a thin line. Trevor, oblivious or pretending to be, kept going. “We’re heading out tonight, drinks at that rooftop bar near Rue de Rivoli, then maybe Chez Louis if it’s not dead. You should come,” he said, clapping Mingi on the back. Then, eyes back on you. “Bring her too.” Your cheeks flushed at the way he said it, lazy and suggestive. You glanced at Mingi. His jaw ticked once. “Sure,” he said, coolly. “We’ll come.”
Trevor flashed a wink. “Perfect.” And then they were gone, breezing out with models in motion energy, leaving behind the scent of cologne and expensive arrogance as you turned to Mingi. “You didn’t have to say yes.” He shrugged, not looking at you. “You seemed like you wanted to.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered. There it was again. That something in his voice. Sharp. Unspoken. You tilted your head. “You okay?”
“Fine.” But the narrowed eyes he gave the closing elevator doors said otherwise.
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You knocked once, lightly, before pushing the door open, Mingi never locked his hotel room door as long as you were always next door. He said something about how if it wasn’t you, he wasn’t answering anyway. “Are you ready?” you called out as you stepped inside. “We’re gonna be…” Your voice caught. He was standing by the bed, half turned, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. Black button down, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, chain dangling at his neck. His hair was still damp from the shower. But he wasn’t moving now. He was staring at you. Not subtly. Not quickly. Just… staring. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
And you suddenly felt very aware of the dress you were wearing. Thin black mesh. Velvet floral detailing that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Straps barely there. Hem brushing high on your thighs. You hadn’t meant for it to be too much, it was Paris, after all. But the look in Mingi’s eyes made you feel like you’d walked in wearing nothing at all. He blinked once. Then again. “What?” you asked, pretending not to fidget under his gaze.
He didn’t answer. Just took a slow step toward you. “Y/N.” Your name on his lips didn’t sound casual. It sounded like a question. Like a problem. Like a confession he didn’t know how to say. You cleared your throat. “Trevor said the place is like upscale, right? I figured I should….”
“You look…” He stopped, jaw tightening. “You look different.” You tilted your head. “Good different or bad different?”
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
That stopped you cold. Your heart thudded once. Loudly. You tried to smile. “I’m just wearing a dress.” He looked you up and down again, slower this time, and his voice dropped an octave. “Yeah. That’s the problem.” You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe, suddenly, because the air between you was thick with everything you hadn’t said for years. Every stolen look. Every almost.
Then, like he remembered where you were and who you were to him, he stepped back. “Let me grab my jacket,” he said, voice sharp again, pulling away. You nodded, swallowing the heat rising in your chest. Because you started this. You wore the dress. But you hadn’t expected that look. And now you weren’t sure you could go through a whole night of him looking at you like that and still pretend you didn’t want him to touch you.
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The rooftop was already full when you arrived. Soft music pulsed through the crowd, expensive and curated, like everything in fashion week. String lights flickered above you, wrapped in the beams of the glass canopy, casting golden halos over the heads of models and industry insiders sipping cocktails like secrets.
Mingi adjusted the collar of his jacket with one hand, the other resting loosely at the small of your back as you stepped into the room. Just enough to guide you. Just enough to touch you. You looked… He didn’t have the right word for it. He didn’t think one existed. All he knew was that every pair of eyes on the rooftop found you within seconds. And he hated it.
Trevor spotted you first, of course. “There she is,” he grinned, drink already in hand, teeth gleaming under the lights. He ignored Mingi entirely and went straight to you. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.” You gave a soft laugh, brushing your hair back. “We just got in.” Trevor’s gaze slid down your dress without an ounce of shame. “You look incredible.”
Mingi felt your body shift beside him, your shoulders tightening, that little shy laugh escaping you again as your cheeks flushed pink. He hated that too. Because he knew that laugh. Knew it meant you were flustered. Nervous. A little unsure. Trevor leaned in closer. “Come on, let me get you a drink.” You hesitated, just long enough for Mingi to think you might stay by his side, but then your hand brushed Trevor’s arm in agreement, and Mingi watched you walk off with him.
Watched the way Trevor leaned in too close as he spoke. Watched the way your hair moved when you laughed again. Watched Trevor’s hand skim the small of your back as he guided you toward the bar. Watched everything. And said nothing. He grabbed a drink from a passing tray without looking, downed half of it in one swallow, and forced his jaw to unclench. Because it was fine. You were allowed to talk to other people. You were allowed to laugh. To look beautiful. To be wanted. But God, watching it happen with him, with Trevor, who saw you as something shiny to collect, it made something primal twist in Mingi’s gut.
He wanted to cross the room. He wanted to put his arm around you, pull you back, press his mouth to your ear and say, She’s not yours to touch. But he couldn’t. Because you weren’t his. So instead, he stood there, perfect model posture, calm expression, fingers tight around the glass, watching Trevor make you smile, and wondering how much longer he could take it.
The second drink hit his throat harder than the first, whiskey this time, neat, the way he only drank when something was getting under his skin. Or someone. He didn’t even realize he was gripping the glass tighter until a familiar voice floated up behind him, soft and sugar coated. “Well. If it isn’t Song Mingi.” Mingi didn’t turn around. Not right away. He closed his eyes for half a breath, counted to two, then finally glanced over his shoulder.
Cadence stood there with her signature smile, one that looked good in magazines but always rang false to him now. She looked exactly how he remembered her, expensive, effortless, and dangerous in the way poison was, pretty, but not made to be swallowed twice. “I was wondering how long it’d take for us to run into each other,” she said, inching closer without asking. “You’ve been dodging me.”
“Not really,” Mingi muttered, bringing the glass to his lips again. “I’ve just been busy not giving a fuck.” Her smile didn’t falter. “Still charming.”
“And you’re still wearing Prada like its personality.” That earned him a quiet laugh, but she didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned in more, her arm brushing his. “So,” she said casually, like they hadn’t ended with a slammed door by her and over a year of silence, “you brought your little manager with you.”
Mingi’s jaw twitched as Cadence raised a brow at his silence. He didn’t answer. That was answer enough. Cadence’s lips curled. “She’s cute. Always hanging around backstage. Real committed. Tell me, did you ever tell her how you…..”
“Don’t,” Mingi said flatly, voice like ice. “Don’t what?” she pouted. “I’m being friendly. You always did hate when I was mean.”
“No, I hated that you only ever pretended not to be.”
She laughed again, fake and brittle this time. “So sensitive. You never used to be this cold.”
“You never used to bring up the one person I actually care about like she was disposable.”
That shut her up for a second. But not long. Cadence stepped closer, fingers grazing the hem of his sleeve, her voice dropping just enough to draw blood. “She doesn’t want you that way, Mingi. Don’t you think if she did…. she would have made it obvious?”
Mingi turned fully now, meeting her eyes head on. “Do you ever stop talking?” Cadence’s expression flickered, just for a second. But before she could recover with some faux sweet retort, Mingi stepped back. “Don’t follow me,” he muttered, turning toward the crowd again, eyes already scanning for you. And just like that, she was behind him. But you weren’t.
You were still at the bar with Trevor, his hand on your back, yours resting on the edge of the counter, head tilted just slightly as he said something that made you laugh. And Mingi? He downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down with more force than necessary. Because tonight was quickly becoming hell. And the only thing worse than watching you laugh with someone else… was knowing he had no right to stop it.
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The rooftop air had warmed just enough to make you forget you were technically outside. The city stretched out below in a blur of golden lights and champagne bubbles, and the drink in your hand, some citrusy, overpriced cocktail Trevor insisted you’d like, was actually kind of good. Trevor, for all his cocky swagger and shameless charm, was easy to talk to. A little too much maybe, but he kept his distance just enough to not make it weird. And maybe you were enjoying the attention a little more than you meant to. “You ever model yourself?” he asked, leaning his elbow on the bar, eyes flicking over you in a way that somehow managed to be more appreciative than gross. “You’ve definitely got the face for it.”
You laughed, brushing your hair behind your ear. “That’s not my thing.”
“Maybe it should be.”
You shook your head, smiling into your glass. “I’m good where I am.” And you meant it. You liked being behind the scenes. In control. Unseen. Except for when Mingi looked at you. He never looked at you like you were unseen. You glanced up on instinct. And there he was. Across the rooftop at the bar, jaw tight, eyes locked on the bottom of a shot glass as he slammed it back like it had personally offended him. Another already waiting in his hand. His black shirt clung to him in the heat, sleeves pushed up, neck flushed from the alcohol, or maybe the tension you couldn’t see yet.
What you did see? Cadence. Leaning against the bar a few feet away. Lip gloss shiny. Hair perfect. Watching him like a cat waiting for a mouse to twitch. Your stomach dropped as Trevor said something else, but it was a muffled sound, background noise. You weren’t looking at him anymore. You weren’t listening. Because Mingi threw back another shot, hissed under his breath, and when his eyes lifted they found you. Just for a second. But it hit like a slap. The look in his eyes wasn’t soft. Wasn’t warm. It was dark, simmering, raw. And you felt it like a static charge across the space between you, hot and wild and unspoken. You looked away first.
