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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 13

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, Major Fluff For This Chapter, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10.Part 11. Part 12. Part 13. Chapter Word Count: 21k+]

[Chapter Summary: A full day beneath the sun, wrapped in water-drenched laughter, cotton candy skies, and the kind of love that feels untouched by time. For once, it’s just them — no past, no future. Just stolen kisses, warm hands, and a rooftop under the stars where everything feels infinite. Maybe, in some quiet corner of the world, forever really does exist.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Filters and final edits were never really your thing. Too many options, too many tweaks that always ended with a headache and the feeling that something had been lost in translation.

Even back when Instagram only had seven presets, you were already overwhelmed—and now? You can’t even be bothered.

Final cuts were too crisp, too clean. The emotions always seemed to get swallowed under all that polish.

Jeongguk’s edits stayed authentic—his final selects often barely a shade apart from the raws—but even then, you still preferred the chaos. The imperfect charm of the very first click. The rawness. The pulse.

So, you sift through the photos, choosing from the ones you captured on your phone—when they were hung on the drying line, half-developed in trays, or still blinking back at you from the camera screen.

In a few frames, Jeongguk’s tattooed hand holds the camera while you take the photos. You leave them in, of course.

Carefully, you start gathering your favorites.

One of Jeongguk collapsed into the couch, head thrown back, laughing with his eyes shut, arms flopped under him like he’s given in to joy completely. It makes your lips curl unconsciously.

You remember that moment—it was one of the last photos you took before your cheeks began to ache from smiling too much.

Then there’s the one where he tried to channel his inner Calvin Klein and long lost calling. Brooding. Jawline cut sharp, his gaze lazy and knowing, half-lidded as if he knew the lighting was working in his favor.

You definitely took a few extra copies when those got developed—thirty, to be exact. Didn't tell him about. Will never tell him either, or you’ll never hear the end of it.

Next, you pick the frame where you’d unexpectedly fallen into his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. His jaw hangs open in the shot, frozen mid-laugh, caught between surprise and amusement.

You giggle, quietly, remembering how he looked at you after that— like you pulled the sun closer just to keep him warm.

There’s another: the two of you on the couch, your legs draped over his, arms slung around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His eyes are closed in the photo, dimples deepening where your lips land.

You pause, just for a second.

There’s something in that frame—something full and warm. The kind of photo you don’t just see but feel. It makes your chest ache in the gentlest way, like it’s too full of everything you never had the words for.

That one’s already on your lockscreen, the center of the collage of favorites.

And then, there’s that photo—the one you didn’t even know existed until it loaded in the preview: you on his lap, hands tangled in his hair, lips molded to his, eyes closed, wrapped entirely in each other.

You’re not sure when it was taken. Must’ve been an accidental press, a knee grazing the shutter. But you’re grateful it happened.

Because that photo says it all.

The love you still carry. The warmth that never left. The way he held you like he’d never forgotten how.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s proof that even when no one’s looking, you still find your way back to each other. Every time.

The photos are barely up on your personal Instagram when the notifications begin. Likes, comments, the usual suspects.

With such a small, carefully curated following—and a followers list just as selective—you knew they’d see it right away.

They always did when it came to you.

@ iamurhope: Miss Ma’am? 🤨

@ chimochi: STOP! THIS IS SO FREAKING CUTE! Also, pls post Gguk in 4K. I know he’s trying to be Calvin’s next model. The boxers were boxering @ iamurhope Stop being a buzzkill.

@ dryoongles: Feels like Uni all over again. P.S. pretty sure that’s my mug coaster in the background. Bring it back.

@ jinisthelaw: Husband and wife material right there. Not even mad you’ve outdone Sooyeon and I 🥲

@ taetaehyung: I’m not crying all the way in my hometown. Okay, I’m crying. Fucking finally! 😭

@ marktuan: Congrats, partner. About time 🙂

FaceTime lights up almost instantly. Hobi’s name flashes first, followed by a request to join from Jimin, but you decline with a smirk and whisper to no one, “Not today, clowns.”

And because of the declined call, of course, you know what comes next. Your group chat with Hobi and Jimin lights up like fireworks, their messages – full of demanding questions, banters and tease – flying in faster than you can tap.

| Hobes: So. Who kissed who this time? If it was you, PLEASE don’t fucking run away again.

| Chimmy: If you do, go to Hobi Hyung’s condo. I’m renovating.

| Hobes: My pantry’s out of stock. Sorry.

| ☀️: Nice to know you both have my back🖕🏻

| Chimmy: Always. 😉 So, are you gonna answer? How far did you get? First base? Second? Third? Or did Gguk’s 🍆 finally make a homecoming? You are home. Makes sense if it did. Deets, babe.

| Hobes: I just barfed my caviar. No one wants to know how far they went.

| Chimmy: I do. If you don’t, respectfully Hyung, leave the chat. Love you. 😘

| Hobes: You get lost. Besides, I doubt they even made it past first. Our girl runs like track & field from a kiss.

| ☀️: Okay, rude. No one ran this time. And no. Just… second?

| Hobes: Why is there a question mark?! You LYING? Why are you lying? When did you ever lie to us? When did you lie to me? We’re siblings from another mother. I bought you pads in Uni. No wings. Why are you like this. 😭

| Chimmy: Thought I’m the dramatic one. Babe. Be honest. Did you go all the way or not?

The TV continues to play on low volume, Captain America: The Winter Soldier filling the room now. It’s your favorite part—Steve and Bucky, fists flying, friendship on the line, Cap in civilian clothes, muscles on full display, heartbreak lingering in every swing.

With a final sigh and one last message to the group chat, you type:

| ☀️: no.

Then you close the app, lock your phone, and toss it aside onto the couch.

The screen still buzzes with more questions, emojis, and probable chaos—but your focus stays on the movie. Half drooling over Cap’s muscles. Half aching for Bucky’s broken memory.

You shovel another the last remaining of breakfast into your mouth and mumble, “America’s ass, but with trauma.”

On‑screen, the quinjet roars overhead as Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson free‑fall toward the Lemurian Star.

You squeal when Steve’s ripcord snaps open—every muscle in his shoulders flexing in slow motion—then flop backward on the couch, hugging a throw pillow like it owes you rent.

So absorbed in Cap’s gliding entrance, you barely register the front door until keys jingle and a low chuckle filters in behind you.

“Should’ve guessed you’d cue up Winter Soldier the minute I stepped out.” Jeongguk tows several grocery bags inside, hair wind‑tousled, black button‑up rumpled in the most distracting ways.

He nudges his shoes neatly onto the rack before lifting a brow. “What’s that—watch number … fourteen?”

You tone down the volume long enough to smirk. “As many times as you’ve ugly‑cried during Endgame, that’s what.”

He huffs—manfully, of course—then leans down to plant a quick kiss to your forehead. “Those were heroic tears.”

“Uh‑huh. Wussy tears,” you tease, eyeing the grocery haul. “Please tell me you’re opening a soup kitchen, because that is not a two‑person shop.”

“With the way someone nuked half a dozen eggs and inhaled all the milk last week?” He lifts one bag in evidence—bok choy peeking out, tofu neatly stacked, strawberries boxed like jewels. “Consider this preventive maintenance.”

You watch him drift into the kitchen—precision incarnate—alphabetizing condiments, lining produce like an art director on set. Sunshine slants across the floor, gilding his shoulders; the house hums with quiet contentment.

“Better stocked than sorry,” he calls over the counter, washing cilantro with that absurd chef’s flourish. “What’ll it be for lunch, baby? Jeon à la carte—K‑fusion, Italian, world tapas—choose your fighter.”