“Everything okay?” Trevor asked, voice gentler now. You blinked, forcing your expression back into something neutral. “Yeah. Just a little warm.” Trevor stood, gesturing toward the patio seating on the other side. “Let’s go.” You nodded automatically, heart still thudding somewhere in your throat. And as Trevor’s hand grazed the small of your back again, guiding you through the crowd you didn’t look back. But you felt Mingi watching. And it burned.
Mingi watched you walk away, your silhouette swaying with every step, Trevor’s hand ghosting the small of your back like it belonged there. It didn’t. God, it didn’t. The shot glass hit the bar harder than he meant it to, and the bartender gave him a quick glance. He didn’t care. He was already reaching for the next one. The world around him felt fuzzy now, colors too sharp, sounds too dull. The music pulsed with the thump of his heartbeat, but all he could see was you disappearing with someone else. Laughing with someone else.
He barely registered Cadence saying something again beside him. Something about the party. The lighting. The photographer across the way who owed her a campaign. He didn’t answer. Because it was like that night in Brooklyn all over again. You. Looking too good. Smiling at someone else. Except this time, it wasn’t just some passing comment from his mom or a flash of jealousy he could swallow.
This time it was Trevor, who had been eyeing you since the moment you walked into the hotel lobby. Who wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. Who clearly had no idea that Mingi had been in love with you for the better part of the last decade. That you weren’t just his manager. Or his best friend. You were you. And Trevor had his hands on you like you were up for grabs. Mingi’s grip tightened around the shot glass again, but he didn’t take it. Not yet.
His eyes scanned the rooftop until they found you, out on the far end of the terrace now, laughing at something Trevor said. Your hair caught in the breeze. Your smile lit up by the Paris skyline. And all he could think was, That should be me. That should’ve always been him. His heart pounded so loud he couldn’t hear Cadence anymore. She said your name, he heard it then. The sharp edge in her voice, coated in fake sweetness. “They’re cute together,” she said again. “Maybe if she finally gets someone, you will stop pining and being pathetic.”
Mingi looked at her for the first time since she walked up again. And for a split second, he almost said something brutal. But he didn’t. He just took the shot, threw it back like it was medicine, and kept sitting there. He didn’t even know what he was going to do. He just knew the alcohol burned and kept him from storming over dragging you away from Trevor.
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Trevor was still talking. Something about a campaign in Milan. Something about a casting director who owed him a favor. But you weren’t really listening anymore. Not when two other models appeared, one from Dior, the other dripping in Valentino leather, sweeping into the conversation with wide grins and flirty energy, instantly tugging Trevor’s attention away like bees to honey.
You stepped back, your drink mostly gone, fingers curling around the chilled glass as you turned your head toward the bar again. And there he was. Mingi. Still there, stiff and simmering, his frame sharp against the soft lights. And beside him still, Cadence. Her body angled too close. Her smile too sweet. Her hand brushing his arm like it had any right to be there.
Your stomach twisted. You didn’t think. You just moved. Your heels clicked softly across the stone as you walked straight over, threading through the buzz of conversation and clinking glassware until you were there. Cadence saw you first. “Y/N.” Her voice came sugar coated with venom. You gave her a glance. Just one. Cool. Controlled. “Cadence.”
Mingi turned as you reached them, blinking slower than usual, lips parted like he wasn’t expecting you to actually come over. He looked… flushed. A little out of focus. You stepped in closer, ignoring Cadence completely now as your eyes met his. “How drunk are you?” you asked, low and direct. His brow furrowed faintly. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” You saw it, the tight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something behind his eyes. He wasn’t completely wasted. Not yet. But he was definitely on the edge of saying or doing something stupid. You stepped between him and the bar, taking his glass from his hand without waiting for permission and setting it down. Cadence laughed softly behind you. “He’s a grown man, Y/N.”
You didn’t even look at her. “But he’s my problem when he’s hungover on a show day,” you said smoothly. That shut her up. Mingi watched you. Eyes hooded. Lips twitching like he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss you or argue. “You didn’t have to come over,” he said quietly. You tilted your head. “Yes I did.” He didn’t say anything else. Because his gaze was heavy on you, on your mouth, your dress, your bare shoulders, and you could feel the storm under his skin like electricity. And suddenly, the rooftop was too loud. Too bright. Too full of people who weren’t him.
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The ride back to the hotel was quiet. The uber drove slow as Mingi leaned against the car door, head tilted back, eyes half lidded. The Paris lights cast shadows over his sharp jaw, highlighting the curve of his throat, the blue strands of hair that had fallen loose over his eyes. He looked like he belonged on a magazine cover. He also looked drunk as hell. You sighed for the fifth time that ride, glancing at him with a mix of exasperation and something you didn’t want to name. “You’re lucky you didn’t start a scene.”
“I never start scenes,” he muttered, eyes still closed. “I just finish them.” You rolled your eyes. “God, you’re annoying.” He grinned, slow and sloppy. “You like it.”
The elevator ride up was quiet. Heavy. By the time you got to his room, he was sluggish but still moving. Barely. You opened the door and guided him in, your hand steady at his lower back. “Shoes off,” you ordered as you set his phone and wallet on the nightstand. He kicked them off lazily and collapsed onto the bed, face down, groaning into the pillow. You crossed your arms. “You really had to get that drunk the night before Diesel?”
He rolled over, eyes squinting at you like the lights were too much. “You’re mad.”
“Damn right I’m mad,” you snapped, stepping closer. “You have a fitting at noon and then walk call at four, and if you so much as look hungover, they’ll pull you from the lineup.”
“I won’t be hungover.”
“You will.”
“I’ll hydrate.”
You glared. “You’ll suffer, is what you’ll do.”
He pouted. Actually pouted. And then, like gravity meant nothing, he reached for you, fingers curling around the hem of your dress, trailing down until they found bare skin. His palm settled on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Familiar. You froze. “Mingi…” He didn’t say anything. Just blinked up at you, gaze hazy and too soft, thumb brushing back and forth like it had a right to be there. Like he had a right to be there. “You’re so pretty when you’re mad,” he mumbled.
Your breath hitched. “You’re drunk.”
“You’re always takin’ care of me,” he said, still staring at your lips. “Even when I’m stupid. Even when I don’t deserve it.” Your hand found his wrist, fingers wrapping gently, ready to pull him away. But you didn’t. “Why’d you drink so much tonight?” you asked, voice quieter now. His pout deepened. “Because you looked too good. And he kept touching you. And you smiled at him.”
“Mingi….”
“I didn’t like it,” he whispered, thumb still ghosting your skin. “Didn’t like him looking at you like that. Didn’t like that you let him.” You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “You’re my best friend,” he added, barely audible. “But I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.” And now your hands were shaking. Because you’d waited years to hear those words. But not like this. Not like this.
Mingi’s hand lingered on your thigh even after his words faded. He looked up at you through heavy lids, dark eyes soft and glossy from the whiskey. His other hand braced lazily against the bed as he leaned into you like he was searching for warmth, or permission. “I don’t wanna be your friend anymore,” he whispered again, messily.
You closed your fingers around his wrist. Not harsh. Not panicked. Just… steady. “You’re drunk,” you said quietly.
“I still mean it.”
He didn’t fight you as you gently moved his hand away. Didn’t argue when you nudged his shirt up and helped him pull it over his head. He just let you. Silent now, all pout and heavy limbs as you tugged the waistband of his pants down, leaving him in just his underwear. He flopped back against the bed, exhausted, eyes following your every move as you stepped away and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge. You sat it on the nightstand beside two aspirin, your fingers brushing the cap once, lingering like you didn’t want to leave just yet.
Mingi’s voice was thick, softer than before. “You mad at me?” You looked back at him, laying there in the dark with mussed hair and flushed cheeks, his chest rising and falling under the thin hotel sheets. He looked like the boy you’d known since you were fifteen. The boy who used to fall asleep next to you on couches, who trusted you with every version of himself.
You shook your head slowly. “No. I’m just mad you drank enough to forget how much you matter tomorrow.” He blinked at you like he didn’t expect that answer. You turned to the door, hand on the knob. “Get some sleep, Mingi,” you said gently. “You’re gonna be amazing tomorrow.” And before he could say anything else, before he could reach for you again, you slipped out, closing the door behind you with a soft click. Leaving him in the quiet. Leaving yourself with a hundred unsaid words.
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You woke up before your alarm. Of course you did. The Paris light was still soft, creeping pale and gold through the sheer hotel curtains. You blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dry, mouth cottony from the cocktail or maybe just the weight in your chest. Mingi’s voice echoed in your head like it had been stitched into your dreams.
“I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.”
And his hand on your thigh. His thumb brushing your skin. The way he’d looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him. You rolled onto your side, staring at the phone on your nightstand. No texts. No calls. No drunken voice notes like he used to send in college when he didn’t know how to sleep without you around. Maybe he didn’t even remember. Maybe that’s why he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t mean it.
You got out of bed slowly, running your hands through your hair, heart aching in a way that had nothing to do with Paris or fashion or any of the reasons you’d come here in the first place. You had spent the night wondering how to talk to him about it. And now you weren’t even sure if you were allowed to bring it up.
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Mingi woke up to a headache that made him want to delete his entire skull. He groaned into the pillow, the sun already burning through his eyelids. Everything tasted like regret and expensive whiskey. His body ached, his mouth was dry, and the second he shifted on the mattress, memories came flooding back. You. At the party. In that dress. Your fingers on his wrist, your voice saying he’s drunk.You pulling your thigh away. Your eyes soft, but unreadable. You telling him to sleep. And then leaving.
And worst of all…. “I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.”
He buried his face into the pillow and swore under his breath. He remembered. Of course he remembered. He’d meant it. Every slurred word. Every glance. Every time he wanted to say it and hadn’t, until it spilled out in a haze of alcohol and jealousy and you looking at someone else like maybe he’d already lost you. But you hadn’t said anything back. Not really. You didn’t say me too. You just took care of him. The way you always did.
Because that’s what you were good at. Taking care of him. Like a best friend. Like a manager. Not like someone in love with him. So Mingi lay there, arm slung over his eyes, and made a decision. He would pretend it didn’t happen. He would smile. He’d joke. He’d get through this show. He’d go back to being the Mingi you knew, careless, easy, comfortable. Because if you wanted him like that… you would’ve said something. Right?
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The Diesel showroom was bustling, racks of clothing wheeling past, stylists shouting for seam rippers and garment tape, photographers taking behind the scenes shots for social. The air was heavy with the scent of fabric, steam, and anticipation. You stood just outside the fitting area, arms crossed over your ipad, watching Mingi on the platform as the head stylist adjusted the fall of his long, tailored coat. Black. Of course. Sleek. Sharp. Gorgeous.
You couldn’t even appreciate it properly. Not with your mind stuck on last night. The words had stayed with you like a bruise beneath your skin, pressed deep, hidden beneath your expression. You hadn’t brought it up. He hadn’t either. He didn’t mention it when he met you downstairs this morning. Didn’t act like he remembered anything beyond the weather. He’d even smiled at you the same way he always did. Familiar. Easy. Casual. Like he hadn’t confessed everything. Like he hadn’t touched your thigh like he wanted more.
And maybe he really didn’t remember. Maybe that was for the best. “Y/N,” the stylist called over, “can you check the collar again? He keeps shifting it.” You stepped forward with automatic precision, fingers adjusting the edge of his black turtleneck beneath the heavy coat. He was warm beneath your hands. Too warm. And far too quiet. Your breath caught when he looked down at you. Not far. Just enough to meet your eyes. Just enough to make your hands freeze at his collar. His jaw tensed as you pulled your hands back quickly. “It’s fine now.”
“Thanks,” he said, soft. Too soft. The stylist nodded and moved on, but you stayed there a second longer than necessary. Not looking at him. Not saying a word. He didn’t either. And maybe that said more than either of you wanted to admit.
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The Diesel show space was buzzing, pulsing lights shifting over concrete floors and rows of chairs filled with the elite of the elite. Cameras flashed from every angle, and behind the curtain, you knew the energy was electric, stylists adjusting last minute fits, models being herded into place, the playlist thumping through the walls like a heartbeat. You weren’t front row by choice. You were in the back row, behind the celebrities and designers, ipad in hand, headset looped around your neck, your badge marking you as important but invisible. Right where you preferred to be.
Mingi would be walking soon. And still all you could think about was last night. You hadn’t seen him since the fitting. He’d sent you a brief, clipped “ready when you are” text this afternoon, and that was it. No mention of the confession. No mention of you. Just like nothing had ever happened. You were still staring down at your ipad when a familiar voice slid beside you, smooth as glass. “Y/N.”
You didn’t need to look. You already knew. You bit back a groan. “Don’t you have your own show to walk?” Cadence slid into the seat beside you, her perfume hitting your nose like expensive bad decisions. She wore a structured blazer dress and thigh high boots that looked fresh off a Balmain runway, because they probably were. “Oh, mine was earlier today,” she said sweetly. “Thought I’d come show some support.”
You raised an eyebrow. “For Diesel?”
“For Mingi,” she clarified, smiling like she’d just won something. “He’s always looked good in black.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because every word out of her mouth was calculated. Every glance, every move. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she knew you knew. “How’s he doing, by the way?” she asked, crossing her legs. “He got a little messy last night. Poor thing.” You kept your expression neutral. Calm. Dangerous. “He’s fine.”
Cadence’s smile sharpened at the edges. “You always were good at cleaning up his messes.” Your jaw twitched as the lights in the room dimmed, signaling showtime. The crowd shifted, voices dropping. The curtain stirred. You didn’t look at her again. Because the only thing you cared about was behind that curtain now.
Bass thrummed through the venue, deep and slow. Smoke curled low over the runway like mist crawling in from some haunted forest. The crowd fell still, phones poised, anticipation crackling in the air. The Diesel show was beginning. And all you needed to do was focus. You sat straighter, eyes on the curtain, waiting for the first model, waiting for him.
But then Cadence leaned in. Close enough that only you could hear. “I never liked you.” You didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink. “I used to have to beg Mingi to cancel plans with you.” Your jaw clenched. The music pulsed. The crowd whispered. The first model stepped out. Not Mingi. Not yet. “He’d always say you’d understand. Like you were some exception. I hated that.”
You inhaled through your nose, counted to three, refused to give her the reaction she wanted. The curtain shifted again. The lights changed. A model in leather stomped past.
“You know he’s, like… in love with you, right?”
Your heart skipped and Cadence smiled without looking at you, her voice syrup slick. “I tried fucking it out of him.” Your head turned slowly. “He even moaned your name once.” You froze. “Then he dumped me a week later.” And that’s when the curtain parted and Mingi stepped out. All six feet of him, black Diesel leather hugging his frame like armor. The coat swished with every step, collar high, chain glinting beneath the runway lights. His eyes were shadowed, focused, sharp. You knew that walk. That confidence. But your body was ice.
You barely heard the gasps around you. Barely saw the cameras flash. Barely noticed the way he looked straight through the crowd, searching. Searching for you. But your gaze didn’t meet his. Not this time. Because Cadence’s voice was still ringing in your ears, He even moaned your name once. And you had no idea….. no idea he’d ever thought of you like that. No idea how much it had meant. No idea that your name had haunted him even when you weren’t there.
Your breath caught. Your hands were shaking as Mingi walked with fire in his veins, the entire room eating from the palm of his hand. And you? You couldn’t breathe. Because suddenly, last night wasn’t just a drunken confession. It was the truth he hadn’t known how to say until it slipped out.
You stood up before you even realized you were moving. The cheers blurred around you. Camera flashes turned into bursts of white behind your eyes. Cadence said something else, probably smug, probably meant to push you further, but it all fell away beneath the rising rush in your chest. The walls were closing in.
Your fingers trembled as you slid past the row of chairs, muttering something about needing to take a call to the nearest security usher, an excuse you didn’t even hear yourself say. You didn’t look at the runway. Couldn’t. You just moved. Fast. Through the crowd, past the murmurs of stylists and PR assistants, through the swinging double doors and out into the narrow hallway behind the venue. The cold of the stone walls hit you like a slap. Dim lighting. Empty.
You pressed your back against the wall and finally let yourself breathe. Your pulse was still racing. Not because of the show. Not even because of Cadence. But because of him. Because her words had confirmed what you’d only ever dreamed might be true. And now, the way he looked at you made sense. The way he held you when he was drunk. The way he said he didn’t want to be your friend anymore. It hadn’t been the alcohol talking. It had been him. Real. Raw. Honest.
And now? Now you didn’t know what the hell to do with that. You leaned forward, hands on your knees, heart pounding. And somewhere behind you, out there, Mingi was walking that runway like he wasn’t changing your life just by existing. You closed your eyes. You needed to pull yourself together before he came looking. Because part of you already knew he would.
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You stood just outside the backstage entrance, arms crossed tight over your chest, cold air clinging to your skin despite the jacket someone had handed you on your way out. The hallway buzzed behind you, stylists shouting, assistants herding models toward the press wall, camera shutters going off in rapid clicks. Laughter. Cheers. Celebration. But your head was still spinning.
You kept your eyes on the floor. On your phone. On anything but the figure stepping out through the side doors now. You felt him before you saw him. The shift in the air. The way your heart stuttered just once. Mingi. He had a towel slung around his neck, his Diesel coat half off one shoulder, cheeks flushed from the walk, hair messy in that dangerously perfect way it always was after a runway. And he was looking for you. His steps slowed when he spotted you. “Y/N…” he started.
You didn’t let him finish. “You need to get back to the hotel,” you said quickly, voice low but firm. “You’ve got less than two hours to shower and change before the after party.” He blinked. You still weren’t looking at him. “You’re not gonna say anything about the show?” he asked, quieter now. “It was good,” you said, still not meeting his eyes. “You were good.”
“Just good?”
You swallowed. “You always are.”
He shifted his weight like he wanted to say something else, wanted to ask what was wrong, why you left, why your voice sounded like it was dipped in glass, but you cut him off again before he could speak. “Go get ready, Mingi.” That name. The way you said it. No softness. Just his name, sharp and professional, like a closing door.
His jaw tensed. But he didn’t push. “Yeah,” he muttered after a beat. “Okay.” He turned, walking toward the car waiting at the end of the lot. You didn’t follow. Not right away. Not until you were sure he wasn’t looking back. Because if he did, if he saw your face…. he’d know that all the things you weren’t saying were clawing their way up your throat. And you weren’t ready for him to see that. Not yet.