“Just movie snacks,” you reply, unlocking your phone to check the confirmation for the reservations you’ve booked for today—another surprise in the queue.

Instead, you find only Hobi’s last dramatic text still blinking. You smile, tuck the phone away. “And go light—we’re heading out soon.”

“Finally going to tell me our next stop?” he’s already slicing fruit into impossibly even cubes.

He doesn’t bug you further when you don't answer. Knows better than to interrupt your TV date and your favorite scenes, most of the times.

Steve has just landed on deck, shield ricocheting, mercs scattering. The first bruise is blooming above his collarbone—equal parts grit and Greek statue—and, predictably, a tear stings your eye.

Jeongguk re‑enters with a plate – tuna sandwiches cut into hearts, neatly fanned strawberries, and two miniature cups of ramyeon popcorn he must have invented on the spot.

He sets the tray on the coffee table, thumb brushing the tear before it falls.

“Wifey, are you crying over delts again?”

“Battle scars,” you sniff, already stealing a strawberry. “And shoulders.”

He chuckles, sinking beside you as Cap runs into Bucky’s knife for the first time – the past meeting the present in one breathtaking clash.

“Scars and shoulders,” Jeongguk echoes softly, draping an arm around you. “Guess I’d better keep both safe, huh?”

The tide hushes against the sand beyond the four walls of your home; inside, you trade one sandwich bite for his popcorn cup, Cap and Bucky dueling in vibrant, muted tones—a quiet promise that the day still has adventures left to claim.

The movie becomes the only sound filling the living room, save for the occasional crunch of snacks spread across the coffee table—most of which Jeongguk is steadily demolishing, while you remain completely absorbed by the two men dominating the screen.

Every time Steve Rogers flexes too hard or delivers a noble speech that sounds like it came from a wartime poster, you sigh loudly and melt further into the couch’s armrest.

“Babe, I’m literally downing all the tuna sandwiches here,” Jeongguk whines beside you, holding up one of the heart-shaped halves in one hand, a strawberry wedge poised in the other like it’s a peace offering.

You take a bite from the sandwich, eyes still locked on the screen where Cap is giving Bucky that look—the one that screams: I’m not leaving you behind. Even if you try to stab me again.

“Are you actually listening to the dialogue,” Jeongguk asks flatly, nudging the strawberry closer, “or are you just hypnotized by the pecs again?”

“Can’t it be both?” Blindly chomping down on the fruit, you sigh dreamily. “God, he’s so noble. That self-sacrificing ass. Those blue eyes. But then there’s Bucky—the angsty bad boy with memory loss and a bionic arm. Ugh. Who do I even pick?”

You fling yourself dramatically onto Jeongguk’s lap, grabbing the remote and cranking the volume up like your life depends on it.

“How about me?” he deadpans, brushing your hair back like he’s been personally betrayed. “Me and my poor, neglected ramyeon popcorn cups?”

“I’m married to you,” your fingers find his, lifting them to press a kiss to the tattoos across his knuckles. “I picked you nine years ago. And the years before that when I said 'yes' to being your girlfriend. Stop being dramatic.”

“Then give me attention.” He leans over you, smothering your face with kisses—cheeks, nose, forehead, even your chin—until you’re laughing too hard to resist him. “And the ramyeon,” he adds between kisses. “It’s been patiently waiting.”

Grabbing a few popcorn pieces, you munch on them. “So clingy, geeze.” Then turn back to the TV, laying comfortably on his lap.

Jeongguk still showers you with endless kisses, still whining for your piece of attention. “FYI, I know Chris Evans' workout routine. Could totally get bulked like him. Just say the word, and you'll get Captain American at home."

"Captain America, Temu version?"

He gasps dramatically—of course he would—starts attacking you with deathly tickets. "Take that back!"

Laughing hysterically, stomach aching, you almost roll off the couch if it he hadn’t caught you, just to get back to the insufferable tickling. “Okay, okay, you win. Stop!”

He does, but hands remains unmoving by your sides, ready to attack. “Say I’m the only sexy man in your life.”

Deadpan, you look at him. “You’re the only sexy…oh Lord, can’t even say it without cringing.”

Jeongguk looked like he was literally on the verge of tears, boba eyes looking at you sadly, full, round, watering, lips pouted like an abandoned puppy. Knows this look would always do the trick, to make you fold without questions.

And it does.

Sighing, eyes playfully rolling, you finally give in, placing a soft kiss on his lips. Boba eyes instantly lighting up.

You’re about to give him your full undivided affection, but pause when your phone lights up again.

Expecting one of the resort confirmation alerts for your next surprise—only to see a barrage of new messages from Hobi and Jimin, now flooding your DMs and blowing up your latest photo post with increasingly unhinged commentary.

Groaning, you drop your phone on the couch, and rest your head against Jeongguk’s chest. “Those two need to get a life.”

He reaches for your phone, blinking at the chaos filling your lock screen. A flurry of notifications light it up like a pinball machine, most from Instagram.

With one tap, his facial recognition still set as your secondary security, he opens the app—and the moment he sees your post, his eyes immediately glass over, torn somewhere between overwhelmed laughter and misty warmth.

“You posted us?” His voice cracks halfway through, lower lip already caught in a pout as he clutches the phone to his chest like it’s something sacred.

Leaning into his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, you scroll through the comments together. “Felt right to share our moments again.”

Your thumb glides over the screen, pausing at one of the older replies. “Besides, my last post of us was... god, look—2022?”

Jeongguk leans in, squinting at the photo. “Is that...?”

“You, heading off to Daegu for a campaign shoot.”

It’s a selfie of you taken from your Seoul home, with Jeongguk caught in the background—mid-struggle with his shoes, hair still a mess, one camera bag hanging off his shoulder while his backpack remains unzipped, the tiny bunny plush you stitched for him in Uni dangling from it like a final accessory.

The chaos of that morning is immortalized in soft light.

He bursts into laughter. “From the thousand of pictures on your phone, this had to be the one you last posted, huh?”

“It’s a beautiful chaos,” you tease, nudging his side. “You overslept because I kept you up with my mood swings, remember? Ha-yun was doing full-on gymnastics in my belly, probably mad you were leaving.”

It’s been almost three years ago, but you remember that day clearly.

“Please,” Jeongguk groans between laughs, tipping his head back against the couch. “You cried the night before because Yoongi Hyung and I tricked you into eating those fake nuggets made from salmon.”

“The crime nuggets,” Your eyes narrow, poking his chest like it still haunts to this day. “You’re lucky I didn’t burn the house down.”

“In our defense,” he chuckles, “it was the only way we could get you to eat healthy.”

“Well maybe if you and your little health crusade hadn’t pried me away from sodium, we could’ve had a full night’s sleep. Then you wouldn’t have had to drive to a McDonald’s three cities away to fulfill my 2:16 a.m. fast food emergency.”

“Hey!” He rises with dramatic flair, gesturing like he’s defending his honor. “I had to. We were banned from the one near our house.”

You break into laughter. “Because Jimin, Hobi, Yoongi and Jin thought it was funny to intervene with my cravings. They should’ve known better than to stop a pregnant woman from getting her double cheeseburger, nuggets and McFlurry. That was the real crime.”

“Okay, fine. Hyungs were out of line,” Jeongguk throws his hands up in surrender. “If they hadn’t interfered with your sacred cravings, we wouldn’t have gotten kicked out, I wouldn’t have had to drive across cities to get you real nuggies, and peace would’ve prevailed.”

“See? You do understand.” Chin titled high in victorious smugness, you reward him with a peck on the cheek. “And if everyone had just listened to me, you wouldn’t have overslept or nearly missed your shoot in Daegu.”

Jeongguk narrows his eyes, lips twitching. “Just admit it—you were throwing a full-blown fit because you couldn’t handle me being gone for a week.”

“Well, sue me for being a clingy baby mama,” The laughter between you fades gently, replaced by the comforting hum of the TV playing some forgotten scene in the background, seagulls cawing faintly outside the patio windows like a lullaby only the sea knows.

Jeongguk scrolls back through the new photos on your feed, chuckling at the chaotic comments from your friends. “They’re acting like they haven’t seen us kiss a billion times.”

“Right?” You snort, thumbing through the replies. “Look at Hobi’s comment. I can feel the big brother energy from Milan.”

Fingers tapping to the one in question: ‘The return of the strawberry mint swapping. Please, check your DM’s, sunshine.’

He groans into your shoulder, face burying deeper until his nose brushes your collar. “I think they’re still traumatized after walking in on us more times than we can count.”

“They wouldn't be traumatized if they actually understood the concept of boundaries,” you say, deadpan. There’s a few seconds of silence—brief, knowing—before you both erupt into laughter again.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says between snickers, “that’s never going to happen.”

With nothing but the breeze slipping through the open curtains and the soft fumble of your fingers tangled in his, Jeongguk quietly reaches for the remote and switches off the TV.

His face shifts—lighter moments replaced by something deeper, heavier. “That photo of us on your feed… the last one… it was also before—”

Cutting him off gently, already knowing where his thoughts were heading, the weight behind every word he didn’t finish. “Before she was taken away from us.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding it in for years.

His grip around your hand tightens. “If I’d known, I never would’ve left. I would’ve stayed. Skipped the Daegu shoot. Bought you every box of chicken nuggets, hoarded every cheeseburger you craved at ass o’clock. I would’ve barged into that banned McDonald’s, bought out their entire stash of McFlurries. I should’ve stayed home.”

“You’d get jail time if you showed up at that McDonald’s,” you chuckle lightly, rubbing slow, calming circles into his hand. Thumb brushing the edge of his wedding ring, like a quiet promise you’ve always kept.

“Jin-hyung would've bailed me out and found some legal loophole,” he mutters, a ghost of a laugh following.

Then quieter, more sincere, “What I do—my job, my work—you know it means the world to me. But none of it matters if it costs me you. I should’ve said no to Daegu.”

“We’ve come a long way since then,” you scoot closer until your legs are folded over his lap, wrapping around his warmth. “You’re good at what you do, Gguk. Hell, you’re the best creative director out there. I’ve never doubted that. You’ve gone places—and you’ll keep going. No one can touch you.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly, lowering his gaze. “You always believed in me—before anyone else did. Before I even had a name.”

“Because it’s true,” you grin, reaching up to lightly poke at the dimple forming on his cheek. “You could take a picture of a manhole and it’d still look like fine art. Film a single leaf falling from a tree and Sundance would be begging for a copy.”

He lets go of your hand, just to pull you closer, arms folding tightly around your waist. “As long as you’re with me, I think I’ll always know what I’m doing. You were my first muse—the reason my angles ever made sense. You still are. You’re why my studio lights feel warmer. I want you with me. Through every photo. Every film. Every story. You’re the reason I’m still here.”

“As sweet as that sounds…” you shift to face him, sitting cross-legged now. You bring your hands to his face, cupping it gently, smiling when he leans into your palm like he always does—like your touch anchors him to this life. “You don’t need me to be brilliant. You already are. Always have been. And even when I’m not around, you’ll still shine. There’s a reason you’re the golden boy, my love.”

A quiet stillness settles between you. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just soft. His cheeks warm against your hands, his lashes lowering, those boba eyes of his studying you the way he used to when you first met—like you’re everything that ever mattered.

You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, then gently tuck his fringe aside with the kind of tenderness only time and love can earn.

“So… how was the meeting with your boss?” your voice is gentle, laced in care. “It must’ve been important, for him to come all the way to Busan.”

“Looks like I do still have a job after all.” Jeongguk flashes you a smile—relieved, soft around the edges—but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

There’s a flicker of something else beneath the surface. Sadness? Uncertainty? Like whatever he’s about to say next carries more weight than he’s ready to unpack.

“Actually, my job… it’s uh—it’s kind of… huge.” He laughs nervously, eyes darting briefly away from yours. “There’s this—”

But he never finishes.

Because just then, your phone lights up behind him. A buzz on the couch, screen glowing with the exact notification you’ve been waiting for all morning. The familiar icon of your booking app lights up like a green flag, and excitement bursts in your chest.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, scrambling for your phone. In one swift move, your legs slip off the couch and you bolt upright. “Get dressed, Gguk. We’re going out!”

He blinks as you whirl into motion, already scooping up the half-eaten snacks from the table, wiping crumbs off your pajama pants.

Then you're rushing to the kitchen, stashing leftovers into the fridge like you’re on a timed mission, dishes stacked neatly into the sink to handle when you get back.

The thrill in your chest is infectious, a giddy little secret only you know—for now.

Jeongguk’s already on his feet, watching you buzz around the house. “Let me guess… your surprise just came in?”

He’s halfway up the staircase when he turns back, grinning, waiting for you to catch up. That dimple makes an appearance.

“Obviously,” you smirk, joining him on the steps. “Change into something comfy. And waterproof.”

“Water?” Jeongguk echoes, brows raised, completely thrown.

You just wink in reply, stepping off toward the guest room where you’d tucked away your pre-packed bag. He watches you disappear behind the door with a dazed look, still clueless, still smiling.

It doesn’t take long before the front door clicks shut behind you, and the two of you are heading down the driveway.

Jeongguk’s still fumbling with the oversized backpack you’d packed earlier while he was out—checking, double-checking, making sure you didn’t forget anything—so focused he doesn’t even notice when you reach around and swipe the Harley keys from where they hang at his waistband.

You’re already making a run for it, laughing as your sandals slap the pavement.

“Baby—wait!” he calls after you, jogging behind, camera bag bouncing across his chest, the backpack dragging his pace. But you’ve already reached the bike, lifting the seat compartment open with a little flourish.

“Slow poke.” You stick your tongue out, nose scrunched in full childish glory.

Jeongguk groans through a smile. “Your age is showing.”

“Your age is catching up to you, Gguk.”

He sets the bag down with an exhale and unclips your helmet from the side of the bike, placing it on your head and securing the strap under your chin with practiced care. Then his own follows, a quiet click. “We’re really taking the bike? You packed half the house, babe.”

Still chirping, you’re already straddling the bike and revving the engine once just for show. “Of course we are. It’s going be fun after. Consider it air drying—saves us from those overpriced heaters that does nothing in that place.”

Jeongguk eyes the bags with a groan, tightening the camera bag strap around his body, then reaching over to adjust the little lunch sack hanging on your shoulder too.

He props a hand on his hip, brow raised, full sass activated. “Excuse you—get in the back. I’m driving. I always drive.”

“Not today,” you grin, patting the seat behind you. “Promise I won’t crash us.”

He gives you a look but climbs on anyway, grumbling under his breath. The second he’s settled, his arms lock snug around your waist.

“That’s what you said last time.” You feel his face press into your shoulder, his voice muffled. “I swear to God, if I die, I’m haunting you, all your skincare, and half of your shoe collection. About time I snatched the Seora x Jordan collab.”