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The hotel lobby buzzed with soft music and polished footsteps, voices echoing low under vaulted ceilings. Crystal light fixtures sparkled overhead, casting gold shadows across the marble floor. You sat near one of the pillars, legs crossed, fingers toying with the strap of your coat as you checked the time on your phone for the third time. He was late. Only by a minute or two, but you felt every second stretch across your nerves like wire.
The coat draped around your frame was long, dark, and heavy enough to conceal the dress beneath. And thank God for that. Because if anyone saw what you were wearing underneath, this slinky, dark chocolate silk with lace tracing every sinfully high slit, you’d never make it to the after party without getting stopped. Your heart was already pounding harder than it should’ve been. Not from nerves about the event, but from everything else.
From Mingi last night. From Cadence’s words. From the way Mingi had acted like nothing had happened all day. And yet, part of you still waited. Still hoped. The elevator dinged. Your eyes lifted. And there he was. Mingi stepped out with all the swagger of a man who didn’t know he was walking into an ambush. His all black fit clung perfectly, pants tailored within an inch of their life, chains draped low at his hips, shirt hanging open just enough to hint at skin. His hair was styled like he hadn’t tried but you knew he had, and that Diesel logo peeking from his waistband was practically criminal. He looked unreal.
And then he saw you. He stopped walking. Not dramatically, but just enough to make your breath catch. His eyes scanned the room, found you instantly, and in the space of a single heartbeat, the tension between you snapped taut. You stood slowly, the coat still cinched tight, hiding everything beneath. “Hey,” you said, keeping your tone even.
His eyes lingered on your face a little longer than they needed to. “Hey,” he echoed, quieter. The silence stretched. He looked like he wanted to say something, so did you, but neither of you moved until, finally, you tilted your head. “You ready to go?”
He nodded. But he couldn’t stop looking at you. And he still had no idea what you were hiding under that coat. Not yet. But he would. Oh, he definitely would.
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The after party was already in full swing by the time you arrived, ambient lighting, glass walls revealing a glittering stretch of the Seine below. Music pulsed soft and slow, designed to make people feel expensive while they got drunk enough to forget how hungry they were. Mingi stepped out first. He adjusted his cuffs, already scanning the crowd, a familiar rhythm settling in his bones. This wasn’t his first after party. Wasn’t even his first this week. But something about tonight felt sharper. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold that clung to the air or the ghost of your voice in his head all day.
You hadn’t said anything since earlier, since the quiet, careful dismissal outside the venue. And now, you were behind him. He felt you more than he saw you. A flicker of presence at his back, the weight of something unspoken pressing between his shoulder blades. He turned slightly, expecting you at his side. But you lingered behind. Then a voice broke through the noise. “May I take your coat, miss?” He looked back, just in time to see you pause, eyes calm, smile polite, and then nod.
“Of course,” you said. And that’s when you shrugged it off. The coat slid from your shoulders with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to real people, just ghosts and dreams and fantasies wrapped in silk. And suddenly… Mingi couldn’t breathe. The dress. That dress. Dark chocolate silk clinging like a second skin, trimmed in black lace, slit high enough to make his pulse slam. Your legs, those legs, stepping forward like they had a damn vendetta. The neckline dipped dangerously, the thin straps barely holding up the weight of what this night was about to become.
Mingi didn’t realize his jaw had tensed. Didn’t realize he’d stopped walking. Didn’t realize every other sound in the room had gone dull in his ears. All he saw was you. You, stepping into the golden light, hair loose, completely unfazed. You, pretending you didn’t just ruin him in one move. You, the reason his chest felt too tight for breath. You, the girl he couldn’t have. Not unless you wanted him back. And he didn’t know if you did. But God… if you didn’t? He was fucked.
Mingi walked beside you through the crowd toward the bar, muscles tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he was trying to keep them from doing something very, very stupid. The slit of your dress swayed with every step, flashing thigh and just enough danger to keep his blood pressure climbing. You didn’t say anything either. Which only made it worse. His mouth was dry. His jaw locked.
You reached the bar and leaned forward to order, your back arching just slightly, the silk of your dress shifting with the motion, and Mingi had to look away. He was this close to saying fuck the party and dragging you out of there to finally, finally talk about what was ripping him in half.
“Y/N.”
Mingi turned, and the night instantly got worse. Trevor. Of course. He strolled up to you like he owned the entire building, dressed in an undone designer suit, a drink already in hand, and that smirk Mingi had hated since the second he laid eyes on it. “You,” Trevor said, eyes trailing down your dress with no shame whatsoever, “look like my favorite kind of sin tonight.”
Mingi rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull as you turned, grinning politely, too polite, and greeted him like it was nothing. “Trevor.”
“I was looking for you last night,” he said, stepping a little too close. “You left me at the rooftop. Wounded my pride.”
Mingi took a slow sip of his drink just to keep from launching it.
You didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry,” you said with a tilt of your head. “This one almost got too drunk to walk the runway.” Trevor blinked as Mingi choked slightly on his whiskey. You didn’t elaborate. Just looked down into your glass like you didn’t just drop a live grenade between them. Trevor laughed, but it was a little forced now. “Did he?”
“Mm,” you hummed. “Couldn’t risk him sleeping through call time.”
Mingi stared at you. You weren’t looking at him. But your hand brushed against his wrist, barely, just once, like a whisper. Like maybe you did remember. Like maybe it meant something. Trevor was still talking, but Mingi wasn’t listening anymore. He was looking at you. And wondering how long he could keep pretending none of this was real. Because you? You were the prettiest punishment he’d ever asked for. And if Trevor didn’t back off soon… Mingi wasn’t sure he could keep pretending at all.
You excused yourself with a quiet, “Be right back,” fingers brushing the stem of your glass before you turned toward the restroom. Mingi watched you go. He shouldn’t have. But he did. Watched the way the silk of your dress clung to your back, the lace catching in the light. Watched your hair fall just right, your heels tapping softly against the floor like the goddamn drumbeat of his sanity.
And when you turned the corner out of sight, Trevor whistled low under his breath. Mingi blinked, torn from the trance, finally dragging his gaze back to Trevor, who was still watching. But now? He wasn’t watching you. He was watching Mingi. Something about the shift made Mingi’s spine go rigid as Trevor tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. “You really gonna keep standing there like that?”
Mingi narrowed his gaze. “Like what?”
Trevor’s smile was slow. Unbothered. Annoyingly knowing. “Like someone who hasn’t figured out that she’d let you ruin her if you asked.” Mingi stiffened as Trevor took a sip of his drink, still watching him over the rim of the glass. And then, casually, like it wasn’t the most incendiary thing he could’ve said, “If you don’t fuck her, I’m certainly going to.”
Mingi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His entire body tensed like someone had pulled a wire taut through his chest. For a full beat, he just stared at Trevor, the words echoing, sinking in, burning. “Say that again.”
Trevor laughed. “Relax, man. It’s a compliment.” Mingi stepped forward once, just enough to invade space. Just enough that Trevor’s smirk faltered for the first time. “No, see…” Mingi’s voice dropped, low and lethal. “You think you’re slick, but you don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
Mingi leaned in, eyes dark. “That if you ever talk about her like that again, you’re gonna find out just how fast I stop pretending to be civil.” Trevor held his hands up, still half grinning. “Damn, alright. Didn’t realize you were that territorial.” Mingi’s jaw clenched. “She’s not a territory. She’s a fucking person.” And the way he said it, quiet, controlled, but shaking with restraint, made it clear, You weren’t just someone to him. You were it.
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The bathroom was quiet. Muted music thumped faintly through the walls, bass vibrating beneath the marble tile. You stood at the sink, cool water running over your fingers as you tried to collect yourself. The silk dress clung to your hips like a secret, and for a moment, you avoided your reflection, afraid of what you might see written all over your face. Heat. Confusion. Mingi. You turned off the tap, reaching for a towel just as the door creaked open behind you.
“Well… don’t you clean up nice.”
Your stomach turned, slow and sharp. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. You glanced at the mirror anyway. Cadence stood by the doorway, arms crossed, lips curled, heels clicking against the marble as she took a step inside. Her dress was some kind of couture snakeskin print, all sharp edges and perfectly placed cutouts. She looked like a threat and loved it. You dabbed your hands dry. “Didn’t realize this party had a final boss.”
Cadence smiled sweetly. “Only if you’re still playing.”
You tossed the towel onto the counter and finally turned to face her, arms resting casually on the edge of the sink. “Don’t you have someone else to stalk tonight?”
“Oh no,” she said, running her manicured nails through her hair like she had all the time in the world. “This is way more fun. Watching you pretend you’re not shaking under that dress.” You blinked. “What exactly do you think I’m scared of?” She tilted her head. “Losing. Again.” You let out a soft laugh. “He’s not yours to lose.”