"Forgetting I'm a size five?"

"I'll find a way to outstretch them."

You burst out laughing as you kick up the stand, feeling the rumble beneath you. He tightens his hold instinctively, and you wheeze. “Jesus, Gguk—ease up, I can’t breathe! We will crash if you keep clinging like that!”

“Good! Then I’ll have proof you’re a menace!” he yells, raising his voice over the growl of the engine.

“You didn’t even warn me about the humps last time!”

“That’s what eyes are for!”

“You know I’ve got the eyesight of an eighty-year-old. That’s why I’ve got you, remember?” You smirk, turning onto the main road. “My eyes, my ears—”

“And your heart,” he finishes, voice gentler now as he leans in and kisses your cheek over your shoulder. “Now please, baby. I’d like to survive long enough to see where you’re taking me.”

The resort looks exactly like you imagined it when you’d started planning weeks ago.

A massive inflatable obstacle course floats proudly across the glistening water, each section a chaotic patchwork of neon yellow, green, and blue. There are wobbly platforms shaped like stepping stones, tightrope-style walkways, a dome-like hump in the middle, and a slide that dips dramatically into the final pool.

The center slide, no doubt, is the winning finish line—but it’s the in-between traps that catch your attention. You already know you’ll trip over at least one of them.

And you already know Jeongguk’s going to ace it on the first try. Because of course he will. He’s the golden maknae for a reason.

Further off on the calmer side of the cove, a row of brightly-colored kayaks are neatly lined up along the dock, bobbing gently with the still water. The breeze is quieter there, the current more peaceful, the kind of spot you reserve for winding down once your muscles give up from the chaos.

“Oh my God!” Jeongguk’s already squealing, shirt halfway off, ready to launch himself into the water like a six-year-old at summer camp.

Just as expected.

Until a resort staff member intercepts him with a polite but firm voice.

“Sir, we’ll need you to be in full clothing for safety purposes,” the staff explains, handing over a folded map of the resort and the safety guideline leaflet.

Jeongguk freezes, shirt still dangling from one hand. “From my body?” he asks, looking utterly baffled.

The staff glances at him, blinking. “Pardon?”

“Dumbass.” You finally catch up, snatch his shirt, and shove it back over his head. “You’re still so full of yourself. They meant if you fall and crash from the obstacle course, it’s safer with clothes on. No one’s trying to gawk at you, Gguk.”

What a lie.

Because you’ve been doing exactly that since the second he peeled off his compression shirt. Your eyes had locked onto the tattoos inked along his arm, the gentle slope of his back, those broad shoulders tapering into that criminally slim waist.

And his pecs? Forget Steve Rogers. Captain America has never been your ultimate bias. Jeon Jeongguk—your idiot husband—is and always will be.

But of course, you keep these thoughts to yourself. If he ever found out, he’d be insufferable for the rest of the year.

“Oh,” he mumbles, face going red. He ducks behind you like your frame might somehow protect him from the still-suspicious staff. Then, in a whisper that’s way too excited for a grown man, “Baby, this is amazing!”

You try not to laugh. “Are you ready to actually listen to the staff so we can finally try the course?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he salutes like a kid trying not to get benched. “I’ll behave. But do you know how long I’ve been waiting to try this?”

He’s bouncing slightly on his heels, hair all fluffy from the breeze, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that boyish glee that always makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I know.” You lean in and press a soft kiss to the side of his head.

Fingers laced together, you both follow the resort staff toward the cabana you reserved—nestled under a shady patch by the palm trees, complete with a hammock, towels, and enough bottled water to hydrate a small army.

It’ll be your little home base between chaotic water wars, sun-drenched games, and every dumb wipeout you’re about to face together.

By the time you return from the changing rooms, Jeongguk’s already geared up—almost.

He’s got on the slip-proof aqua shoes, his lifejacket is securely fastened. But he’s in the middle of very loudly trying to argue his way out of the helmet and the knee pads.

“Jeongguk.” Your tone—and the look you give him—is enough to stop the debate cold.

He immediately straightens, arms flying up in defense like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m not picking a fight! I’m just saying…the knee pads are too tight and the helmet’s going to ruin my hair.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he approaches you with the lifejacket already in hand, his protest temporarily forgotten.

With quiet, practiced ease, he fits the vest around you, tightening the straps snugly with just the right pressure—clearly something he learned while you were gone. He probably absorbed the entire safety briefing. Twice.

“Your hair’s going to get wet anyway,” you point out, taking the helmet from the instructor and trying to place it on his head. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

He dodges you.

“Baby.” Now he’s the one holding the helmet, trying to fit it on you.

“Pass.” You twist out of reach, huffing. “I’m not getting helmet hair. It’s going to ruin the photos.”

Snatching the gear, you hand it back to the staff as politely as possible.

“See!” Jeongguk grins, smug as ever. “You get it. It’s the same when you’re wearing one on the Harley.”

“That’s different!” you argue. “Nobody’s taking our photos or filming videos while we’re on the bike. Besides…” You glance toward the staff, flashing your most innocent smile. “The helmets are optional, right?”

The poor staff member—whose soul looks like it’s halfway out the door—nods, monotone. “Yes, Ma’am. While we highly recommend wearing the full safety gear, especially for beginners, all participants have signed liability waivers. Proceeding without the gear is at your own risk.”

“You hear that?” Jeongguk says, nudging you like a smug gremlin. “It’s only recommended. And I’m not a beginner. YouTube practically trained me for this.”

Sighing, you let him win. Of course you do.

He keeps the lifejacket on but hands over the knee pads and helmet, which you tuck under your arm—just in case. He probably won’t need them. Being annoyingly good at everything.

Still, you take a few steps back, lift the camera, and aim it at him.

“Smile!”

He does. Boba eyes lighting up, bunny smile in full bloom, fingers flashing a peace sign just as the shutter clicks. Then he takes the camera from your hands and returns the favor—snapping a few of you before handing it off to the staff nearby with a wide grin.

“Mind taking one of us?”

He’s already wrapping an arm around you before the staff can say yes, pulling you flush against him. His lips press against your cheek the second the photo’s taken.

“Alright, that’s enough.” You push at his chest with a laugh, though your heart’s still full from the sudden kiss. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Gguk. Time to put that YouTube degree to the test.”

“I got this, babe.” One more kiss to your cheek before he jogs off, following the instructor to the starting line.

You stay back, camera ready, heart steady, already grinning in anticipation.

Because you know exactly what’s coming.

The Olympics of chaos is about to begin.

To your surprise, Jeongguk actually keeps it together for the next twenty minutes.

He listens intently to the instructor, nodding along as they point out which inflatable handles to grip, where to step to avoid slipping into the water, and how to balance across the trickier gaps. He’s practically a star student—if star students had tattoos and trouble standing still.

He doesn’t master it on the first go, of course, despite all his earlier bragging. Takes slow, careful steps, wobbles dangerously on the narrower beams, and misses a few handles along the way—face scrunched in deep bunny concentration.

You’re perched comfortably on the flatter, steadier portion of the course, camera in hand, laughter bubbling from your chest as you film him. “Where’s your Internet expertise now?!”

“Yah!” Jeongguk shouts, currently dangling from the inflatable monkey bars like a soggy action figure. “It’s narrower than it looks! Let’s see you crush it when you try.”

“I will! Won’t even slip once!” you shoot back, zooming in on his flailing legs and dramatic expressions.

You may or may not sneak in a few shots of his perfectly sculpted thighs—purely for science. And private archives.

Eventually, Jeongguk insists on running the course solo, determined to redeem himself. He paces each section with caution, tiny steps and all, brows furrowed like a man solving a national crisis.

Every now and then he grumbles under his breath, but he’s definitely learning the pattern now—graceful wasn’t quite the word, but he’s getting there.

You keep filming from where you’re seated, occasionally flipping the camera around to record your own running commentary. “Still moving like a snail, but hey—those legs are working hard. Look at ‘em go.”

“I heard that!” he yells from atop the final inflatable slide, clutching the bright victory ball challengers are meant to retrieve. He poses with it dramatically before sliding down into the center pool, yelling triumphantly, “Baby, I did it!”

He surfaces with the ball still under his arm and swims toward you, soaked and beaming like a golden retriever. You put the camera down for a moment and greet him with a grand round of applause.

“Congratulations,” you grin with a dramatic pout. “It’s now Christmas.”

“You’re so mean!” he pouts, hauling himself up from the water, arms flexing as he climbs. The way his compression shirt hugs him should be a crime. You fumble to pause the recording, just to save yourself the nosebleed. “At least I finished it!”

“Ready to teach me how to slip and slide now?” you tease, handing the camera and your things to the nearby staff member as you stand up.

“I didn’t slip,” Jeongguk says, placing a hand on his hip like he’s the sassiest lifeguard alive. “I simply demonstrated how not to do it. The instructor is probably sweating—I’m a job threat.”

You snort, already making your way to the start of the course. “You fell eight times. And the camera caught every single one.”

He mimics your voice behind you in protest, jogging up to walk beside you.

“Let’s see if those tiny feet of yours can keep up,” he mutters, nudging you playfully.

“These little feet,” you reply, tapping your toes against the inflatable mat, “are about to beat your ninteen-minute-and-thirty-eight-second record. With style.”

“Noooo!” He collapses dramatically onto the flat surface like he’s been fatally wounded. “Why was it so long? I even used YouTube-certified flair techniques!”

What Jeongguk learned from the instructors—and YouTube, apparently—gets passed down to you step by step.

He takes the lead, guiding you carefully through the inflatable obstacle course with all the seriousness of a man leading a covert mission. “Okay, baby, hold this handle with your left. Now shift your weight—yep, like that. Step exactly where I step, alright?”

You follow close behind, mirroring his movements as he points out which footholds are safe and which ones nearly got him tossed into the water earlier. “That one’s a trap,” he warns, grabbing your hand to steer you just a little to the right. “Inflated lies.”

He’s focused, lips pursed, brows furrowed in intense concentration—but even so, his hand never strays far from yours.

When you start to wobble near the inflatable monkey bars, he taps your ankle gently with his foot, guiding it to the safer side like he’s herding a clumsy kitten.

You manage to keep up for the most part, but when the path evens out, you start playfully skipping steps, adding a little bounce to your stride.

“Keep that up, babe, and you’re slipping in the next two seconds,” he warns, eyes narrowing like a strict instructor—but you can tell he’s fighting back a grin.

“Have I slipped yet?” you sass, raising a brow as you take two wider steps in a row. “Pretty sure I’m already outperforming your first run.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, lets go of one of the handles—just to tickle your side.

“Jeon Jeongguk—!” Losing your grip, you topple straight into the water with a splash. “That was foul play!” you yell up at him from the pool, flinging water in his direction, but he dodges smoothly with that annoying golden bunny grin on his face.

“That,” he smirks, “was called smart play.” He keeps moving along the course while you paddle to the edge. “Aww, is my baby having a hard time? What was that about doing better than me?”

“I’ll show you better.” With a mischievous glint in your eye, you lunge up and tickle his feet.

Jeongguk squeals, legs kicking as he struggles to stay upright.

“Stop it—stop it! I’m sorry!” he laughs, flailing wildly until you grip the side again and reach up to tickle his ribs.

He panics, lets go of the handle, and wraps his arms around you on the way down—dragging you both into the water in a joint splash of giggles and shrieks.

“Great,” you huff as you emerge. “Do you know how hard that was to climb?!”

“Let me help you up, you tiny fish.” He grabs you by the waist and lifts you easily back onto the inflatable path like you weigh nothing at all.

You immediately cling to the handles again like your life depends on it, shooting him a glare as he climbs up after you, grinning.

“Okay, okay,” he pants, pushing your hair out of your face. “One more flatter walk, then the baby steps, then the final climb up the slide.”

You both continue with slightly less chaos now—only slightly. A three-step wobbly path, one long walk along the flat section, and then you begin the final climb up the slide.

Barely halfway up, your arms start trembling, breath short. “Fucking Olympics, I tell you.” Muttering to yourself, continuing the climb.

Suddenly, Jeongguk’s hands push at your lower back.

“Hands off, ass now!” you snap, glancing down over your shoulder.

“What? It’s a good view down here,” he teases, breathless but still cheeky. “Hurry up, woman. Before I turn thirty-three.”

You try to kick him off, but he’s quicker—hopping up beside you with that smug grin still in place.

“Show-off,” you mutter, nudging him with your hip as you reach the top together, the bright yellow victory ball finally within reach.

Jeongguk doesn’t even try to claim it. He gestures toward it with a soft look in his eyes. “Go on, love. You earned it.”

You pick up the ball in triumph, holding it above your head like a warrior as Jeongguk slides down first—arms thrown wide like he’s flying.

At the bottom, he surfaces, waiting with his arms stretched out, looking up at you with a boyish smile that melts your insides. “Come on, sunshine. Jump.”

Sliding down with your eyes squeezed shut and a high-pitched squeal echoing behind your teeth, you barely hit the water before Jeongguk’s already caught you—arms wrapping around your waist like a net cast just in time.

“That was so good, baby!” he cheers, taking the victory ball from your grip and tossing it away without a second thought. His lips land everywhere—cheeks, forehead, jawline—in rapid reward. “Even if it took you ‘til New Year’s.”

“Jerk!” you sputter, laughing, shoving his chest and start swimming back toward the platform. “Only because you distracted me halfway through!”

Jeongguk paddles beside you, parting the water with slow, lazy strokes. “You distracted me too! But hey—good job on finishing. We crushed it, babe. Gold medals to both of us.”

“Nope,” you refuse, hopping back onto the starting platform. “We’re not ending with a tie. Round three. Sunshine versus Jeon. Just like old times. Just like back in uni.”

He’s already swishing his head like a puppy, water flying everywhere as he wrings out his hair and tries to fix yours in the process.

Undoes your bun, just to tie it back properly this time. “Oh, you mean when we used to run the track and field oval in the mornings—and I still beat you to the finish line?”

“I beat you!” you argue, then pause, the memory landing. “Three times. Out of the ten you did.”

He laughs so hard he nearly falls back into the water. “Alright, alright. I’ll go easy on you this time since you brought up the challenge. And because, let’s be honest—I want to redeem my lousy first run too.”

“Deal.” You hold your hand out, and he takes it, shaking firmly. “Separate paths. We each get a staff to time us. First one to reach the top, grab the ball, and slide down with the best time wins. No pushing. No tricks.”

Jeongguk crosses his arms, trying to hide the smirk threatening to crack through. “Understood, Miss Ma’am. Want a ten-second head start too? I’d like to be generous toward your tiny little legs.”

You shoot him a glare, marching off to your side of the course. “Wow. Such a gentleman. You’re going to regret that.”

He’s already stretching dramatically on the other platform. “You can even have twenty! I’ll order a whiskey while I wait.”