Her smile faltered for a half second. Just long enough to make you feel it. Then she recovered. “No. Not anymore. But he used to be. And for a while, it didn’t matter how close you were. I still had him.” Your throat tightened, but you didn’t let it show as Cadence stepped closer. “But now?” she murmured, voice dropping. “Now he doesn’t even look at anyone else. It’s nauseating.” She moved past you slowly, heading toward the mirror, touching up her lipstick. “Careful though,” she added, eyes locked with yours in the reflection. “If you’re not ready to handle someone like Mingi… someone will.”
You stared at her in the glass. Steady. Calm. Until finally, your voice cut like glass. “That’s the difference between us, Cadence. You wanted to own him. I just want to love him.” And with that, you walked out, heels clicking, head high, pulse pounding. Because yeah, you were still shaking. Felt like you could runaway from this party and collapse. Not sure if you could look your best friend in the eye again without telling him how much you want him.
You smoothed your hands over your dress as you stepped out of the restroom, your breath still catching in small waves. The hallway pulsed with the thrum of music, the gold toned light brushing over your skin as you turned toward the bar. Mingi was there. You could see him now, still in that fitted black shirt, sleeves pushed up, silver chains glinting as he leaned one arm on the bar. He hadn’t seen you yet, but the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, it was all tension.
You started toward him. And then Trevor stepped in your path. “Leaving so soon?” he asked smoothly, drink in hand, smile already forming like it had been rehearsed. You blinked, slowing down, irritation curling in your chest. “I was just…”
“Come sit with me,” he said, cutting you off. “Just for a minute. I’ve got a table, view of the whole room.” You glanced over his shoulder, Mingi hadn’t seen yet. “Trevor, I don’t think…”
“You look too good to be left standing around,” he added, leaning in slightly. “C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re still babysitting tonight.” Your mouth opened, ready to shut it down, but then you felt it. A hand at your waist. Warm. Solid. Familiar. “Actually,” Mingi’s voice cut in, low and lethal behind you, “she’s with me.” Your breath caught.
Trevor turned, face shifting into something smug and expectant, but before he could get a word out, Mingi was already guiding you away. His arm stayed firmly around your waist, steering you without hesitation, eyes locked on Trevor’s like a challenge who laughed, but it was a little too loud. “Damn, man. Possessive much?”
Mingi didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back. And as the two of you passed the restroom, Cadence stepped out, eyes locking onto the scene just in time to see you tucked perfectly against Mingi’s side, his hand possessive on your hip, the look on his face anything but casual. She stopped walking. Practically got bumped by Trevor trying to laugh it off behind you.
But you didn’t stop. And neither did Mingi. He didn’t let go until the two of you were tucked in the farthest corner of the bar, somewhere quiet, shadowed, where the music faded into the background. Only then did he speak. “I’m not doing this anymore,” he said, voice tight, breath hot against your temple. “I’m not pretending.”
You blinked, breath caught in your throat. “What?” you asked, barely above a whisper. You hadn’t meant for it to come out that soft. That stunned. But Mingi was staring at you like he’d already made peace with tearing everything down. His gaze dropped, slow, deliberate, trailing down the length of you until it hit the slit in your dress. The silk parted just enough when you shifted, revealing the smooth skin of your thigh, the lace edge barely kissing it. His jaw flexed, breath hitching. And then, voice low, rough, honest, “I don’t want to be friends anymore.”
Your stomach dropped as his eyes flicked back up to yours, dark and burning and barely holding on. “I was drunk last night. But I meant what I said.” You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Because this was different. This wasn’t a slip of the tongue or a haze of liquor. This was real. Sharp. Clear. Mingi, standing in front of you, breaking his own heart to tell you the truth.
He took a step closer. Not touching you. But close enough that you could feel the heat of him beneath all that restraint. “I can be your friend if you want me to,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll sit next to you at fittings. I’ll act like it’s enough. I’ll lie.” He swallowed hard. “But do you have any idea how hard it is to be just your friend?” You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe! “How every time,every time for years, I tried to bury it. In someone else. In Cadence. In anyone who wasn’t you.”
He was shaking now, barely holding it together. “Even when I was inside someone else, all I saw was you.” The world stopped. Just for a moment. Everything fell away, the music, the laughter, the after party spinning around you like a carousel of empty glamour. All that was left was him. And the truth. And you, tongue tied. Wide eyed. Heart shattering under the weight of his confession. Your voice was soft. Disbelieving. “You want me?”
Mingi’s gaze lifted from your lips to your eyes, slow and devastating, like he was trying to memorize this version of you, soft, stunned, lips parted and pulse flickering beneath your skin. Then his hand moved. It slid forward and down, fingers finding the hem of your dress, brushing bare skin as he settled his palm over your thigh. Warm. Possessive. Certain. His thumb stroked once. Deliberate. “I’ve wanted you for years.”
Everything around you, voices, music, Paris itself, blurred into a slow, thudding silence. It was just him. His hand on you. His voice still echoing. “I’ve wanted you since we were sneaking fries behind my parent’s restaurant,” he murmured, voice low and frayed at the edges. “Since before I even knew what to do with that kind of wanting.” Your breath hitched. “And I tried to kill it,” he continued, leaning closer, every word pressing tighter against your skin.
You felt like you’d been punched and kissed in the same second. And Mingi, God, he looked like he was barely holding it together. His hand was still on your thigh, but his other hand gripped the edge of the bar like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. “So tell me,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Do I keep pretending I’m not in love with you? Or do I finally get to have you?”
The silence stretched. Too long. Mingi could feel his pulse in his ears, feel it in the grip of his hand on your thigh, feel it in the way your lips parted like you were trying to speak but didn’t. And then your hand wrapped around his. Soft. Warm. Gentle. For a split second, panic surged through him. You were going to pull him away. You were going to let him down easy, with that soft voice and those kind eyes, and he was going to have to swallow this truth forever and pretend again, pretend until it broke him.
But instead…. you guided his hand under the slit of your dress and his breath hitched. Your voice was low, like you were telling him something sacred, “You’re not the only one who’s wanted this for years.” The words shattered something in him. Because now his hand was under the silk, fingertips grazing warm, bare skin, and your thigh trembled under his touch. His thumb brushed higher instinctively, reverent, almost unsure, like he couldn’t believe you were real, saying this, letting him in.
He stared at you. Your eyes were wide, lips soft, cheeks flushed. And for a second, he didn’t breathe. Then his voice broke, rough and low. “Say it again.” You didn’t hesitate. “I’ve wanted you for years, Mingi.” And just like that, his restraint snapped. But not violently. Not recklessly. Like gravity finally letting go. His hand slid higher beneath your dress, slow, worshipful, while his other came up to cradle the back of your neck. And when his forehead pressed to yours, his lips barely brushing your mouth, “Tell me I can have you.”
There was a beat of silence again. A held breath between lips and promises, between the years of tension and the seconds it took to break it. You were still guiding Mingi’s hand under your dress, your fingers tight around his wrist, his palm now resting high on your thigh, just shy of dangerous. You smiled. A slow, wicked curve of your lips. “Only if you get me the hell out of here.”
That broke him. Mingi laughed, quiet and breathless, the kind of laugh that came from deep relief and deeper need. He pulled back just enough to see your face, that grin spreading wide and crooked and stupidly handsome. “Done.” He grabbed your hand instantly, threading his fingers through yours like it was muscle memory, and without another word, he turned and started moving, shoulders squared, chest high, like he didn’t give a damn who saw. You barely had time to catch your breath before you were swept along with him, your heels clicking as he pulled you through the crowd.
He didn’t look at anyone else. But they all looked at him. Especially her. Cadence was still near the bar, one hand curled loosely around a champagne glass, the other dangling uselessly at her side. Her eyes locked on Mingi’s back, on your intertwined hands. And for a flicker of a second, her expression cracked. Pure jealousy twisted her features, cold and venomous.
Mingi only paused once, half a second at the coat check to snatch your coat from a stunned attendant, before draping it over your shoulders. The walk back to the hotel was a blur. Only a few blocks, but neither of you noticed the Paris streets or the soft chatter of the city at night. Not when your hands were still locked, not when every step added another layer of heat under your skin. Mingi didn’t say a word. He just kept glancing at you, down at your lips, at your legs peeking through the slit in your dress, then quickly away like if he looked too long, he’d drag you into the alley and kiss you there.
By the time you stepped into the hotel lobby, the tension between you was a living thing. Breathing. Clawing. Demanding. You both reached the elevator, silent and flushed. The moment the doors slid closed, you felt it shift, something deep and dangerous crackling in the quiet space. Mingi stood next to you, hands in his pockets, jaw tight, like he was trying not to move. Like touching you now would start something he couldn’t stop.
Your shoulder brushed his and he inhaled sharply. Neither of you said a word. Not when the numbers ticked up. Not when your floor arrived. But the second the doors opened, he grabbed your hand again, tighter this time, and pulled you with him, his pace fast, urgent, like if he hesitated even once, he’d break. You barely registered the hallway carpet or the number on the door. And then you were inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and it was over.
Mingi turned, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. And then, without a word, he stepped in. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist, and he kissed you like he was drowning. Like he’d been waiting years to finally breathe. Your back hit the door as his mouth claimed yours, hot, desperate, teeth and tongue and everything you’d both held back for far too long.