The staff steps in to brief you both with a warm but practiced tone. “Alright, here’s how this works: Get through the course clean—no tricks, no shoving, and try not to fall in. Every slip into the water pauses your timer until you’re safely back up. First one to grab the ball from the top and slide down with the shortest time wins the round. Understood?”

You nod, then wave another staff member over. “Excuse me, do you mind filming the whole thing? His camera’s just over there—on the table.”

They nod and smile, already retrieving it. You walk them through the buttons quickly, pointing out the wide lens function and the recording screen.

“Would you like us to focus more on him or you?” they ask, pressing the shutter to start a test clip. “We do have another staff on standby for official resort coverage too. So we’ll get footage of both regardless.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you. We’ll definitely want the official coverage later on.” You smile sweetly. Then, glancing at Jeongguk’s camera, you add softly, “But on this one—please focus on him. I want him to have something to look back on one day.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” they say with a knowing smile, adjusting the camera to frame Jeongguk’s platform.

“Yah!” he calls across the course, pointing accusingly. “Stop making dirty deals with the staff! They said no cheeky tricks!”

You roll your eyes as you crouch into starting position. “Told you not to give away that head start, Jeon. Prepare to lose.”

“Beat you at the top, baby!” he shouts back, crouched and ready.

“On your marks…” the staff calls out, raising one hand between the two of you. “Get set…”

The second the whistle blows, you bolt forward like your life depends on it.

Every step, every obstacle from earlier plays like a map in your mind—where to land your feet, which corners to avoid, which inflatable curves are too slippery to risk.

You scale the first ladder-like slope with ease, then slide down the ridge to pick up speed. Up next: a series of bobbing inflatable stepping stones spaced just far enough to threaten your balance.

But you nail it. Clean. Quick. No missteps.

Just before moving on, you glance over your shoulder.

And of course, Jeongguk is still parked on the starting point like a smug bastard. Lounging on the platform, one leg lazily swinging, sipping a chocolate milkshake with a goddamn umbrella straw in it—and chatting with his timer staff like they’re on a beach vacation.

“Seriously?!” you call out, pausing briefly on a flat portion of the course. “You’ve got time to sip on milkshake?”

He raises his cup toward you in mock salute. “Ordered you a strawberry one too, baby! Tragic they don’t allow alcoholic drinks out here!”

Rolling your eyes, you push forward—pace faster now, lungs burning from the extra effort. The ten-second advantage almost coming to an end.

The inflatable pillars ahead sway slightly with every touch, your arms wrapping around them for balance. Hugging your way past them is awkward, especially with how narrow the walkway is.

Your foot almost slip off the narrow walkway when the whole obstacle course begins shaking uncontrollably. Looking across, you see Jeongguk already making a run for it on his side.

“What the—?”

He's already dived across the first obstacle cross, not even bothering to go through each zigzag path

“You overgrown muscled bunny!” you yell. “Stop shaking the whole damn course!”

“Admit it!” he calls back, already barreling over his second obstacle. “You’re losing your stance! Want me to slow down for you?”

Ignoring him, you’re laser-focused now. Two more obstacles left on your side. He’s got four. You can still win this.

You power through the next segment, a slightly unstable zigzag of domes, gripping whatever you can while your legs burn from crouching low.

But Jeongguk? He’s flying. Fast, fluid, zero hesitation now. All that sloth-speed from his first three attempts earlier was just warm-up.

And you hate him for it.

He catches up just as you hit the scattered stone course again. He leaps between his with wild precision, then balances on the little middle connecting path, giving you a smug little smirk.

“Ready to give up, babe?”

“Never!”

You dig in, pushing through the narrow path one wobbly step at a time. He skips two stones almost expertly—only to fall flat on his face against the final middle platform, arms splayed like a squashed bug.

It throws off your footing when you burst out laughing. You nearly fall but the expected splash doesn’t come. A firm grip wraps around your wrist. Jeongguk yanks you forward, tumbling you down onto the broad middle section right on top of him.

Arms caged around your waist, he doesn’t let go. His chest still rising from the fall. “How about we just forget the race?” he murmurs, lips brushing near your jaw. “We don’t even know what we’re fighting for.”

“Huh.” It got you thinking as you look up, heart racing rapidly. And no – it wasn’t from literally sprinting the moment he started his race. “Bragging rights doesn’t seem enough?”

“I want a kiss. Right now.”

You dodge quickly before he can sneak in. “Nope.”

Standing up, you help him, still tangled together in breathless laughter. “How about this? Winner gets to drive the Harley for the rest of the day.”

Jeongguk crosses his arms. “I already let you drive here. I drive us back. That’s logic, baby. Not a deal.”

“It’s a fair deal.”

Before he can argue, you shove him off the inflatable—arms flailing, splash echoing loud enough to catch everyone’s attention.

“Hey! They said no dirty tricks!” he’s turning toward the staff for help. “That’s got to be a penalty or something! Stop her clock!”

Looking at the staff with a playful glare and a look that says ‘try me’, they don’t even flinch, keeping their fingers far from the timer buttons.

“Oh come on, this is straight-up bias,” Jeongguk grumbles as he pulls himself back up. “Don’t let the tiny queen scare you!”

But you’re already running ahead, putting distance between you while he’s still dripping and plotting revenge.

“When I win, I drive the Harley all day!” Shouting over your shoulder, you move quickly, tackling the three-step ladder inflatable like a pro.

Jeongguk’s already coming after you.

“When, huh?” he calls, matching your pace. “When I do, not only am I back to driver duties, I want that kiss, the second I hit that finish line.”

You weren’t after the Harley. Didn’t even care if he wins and earns that kiss after. What you really wanted were bragging rights—just the chance to say you beat Jeon Jeongguk, even once. A once-in-a-lifetime honor.

But more than that, you just wanted to see him like this again—playful, laughing, stuck in his “I’ll win no matter what” delulu mindset. Sixteen again, all heart and harmless mischief. No stage lights, no schedules. Just the two of you.

Racing for the giant inflatable ladder that leads to the top of the final slide—you take two steps at a time, arms burning as you pull yourself up.

On the other side, Jeongguk’s already climbing too, taking long, graceful strides like he’s floating instead of hauling 70% muscle mass.

“This is so unfair,” you groan through clenched teeth. “You’ve got the arms of Reed. Or Groot. Freaking elastic limbs.”

He laughs, soft and breathless, glancing at you across the divide. “And you’re like Morgan Stark. Cute and sassy.” His expression softens, eyes sweeping over you like he’s taking a mental photograph. “Want help, baby?”

“Stay on your side, Gguk,” you huff, adjusting your grip. “I can do this.”

And you do. Just barely. Grit through each pull, calling on every ounce of core strength from those half-assed gym visits you only endured because of him.

But Jeongguk, being Jeongguk, doesn’t listen. When does he ever?

He swings to your side like Peter Parker’s possessed him, landing right next to you, pace perfectly matched. “I’m honestly willing to forfeit the win just to watch you like this.”

“Struggling?”

“No,” the softness in his voice knocks the air out of your chest. “Having fun.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just watches you, chin tucked as he leans against one bent arm hooked around a rubber handle. Lips twitching in a quiet smile, and his eyes—those stupidly full eyes—gleam like they’re memorizing you all over again.

Wind brushes past, and the sound of distant waves fills the silence between you.

For a second, the world slows down. Just the two of you, up here, suspended between sea and sky. The race, the teasing, the prize—it all fades out.

Your heart stumbles.

But only for a second.

“Almost got me there,” you mutter—and shove him hard.

He slips, losing grip, tumbling back at least ten rungs. “Oh come on! That was a full Shakespeare moment!” he protests between gasps. “Romeo and Juliet could never!”

“You do know they died, dummy!” you call, waving the pink victory ball in the air like an Olympic torch as you step onto the final wobbly surface. “I win! Sunshine beats Jeon!”

From the base of the slide, a staff member calls up: “Ma’am, you need to slide down to finish the course!”

You glance behind just in time to see Jeongguk pulling himself up again, storming toward you with that infuriating bunny-smug expression. “Hand it over, babe.” Arms already out.

Before he can reach you, you toss the ball down—and dive after it. “Suck it, bunny man!”

“NO!” he yells after you, voice cracking as he slides down, dramatic and wind-whipped.

You swim for your life, arms cutting through water with every ounce of energy you have left. The ball bobbles near the finishing platform—just close enough to give you hope.

Jeongguk’s closing in behind you, the water splitting around him, and you swear you hear him laughing so hard it’s causing bubbles.

“Almost there,” you pant, breath hitching between strokes. “Come on, flimsy limbs!”

Your arms scream, your legs are waterlogged, but the platform inches closer with every frantic push. The ball’s still in your grip, cradled like a crown jewel.

“And finished!” the staff stops the timer just as you haul yourself up the platform, breathless and shaking—but victorious.

Jeongguk slams his palms on the edge seconds later, looking up at you with disbelief, admiration, and just a touch of petty betrayal.

You lift the ball with trembling arms and a triumphant grin. “Remind me to never challenge you again.”

“That win doesn’t count.” He collapses beside you, arms flopping across your stomach as both of you wheeze from exertion.

He unclips the straps of your lifejacket to help you breathe easier. Follows with his own after, chest rising and falling with tired laughter. “You shoved me at least three times. That’s a lousy win."

Finally letting go of the victory ball, you turn on your side to face him, breath still unsteady. “What was it you said earlier? Smart play?”

“You’re worse than Jin-hyung when he tries to cheat at board games.” He sits up with a groan, peeling off the rest of his gear.

Still winded, he helps you sit upright, peels off your lifejacket, always one step ahead.

“Stay golden through tactical thinking. That was your line, remember?” A staff member offers you both towels, and you don’t hesitate—rubbing his hair dry first with the care of someone who’s done it a thousand times. “Besides, what’s one win compared to the hundreds you’ve racked up in your lifetime?”

Smirking, he gently turns you around, undoes your messy bun with practiced ease, and starts towel-drying your damp hair. “True. Got a whole folder of wins. On my hard drive. With timestamps.”

You both fall quiet—until another staff member returns, handing him a tall plastic cup with a glittery swirly straw.

He hands it to you, the condensation beading against his fingers. “Strawberry milkshake. Might be watered down since you took forever, but we’ll grab a fresh one later.”

“Now this is heaven.” The sweetness floods your mouth, a long sigh escapes you. “Out of curiosity, want to know our race times?”

“Eh, sure.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter—though the way he casually steals a sip from your straw to hide the smug look says otherwise.

Then he lifts a hand toward the staff. “Excuse me, could we know the final times, please?”

A new staff member steps forward, checking their timer. “For you, Ma’am, sixteen minutes and four seconds. Originally eleven—but we added five for all the, uh… pushing incidents.”

“Wait—what?! Where’s the original staff? I told them to—!” You sputter, shoving the milkshake into Jeongguk’s hands, already scanning the area for your defense attorney.

He laughs so hard, the cup nearly topples over. “Babe, calm down.” He pulls you into his side, arms wrapping tight to keep you from storming off. “You still did better than me on my dry runs. Nineteen minutes, remember?”

“Oh…” That shuts you up fast. A sheepish smile blooms as you slump against his lap. “Yeah, okay. That’s decent. What’s his record?”

The staff in charge of Jeongguk steps forward, timer raised. “Thirteen minutes and seven seconds.”

“T-Thirteen?!” You bolt upright. “That flirty scene in the middle took, like, two fucking minutes! There is no way—”

You lunge for the timer, but Jeongguk grabs your waist, anchoring you down while laughing hysterically. “And that’s with you getting a ten-second head start,” he coos, tightening his grip as you squirm like a disgruntled toddler. “It’s okay, baby. You still get five stars for effort.”

“Nooooo!” you wail dramatically, burying your face in his chest. Even the staff—who earlier looked seconds away from quitting—are quietly chuckling now. “This game is rigged. I’m calling a rematch. On the kayaks.”

“Oh…” Jeongguk’s eyes widen, sparkling like a child on Christmas morning. “We’re going kayaking?”

“Yeah, sure. Let me just—breathe for five minutes.” You stomp away toward the cabana where your things are, flopping onto the lounge cushion with the most dramatic pout you can muster. Punching the towel like it personally offended you, muttering curses into the oversized backpack.

From a distance, Jeongguk’s laugh rings out. “Looks like I get to drive the Harley after all!” He’s jogging towards you like a chaos-drenched gold retriever. “And the kiss! Give me my smooch, baby!”

“Go smooch the fish, you stupid, good-at-everything maknae!” You’re already on your feet, sprinting toward the kayak docks as he chases after you, still all pout and kissy face, determined to claim his hard-won prize.

"Ah! Security!” you yell between giggles, running for your life, from your idiot husband who's already catching up to you.

The water by the kayak dock is gentler here—calm and steady, with only the smallest ripples brushing the sides of the boats. The sun has mellowed to a buttery gold, casting long reflections over the water like silk.

You both listen in half-focus as the safety instructor gives a quick briefing, your lifejackets already snug, boats prepped.

With a quiet truce and mutual understanding that you’re both too spent from the earlier chaos, the kayak round is declared a no-contest. No races, no bets—just paddling and peace.

You’re the first to slide into your kayak and push off, the paddle dipping into the water with smooth, easy strokes.

“Hear that, Gguk?!” you call behind you, eyes still on the glimmering water. “Arms and legs in at all times.”

For a moment, there’s only silence and serenity—just the gentle pull of the water, the creak of the paddle, the soft hush of waves lapping against the hull.

Then, predictably: SPLASH.

You turn, just in time to see Jeongguk’s kayak capsized, legs in the air, and at least three staff members scrambling to help fish him and the boat out.

“That kayak is made for kids, I swear—!” He resurfaces, hair dripping, sitting up on the dock like a shipwrecked prince, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with exaggerated flair.

“Don’t blame the equipment, baby.” You’re laughing too hard now, pausing your paddle to fully turn around. “That’s a skill issue.”

He laughs but immediately launches into a mini panic, patting down his soaked pockets. “Shit. Shit—our phones. Where the fuck are the phones?!”

Reaching into the waterproof pouch, rolling your eyes, you hold up both devices with a smug grin. “You handed them to me, big baby.”

Jeongguk lets out a full-body sigh of relief. “As long as the phones are okay, we’re good.”

Soon he’s back in the kayak—this time properly seated—and paddling smoothly beside you. Together, you glide along the water, dipping in and out of rhythm.

The sun continues to lower on the horizon, dyeing the lake in soft hues of peach and rose. A few birds circle above, chirping lazily, while distant laughter from other resort guests echoes from the beachside bar.

“You’re doing pretty well for a first-timer,” Jeongguk muses, rowing slightly ahead.

“Listening to instructors pays off.” You try to reach over with your paddle to nudge his boat, but your short arms don’t quite make it. “I swear—once we’re done with these aquatic shenanigans, I’m getting body enhancements. Fully upgraded limbs.”