He didn’t rush. But he didn’t hesitate either. Every second poured with everything he couldn’t say. Everything he had said. And every bit of wanting that had nearly torn him apart. And you kissed him back like he belonged to you. Because deep down, he always had. Your back hit the hotel room door with a soft thud, but neither of you noticed. His hands found your waist, sliding up your sides, curling under the coat that still hung from your shoulders. He pushed it off without breaking the kiss, letting it fall to the floor in a forgotten heap.
His mouth moved to your jaw. Then lower. Warm lips brushed beneath your ear. Down the curve of your neck. You tilted your head, gasping as his mouth trailed hot, open kisses across your throat, slow and possessive. His teeth grazed your skin once, and your knees nearly gave out. “Mingi…”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees. Right there in the middle of the hotel room. You watched, breathless, as his hands slid up the back of your thighs, fingertips ghosting beneath the slit of your dress. His palms were warm. Big. Certain. He looked up at you, lips parted, pupils blown wide, voice wrecked, “You’re evil for this dress.”
You smiled, cheeks flushed, fingers sliding into his hair. “You like it?” He didn’t answer. He just dragged his hands higher, slow, reverent, curling under the hem of the silk until it gathered around your hips. And the look in his eyes? Like worship. Like sin. Like you were the only thing on this earth he’d ever beg for. The fabric whispered as Mingi pushed the silk of your dress higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem, warm palms gliding up the backs of your thighs with aching patience. The material bunched in his hands as he held it there, lips parted, gaze locked on your skin like he was afraid to blink and miss a second of you.
Then, slowly, he dipped his head. And kissed the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitched. Another kiss. Higher. Softer. Hotter. His mouth moved with purpose, worshipping the path up your leg like he’d traced it in dreams. The kind of kisses that made your knees unsteady and your hands reach for anything, his shoulders, his hair, the edge of your sanity. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured against your skin. Then he kissed higher.
The silk of your dress trembled in his grip, still held up by one hand as the other slid behind your thigh, pulling you closer, guiding you into the heat of his mouth, his breath. He looked up once, eyes heavy, lips swollen, jaw tight, and said, wrecked, “I could stay right here all night.” And God… he meant it.
The silk was bunched high on your hips now, Mingi’s hands still gripping the fabric, holding it like it was sacred, like you were sacred. His mouth trailed slow, open mouthed kisses higher and higher up your thigh, until the heat of his breath hit right where you needed him most. His lips brushed over the lace between your legs and you gasped.
He groaned. “Fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. He pressed his mouth there again, over your panties this time. Soft. Hot. Intentional. Once. Twice. A third time, lingering longer, breathing you in through thin lace like he couldn’t get close enough. You felt him everywhere. Then his hands moved, fingertips skimming along the waistband of your panties, slow and careful, like he was giving you a chance to stop him.
You didn’t. You couldn’t. He hooked his thumbs under the delicate lace and started dragging them down. Inches at a time. Painfully slow. His eyes never left yours as he slid them over your thighs, your knees, finally letting them fall to the floor. And when he looked up at you again, still on his knees, lips even more swollen, voice wrecked, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently, not to pull him away, but to keep him looking at you. Mingi’s breath hitched as you tilted his chin up, eyes locked. “How long have you thought about this?” His gaze was blown wide with lust, but behind it, heat, ache, devotion. He let out a breathless laugh, voice wrecked. “Probably as long as you have.” And then he was gone. Mouth pressed against you, tongue plunging in deep with no hesitation. Your hand clenched in his hair as your head tipped back, a gasp catching in your throat.
He moaned into you. The sound low, desperate, relieved. Like he’d waited years for this, because he had. His hands held your thighs tight, mouth moving with a rhythm, his tongue dragging through your folds before diving back in, deeper, hungrier. You couldn’t hold still. You couldn’t think. All you could do was feel, Mingi between your thighs, on his knees, devouring you like he’d starve if he didn’t. And above all else, you never wanted him to stop.
The silk of your dress slipped over Mingi’s shoulders as he adjusted his grip, hands firmly at the backs of your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as he looked up at you from between your legs. His mouth was already wet with you, chin glistening, hair messy from your grip. “You taste so fucking good.” He kissed you again, tongue flicking slow and deliberate, drawing a broken moan from deep in your throat. It only made him hungrier. He flattened his tongue, dragging it through your folds before dipping back in, this time deeper, firmer. You cried out, hips jolting, and his hands tightened to hold you steady. “That’s it,” he murmured, breath hot against you. “Let me hear you.”
And you did. Every swirl of his tongue made your knees weaker, every slow press against your clit made you louder. You weren’t trying to hold back anymore. You couldn’t. You gripped his hair, tugging, head tipping back against the wall as you panted his name. He groaned against you at the sound, the vibration making you cry out again. He slid one hand up, slipping under your dress to cup your ass, pulling you closer, tighter to his face. He was fucking you with his tongue. And loving every second of it.
You felt yourself starting to unravel, thighs trembling, stomach tightening with every stroke, every tease, every moan he dragged out of you. And still, he didn’t stop. Because this? This was the part he dreamed about. You. Loud. Shaking. Falling apart just for him. Mingi shifted, gripping your thighs tighter. And then, before you could catch your breath, he stood. Effortless. He lifted you onto his shoulders like it was nothing, your legs draped over his back, the silk of your dress slipping higher, pooling around your waist as his mouth found you again.
“Mingi…. oh my God!”
He growled into you at the sound of his name, tongue pressing deep, lips locked around your clit as he sucked hard, and your whole body jerked. Your back hit the wall, your hands tangled in his blue hair, nails digging into his scalp as the pressure inside you coiled tighter, tighter, tighter. He didn’t stop. He didn’t fucking stop. His grip on your thighs was bruising, mouth greedy, tongue fucking into you like he was devouring every second, groaning as you got louder, as your hips bucked, as your breath hitched and your legs started to shake around his shoulders.
“You taste…. fuck…” he panted against you, eyes fluttering open just long enough to see what he was doing to you. “Come for me. I want all of it.” And that was it. That was the moment you snapped. Your orgasm tore through you with a full body shudder, loud and uncontrollable as your fingers tightened in his hair and your cry echoed off the walls. You couldn’t hold back. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
Everything tunneled into the way he held you. The way he moaned against you like he’d just been given the world. He didn’t stop until you were spent, until your body finally sagged forward and your hand tugged weakly at his hair, breath shaky against his forehead. Only then did he let your legs slip down, arms catching you with ease as he held you against his chest, lips brushing your shoulder. Still breathing hard. Still holding you like he never wanted to let go.
Your body was trembling, legs unsteady as you leaned into him, Mingi holding you up like he never wanted to let go. His forehead rested against your shoulder, breath ragged, hair damp with sweat and your fingers. But as your pulse slowed, your grip shifted. Stronger now. More deliberate. You pulled back just enough to look at him, his lips still slick, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide with need. And then you kissed him. Hard. Messy. Open mouthed and desperate, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth like you needed it. Like this kiss wasn’t the beginning but a claim.
He groaned low in his throat, hands tightening at your waist and then you bit his lip. Not hard. Just enough to make him whimper. You tugged it between your teeth, eyes locked on his. Then let go with a smug little smile. “You’re right,” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek. “I do taste good.” Mingi groaned again, louder, throatier, his head tipping back as his hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Fuck…” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Mm,” you hummed, already pushing him back, walking him toward the bed. “Not yet.” He stumbled slightly, letting you guide him, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress as you dropped to yours. Your fingers found his belt, slow and teasing, tugging at the waistband of his pants as your lips hovered near the skin just below his navel. Then you looked up at him, eyes dark, grin wicked. “How do you taste, Mingi?”
His head dropped back with a broken growl, fists clenching the sheets. Because nothing in this entire world could’ve prepared him for the fact that you, his sweet, professional, always in control best friend, were about to wreck him. And he was going to let you. Gladly. Mingi sat back on the edge of the bed, legs spread, chest heaving, every muscle coiled tight beneath your hands as you slowly peeled his pants down over his hips.
He watched you. Silently. Almost like he couldn’t believe you were real. But you just looked up at him, one brow raised, lips already parted with mischief. “Why are you just staring?” you said, voice low and velvet smooth. “Strip.” Mingi let out another breathless laugh, shaky, wrecked, completely yours. “Yes, ma’am.” He yanked his jacket off first, then tugged his shirt over his head in one clean motion, dropping it to the floor behind him. You didn’t stop watching, eyes dragging over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the flushed skin already tinged with anticipation.
And then you reached for the waistband of his underwear. He sucked in a sharp breath as you pulled it down, slow and teasing, and his dick sprang free, thick, hard, already dripping for you. You looked up at him again, eyes hooded. “I knew,” you said, fingers wrapping around him in one smooth, possessive motion. “That you were big.” His head tipped back with a choked groan, but you weren’t done. You leaned in slowly, your mouth barely brushing the tip of him, teasing, hot breath making his thighs tense beneath your palms. “Ever since the day you slammed into me coming out of the bathroom… with just a towel on.”
Mingi let out a broken sound, half laugh, half moan, as his eyes snapped back down to you, wide with disbelief and you just grinned up at him. And then you took him into your mouth. Slowly. Deep. Deliberate. Mingi shuddered, hands flying to your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid he might fall apart if he let go. “Fuck… Y/N!” His voice cracked as you dragged your tongue along the underside of his length, your hand stroking where your mouth didn’t reach yet. He was already falling apart, already cursing under his breath.
Mingi had never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like this. You, on your knees between his legs, your mouth working him slow, like you were memorizing every inch, every reaction, every shaky breath. Your hand stroked him with smooth, practiced precision while your tongue flicked at his tip, then dragged down the underside, lips wrapping around him again, taking him deeper and deeper each time until your nose brushed his skin and his thighs jerked. “F… fuck,” he gasped, one hand tightening in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the bed like he needed to anchor himself. “Baby…. Jesus, baby…”
You moaned softly around him, the vibration sending sparks through his entire body. The sound, the sight of you like this, was already wrecking him. You pulled back, slow and wet, until just the head rested on your tongue and you lowered your mouth even further.
“Oh my God!” His voice cracked as your lips slipped lower, hot breath teasing over his balls before you took one into your mouth, then the other, your hand still stroking him slow, perfectly timed, perfectly cruel. Mingi whimpered. Head thrown back, chest heaving, his entire body shaking from the pressure curling in his spine, his stomach, everywhere. He looked down at you with wide, glassy eyes, mouth open, hair messy, and he thought, This is my best friend. This is the girl I’ve been in love with for years. The one I never thought I could have.
And here you were, on your knees, mouth full of him, looking up at him like you’d been waiting just as long. It was too much. Too good. “Y/N…” he choked out. “I’m not gonna… fuck, please….” Because if you didn’t stop, he was going to come just from the way you looked at him. And you knew it. “Y/N…. stop,” Mingi gasped, voice raw, hand tightening in your hair as your tongue flicked just right again. “Baby… I can’t….. fuck!”
But you didn’t stop. Not until he groaned so loud it echoed in the hotel room, thighs tensing, breath ragged, head thrown back. And then, right before he broke, he yanked you up with a desperate growl. His mouth was on yours before you could catch your breath, the kiss messy and deep and full of want. He tasted like you, still moaning into your mouth as your hands clutched at his bare shoulders. “I don’t want to come yet,” he breathed against your lips. “I need more of you first.” You barely managed a nod before he stepped back just long enough to kick his pants and underwear the rest of the way off, boots thudding to the floor in the process. Now fully naked, he stood tall in front of you, flushed and hard and wrecked. And you had never seen him look more beautiful.
He stepped back into you, warm hands sliding around your waist as he turned you, slowly, until your back pressed against his chest. You gasped at the feel of him behind you, hot and heavy, already pressing against your ass. “This fucking dress,” he whispered against your neck, hands smoothing down your hips, over the fabric. “The way you walked into that party tonight…” You shivered as his fingers found the zipper. “Been dying to take it off you since the second I saw you.”
The only sound for a moment was the slow, dragging zip of your dress being undone, the sound loud in the quiet between you, every inch unspooling more of the tension between your bodies. He pushed the straps off your shoulders. Mingi stood behind you, completely bare, hands now gliding up your waist, mouth at your ear as he growled, “Turn around. I want to see you.” You turned. Let the silk fall completely away. And the moment Mingi saw you, fully, completely, finally, he stilled. His breath caught. Eyes dragging down the line of your body like he’d never seen anything so perfect. Chest rising and falling too fast, lips parted, jaw tight.
“Fuck,” he whispered, sitting back on the edge of the bed again, legs spread, hand outstretched. “Come here.” You didn’t hesitate. You stepped between his knees, skin already flushed under his stare. His hands slid up your thighs, slow, possessive, then to your hips, tugging you gently. You climbed onto him, straddling his lap, settling over the thick heat of him as he hissed through his teeth at the contact. But he didn’t thrust. Not yet. Because his mouth was already moving.
He dipped his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, soft, teasing, before wrapping around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking just enough to make your head fall back with a moan. “Mingi…” He groaned in response, mouth latching on harder, his hands splayed across your back now, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go. He moved to your other breast, lavishing it with the same slow worship, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch in his lap, your slick heat sliding against the hard length of him.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your skin. “So many times. And it’s still not enough.” His mouth was hot, open, desperate. You were already starting to roll your hips, the drag of him against you setting you both on fire. Because this wasn’t just sex. This was everything. And neither of you were ready to stop. Mingi’s hands gripped your hips, strong and steady, guiding you down but not letting you take him in just yet.
His dick slid against you, hot, thick, already wet with your arousal. The slick drag of him across your clit made your breath catch and your thighs twitch. “Fuck,” you gasped, trying to roll your hips down. “Mingi…” But he held you right there. Right where he wanted you. “Not yet,” he murmured, voice low, lips still on your breast. “Not until I make you fall apart again.” And then he moved. He rolled your hips over him, gliding the length of his dick against your clit, slow and deliberate. Over and over. The pressure perfect. The rhythm maddening.
You whimpered, forehead dropping to his shoulder, fingernails digging into his back as your body lit up all over again. His mouth never left your chest, kissing, sucking, biting just enough to make your breath stutter with every glide of him beneath you. “You feel that?” he whispered, tongue flicking over your nipple. “That’s how bad I’ve needed you. I could come just from this.” Your hips bucked and he groaned. Still holding you in place, dragging the head of his dick through your folds, up and down your clit, making you wetter, needier, closer to losing your mind. “Mingi, please!”
He kissed a path up your throat, lips brushing your jaw, voice gravel rough against your ear. “Tell me you’re mine.” You nodded, gasping, already right on the edge. “I’m yours…. I’m yours…. please…” Mingi kissed you, slow, smug, deliciously cocky. “I think I like teasing you.” His voice was warm against your lips, full of pride and wrecked restraint. He clearly thought he had you right where he wanted you. Until you huffed. And shoved him back.
He barely caught himself as you climbed off his lap, slick and heat and attitude dripping off you with every movement. He started to reach for you again, mouth already open to protest, then he froze. Because you crawled onto the bed. Slowly. Knees sinking into the mattress, elbows down, back arched, your ass perked just right in front of him. Mingi’s mouth went slack. His breath hitched. And his dick, already throbbing, twitched hard at the sight of you like that.
You glanced back over your shoulder, smirk dangerous. “Something wrong?” He was speechless. Utterly, completely wrecked. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered, running a hand down his face, eyes glued to the perfect curve of your ass. You wiggled your hips once, slow and taunting. And he groaned like you’d just struck him. Mingi knelt behind you, hands gripping your hips like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. His dick was thick and flushed, the tip dragging through your slick folds as he lined himself up, breath ragged and heart pounding.
He ran one hand slowly down the curve of your back, reverent, trembling, fingers tracing your spine like it was sacred. “You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, just barely holding back. “Once I’m inside you…” He didn’t get to finish. Because you pushed back. Hips rolling, angle perfect, you guided him in yourself, all the way, sinking down onto him with a gasp that tore from your throat and echoed off the walls. Mingi choked on a moan, his fingers digging into your hips so hard they’d leave prints. “Fuck…. Y/N… oh my God….”
He stilled inside you, buried to the hilt, every muscle in his body locked down as he tried not to lose it right then and there. You were tight, warm, already fluttering around him like your body was welcoming him home. You pressed your forehead into the pillows, voice shaky but smug. “What’s wrong?” you panted. “Thought you liked teasing me.” Mingi let out something between a laugh and a groan, completely wrecked, his entire body trembling as he leaned over your back, chest to your spine, lips at your ear. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
He pulled back, and slammed back into you with force, his dick driving deep again and again, each thrust rougher, heavier, more frantic than the last. His hands were clamped around your waist, knuckles white, sweat slicking his chest as it pressed to your back. You moaned, loud, unfiltered, words tumbling between gasps. “Harder… fuck, Mingi, harder…” His brain short circuited. He was already losing it, completely buried inside you, your body clutching around him like you were made for this, but hearing you beg for more? It destroyed him.
“You want harder?” he growled, breath ragged. “You really want me to ruin you?”
“What do you think…”
Mingi growled deep in his chest, he never anticipated the brat you could be. One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging into soft flesh before he brought it down in a sharp, open palmed slap. You yelped, hips jolting forward, but the way you moaned after made him curse under his breath. “Fucking knew you’d like that,” he grunted, and then he was slamming into you again, harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, raw, wet, loud, the rhythm unrelenting, the bed frame creaking with every punishing thrust.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he gasped, another slap to your ass making you arch. “For years…. dreamed about this.”
“I did too,” you moaned, words barely holding shape. “Thought about this… about you…. every time I…”
“Don’t,” he growled, reaching up to fist your hair gently. “You say that and I’ll come right now.” You laughed, wild, breathless, shaking. And he loved it. So he gave you what you wanted. Every thrust harder than the last. Every slap to your ass making you cry out and clench around him. You were so close, and so was he, his name a broken prayer on your lips with every second that passed.
You were close. So close, your entire body was trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking, your moans losing structure, breaking into sobs of pleasure as Mingi fucked you harder, deeper, your name and his tangled between gasps.
“Mingi… I….”
“I know, baby. Let go. I’ve got you.”
Your back arched, your jaw dropped on a scream, and your entire body snapped. You came so hard your legs gave out, your body spasming, clenching around him like you never wanted him to leave. You squirted, the wet sound obscene between your thighs, and Mingi groaned, biting down on a curse as he felt it flood over him. You collapsed beneath him, face buried in the sheets, body still twitching, overstimulated and wrung out, gasping for air.
But he wasn’t done. He couldn’t stop. Not yet. Mingi kept thrusting, chasing his own release, the tight heat of you dragging him over the edge as your slick still coated him, as your body kept clenching around him, even in the aftermath. His hands gripped your hips tighter, rhythm faltering, more frantic….. And then he snapped, too. With a guttural moan, he buried himself deep, hips jerking once, twice, then stilling completely as he came, spilling inside you with a shudder, forehead dropping to your back, his breath hot and desperate against your skin. “Y/N…. fuck, baby…”
The room was silent, save for the soft sounds of breaths trying to steady. Mingi stayed slumped over your back, lips pressed to your shoulder, arms wrapped around your middle as he tried to come down. You were both sweating, gasping, tangled up in each other, your bodies still twitching from the high. But you weren’t done. Not even close. Your breath was still shaky as you shifted beneath him, just enough to push back, grinding your hips into his again.
Mingi whimpered broken. A sound so raw and wrecked it made your toes curl. “Y/N… fuck….” Before he could even think to react, you were crawling forward, slipping from under him slowly, his release still dripping down your thighs, the air cool against your skin. Mingi collapsed onto his back with a groan, eyes glazed, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a marathon. “Baby, I…”
But then you were on him again. Straddling his waist. Grabbing his jaw. “Shhh,” you breathed, eyes dark, lips still parted. “I’m not done with you yet.” Mingi barely had time to register the look on your face, hungry, wild, possessed, before you reached between your bodies, lined him back up with your entrance, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion. “FUCK!” he cried out, hands flying to your thighs, eyes rolling back. “Y/N… holy…. baby, please…”
You shuddered as he filled you again, still so hard, still perfect, your body already tightening again around him as you settled fully into his lap. “I want all of you,” you whispered, rocking your hips. “Again. Always.” Mingi could only moan, wrecked, helpless. His hands flew to your thighs as you started to ride him, the stretch of him still inside you pulling a broken sound from your lips. He’s barely recovered, chest heaving, skin damp and flushed, and now you’re moving again, slow at first, then faster, determined.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he chokes out, head dropping back against the pillow, but his hands are gripping you like he wants you to. You lean forward, still bouncing on him, your hand slipping around his throat, not hard, just enough to make his eyes snap to yours. “Say it,” you whisper, breath hot against his mouth. “Say you’re mine.” Mingi groaned, hips jerking up involuntarily. “Yours,” he breathes. “I’m yours…. fuck, baby, you know I am…”
“You’re not loud enough.”
His hands tighten on your waist as you clench around him. He swears, throat tightening under your grip. “I’m yours,” he growls this time, louder. “All fucking yours.” And that’s when you smirk, satisfied, smug, possessive, and start grinding down harder. Mingi’s arms wrap around you suddenly, strong and desperate, pulling you flush against his chest as he sits up.
His lips find your neck, jaw, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach while you keep riding him, the pace messy now, needy, frantic, both of you trembling on the edge again. “You feel too good,” he pants against your skin. “Fuck, baby, I can’t….” You’re whimpering, your nails digging into his back, your walls fluttering around him, and when he shifts his hips up to meet yours just right, your head drops back with a cry. “Mingi!”
“I got you, I got you,” he’s whispering, voice wrecked, his hands spreading over your back, holding you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go. “Come with me…. please, fuck, please…” It builds fast, overwhelming, white hot, the air thick with your gasps and broken sounds, and just as you’re both crashing into it, your moans twist into something more. “I love you,” you gasp, right against his ear.
“I love you,” Mingi chokes out at the same time, his voice breaking as he spills into you, holding you so tight your breath stutters. Silence, for a beat. Just the sound of your heartbeats, your breathing, the way your bodies shake in each other’s arms. Then his hand lifts, fingers slipping into your hair, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “Did you mean it?” he whispers.
Your lips brush his, soft and trembling. “Every word.”
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The soft shutter clicks echoed through the room, low and rhythmic, punctuated by the faint sounds of the stylist adjusting hangers on a rack and someone asking for more light on set three. But Mingi? Mingi was in the zone. Hair slightly tousled, blue dye fading, lips parted, that denim on denim fit hanging off him like it was made just to be photographed, because it was. The way he moved was effortless now, confident in a way that came from more than modeling experience.
From you. His eyes found you between takes every time. You weren’t hiding behind your usual clipboard today. No phone glued to your ear. Just standing there with your arms crossed, watching your boyfriend dominate the room. You. His girlfriend. Still his manager. But now also the person he wakes up next to with one arm slung over your waist, the person he kisses before a shoot just for luck, the one he texts between fittings with heart emojis and filth.
“Yo,” the photographer called, “Mingi, chin down, give me that cold face again.” Mingi licked his lips, rolled his neck once, eyes cutting sharp. Cold? Not a chance. He was thinking about last night. About the lingerie you wore when he came home from casting. About the way you’d straddled him on his apartment couch and reminded him exactly why his entire life changed the moment he let you take control.
And now he was here, wearing Calvin, looking like sin, and every few seconds he’d glance at you, just to see the way you bit your lip when he posed with his hand in his pocket like that. He was yours.
The photoshoot was finally wrapping up. Lights dimmed, crew members bustled around with exhausted energy, and Mingi, shirtless with just that denim jacket slung over his bare shoulders, grinned as he gave a dramatic bow to the camera. The photographer clapped, muttering something about him being “insanely unfair to the human race,” which wasn’t far off.
You stood just off set, clipboard under one arm now and his phone in your hand, which you’d been holding since the shoot started, because Mingi was Mingi and otherwise it would’ve ended up buried under his pants somewhere. He padded over, sweat glistening across his collarbones and that signature grin already cocky. “You get all that?” he asked, voice low, head ducking like he was about to kiss you, but instead he whispered, “You’re not wearing a bra under that top, are you?”
You gave him that look, the one that said, we’re still in public, do not test me right now, before handing him the phone. “Mingi,” you said, cool and composed like you weren’t fighting off a full body blush, “your mom called.”
His brows lifted. “Oh?”
You nodded, casually tapping the screen to show the missed call and the text that came through right after: When do your father and I get to meet this girlfriend of yours you keep gushing about?
Mingi blinked. Then smirked. “She used the word gushing?”
“She also said she’s been stalking your Instagram and noticed the sudden uptick in glow. Her words, not mine.”
He ran a hand through his hair, gold rings catching the overhead lights. “God, I love her. But damn, she’s getting nosy.”
“She’s your mom, that’s literally her job,” you said, folding your arms. “Also… I should probably be offended they don’t know it’s me.” Mingi stepped in closer, eyes glinting. “What, you want me to introduce you like, Hi, Mom, I’ve been blowing Y/N’s back out for three weeks straight’?”
Your jaw dropped. “Mingi!”
He just laughed, kissed your temple quick, and whispered, “I’ll tell them soon. But until then…” He leaned in like he was going to kiss you properly this time, until a stylist walked past and said, “Nice work, Mingi. You killed it.” Mingi pulled back and winked at you. “I always do.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The little bell above the restaurant door chimed as you stepped inside, the warmth and savory scent of garlic and fresh herbs immediately wrapping around you like a familiar hug. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like years since you’d last been here, before Paris, before the after party, before Mingi had kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life to.
Mingi was still outside locking up his car, which meant you were the one who got to walk in first. His mom, her apron dusted with flour, popped out from behind the counter with that ever bright smile, until her eyes landed on you. “Y/N!” she gasped, rushing over to hug you tightly. “Oh, my sweet girl, it’s been too long! Please tell me this new girlfriend of his isn’t like the last one.”
You blinked. You opened your mouth. And nothing came out. Because you could not physically say, I am the new girlfriend, fast enough to avoid what was about to happen. The kitchen door swung open with a thud and out came Mingi’s dad, wiping his hands on a towel. “Who’s not like the last one?” he asked, just as Mingi strolled in behind you, hoodie up, cheeks a little red from the cold.
“You didn’t tell me Y/N was coming, Mingi,” his mom said, smiling sweetly at you, “I figured you were bringing your girlfriend.”
Mingi’s brows rose. “I did.”
The towel in his dad’s hands stilled. His mom blinked. “What?” she asked flatly.
You stood there frozen like a deer in headlights as Mingi grinned like he was proud of it. “I brought my girlfriend.” And then he walked over to you, threw an arm around your waist, and kissed your cheek in front of his stunned, and slowly short circuiting parents. You looked between the two of them, trying very hard not to laugh. “Surprise?”
“Oh, I knew it,” his dad muttered again, clearly lying. “I knew it. All that, she’s just my manager, my best friend, stuff? Please.”
Mingi laughed, pulling you closer. “She’s still my manager.”
“Just with better benefits,” you added under your breath.
His mom clapped her hands together. “We’re opening a bottle!”
You leaned into Mingi, face still warm. “Well. That went well.”
He grinned, eyes soft as he kissed your forehead. “They love you. They always have.”
And now… they just had to get used to the fact that you weren’t just his best friend anymore.
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