He laughs so hard his kayak wobbles. “You and your eternal tiny complex.” The water ripples around his boat, laughter bouncing across it. “Please don’t. I fell in love with Queen Minions. I’d prefer for the tiny queen to stick around.”

You splash a bit of water his way, creating a distraction from your unsteady heart, then pull out your phone, camera ready. “Smile, simp.”

“Your simp.” He grins, holding up his paddle like a champion lifter. “Toss me the phone—I’ll get yours too.”

“Seriously?” You blink at him, unconvinced. “A second ago, you nearly drowned. No. Stay put.”

Carefully, you paddle closer to align the kayaks, then gently pass the phone over. “I’m not letting this thing turn into Nemo. Do you know how many photos alone are on that phone?”

“I have back-ups!” he insists with mock indignation. “Unlike someone who thinks cloud storage is a solar event.”

Brow raised, sass already dialed to full. “I do back up. Google Drives.”

“Doesn’t count when you hit ‘Forgot Password’ like clockwork,” he snorts. “Also, your Google Drives look like post-apocalyptic chaos. Color coding doesn’t exist in your universe.”

You give your biggest smile, cheeks popping, eyes disappearing, holding up a peace sign on one hand, the other raising the paddle slightly. “Don’t diss my organizing skills. We’re talking about back-ups, Gguk.”

“Which you clearly flunked in Uni,” he quips, nudging your kayak forward with his paddle and chasing after you like the menace he is.

The rest of the ride feels like floating through a watercolor painting. The sky deepens to lavender, the water shimmering with every ripple. There’s occasional playful shoving between your kayaks, another splash war that leaves both of you wheezing.

At one point, you row ahead just to take a video of him paddling behind you with that dopey, happy grin—his cheeks puffed out from holding back laughter when your boat gets caught turning in a circle.

He snaps candids of you too: hair damp and wind-tousled, the sunlight glowing against your cheeks, arms outstretched as you paddle toward the sunset. Somewhere in between, the joy softens—settling like warmth beneath your chest.

Toward the end of the trail, nearing the dock, you overhear two staff members in their own little canoe nearby, quietly chatting and giggling among themselves.

“When I get married…” one of them says, dreamy and wistful, watching the two of you with soft eyes, “I want a love like that.”

The comment makes your paddle pause mid-stroke. You look back at Jeongguk just as he glances at you too—like he might’ve heard the same thing.

You smile, warm and full, wind in your hair and heart beating too fast to speak.

The breeze is cooler now, just enough to raise goosebumps, but you stay warm beneath the oversized cotton and the memory of his arms.

Jeongguk is still in the water, floating through the mellow currents with practiced ease. Every few laps, he breaks into his signature freestyle—sharp, clean strokes cutting through the water like he was born for it.

A few kids wander close, clearly starstruck, and before long one brave little soul climbs onto his back like a dolphin ride.

You see a flustered mom rush in, trying to pry her child off him in apology, but Jeongguk just laughs, hands raised, giving her a polite nod before inviting the kids to swim closer again.

He plays along, lifting one on his shoulders, guiding another through a backstroke, the parents helping from the sides. He looks so at ease—boyish and bright and completely unbothered. From where you sit, it’s almost unfair how natural he is.

Then you hear it, clear as day:

“Samcheon, can you carry me next?”

He obliges with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, lifting the little one easily onto his shoulders.

You reach for the camera without a second thought. Want him to remember this: the way he laughs with them, the way his arms make even the wildest child feel safe.

Hitting record, you quietly capture the whole thing—the water glistening, his soaked hair sticking to his forehead, the stupid faces he makes as he pretends to be a sea creature.

You smile to yourself, chest stupidly full.

It’s wholesome. So stupidly wholesome… until she lingers.

The child’s mother doesn’t leave right away. She keeps talking to him, brushing wet strands from her face, laughing a little too loud, touching his arm a little too often as she gives an endless string of thank yous.

Jeongguk, as ever, remains polite.

He finally starts walking up from the water, his upper half on full display—sun-kissed skin, drenched hair, the tattoos on his arms glistening with droplets. And of course, that’s when you hear it:

"It should be illegal to be that hot."

"God, you could make one of this, couldn’t you make a little more?"

"Quick, pretend to drown, maybe he’ll save us. He was so good with the kids."

"We’re on the sand. Drown on what? Choke on your martini, then maybe he’ll save you."

"You idiots. There’s a ring on his finger. Hormones. Leash them."

He collapses beside you on the chair with a tired huff, stealing a bite from your sandwich like it was rightfully his. “Water was awesome, baby. Should’ve joined me.”

Grabbing the towel from your scattered belongings, already dabbing gently at his face, then working your way down his shoulders.

“Didn’t seem like company was needed,” you murmur, tone casual, but the words come tinged with something you try not to name.

Jeongguk’s oblivious. Of course he is. “Oh, the kid?” he shrugs, sipping from your milkshake. “Sweet dude. Just started swimming lessons—rusty, but he’s trying.”

He lifts his arm, turning it slowly to show the full sleeve of ink still gleaming with droplets. “He was amazed by these.”

“Looks like his mom and those guests over there are too,” you jut your chin toward the group still not-so-subtly gawking nearby. “Would you ladies like a picture? I have airdrop turned on. Can send you at least a thousand shots. That should satisfy a month’s thirst.”

The smile you flash isn’t even close to friendly. It’s all teeth and warning.

It works. The women quickly shuffle away, returning to their drinks and whatever dignity they had left.

Jeongguk coughs a laugh, fumbling for his shirt in the bag. “Damn it, are these all compression tops?”

“You packed them, genius,” you catch his wrist mid-rummage, tugging his hand gently away.

“Just leave it. I’m enjoying my own show. Think my body’s enough to block yours from wandering eyes, right?” Leaning slightly to the side, you shield him with your form like a cheeky human wall.

“Oh? You want a show?” His voice dips lower now, amused, dark, dangerous in that way that always gets your pulse racing. “How about we give them a show? Right here, baby. That should shut them up for real.”

Jeongguk leans closer, lips grazing your jaw, breath warm on your neck. You feel the smirk more than you see it.

A soft, involuntary moan escapes before you can stop it. Your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat—but you catch yourself fast. With a playful scoff, you shove the towel into his face, pushing him away.

“You’re a menace.”

He peeks from behind the towel, still grinning like he’s won the lottery. “Your menace.”

Then, without warning, he leans forward again and presses a soft kiss to your lips—tender and brief. “Knew this was the perfect moment to use my reward.”

Reaching into the lunch bag, you yank open a new sandwich with exaggerated force, and unceremoniously shove it toward his mouth. “Eat. Just shut up and eat.”

The wrapper crinkles loudly in protest. So does your ego.

You throw the hood of his sweatshirt over your head, yank the drawstrings tight until it’s just your nose and mouth peeking through the narrow gap. Then, you drop back into the lounge chair like a sulking child.

Beside you, Jeongguk’s soft laugh melts into the breeze, clearly amused at your flustered state.

Still chewing, he devours the sandwich in one massive bite, then reclines beside you again—leaning over until his arm drapes lazily across your stomach, his body curling into yours like his designated pillow.

“You’re so cute, wifey,” he mumbles, lips brushing your shoulder.

“I look like a potato sack in her husband’s hoodie,” you mutter, still hidden in the fabric fortress. “Everyone else here looks like they’re auditioning for Victoria’s Secret.”

Jeongguk chuckles, gently tugs your hood strings loose, just enough to reveal your pout. His arm tightens around you as he leans in, gaze soft but teasing. “Angels are overrated. I like my potato sack wife better.”

He plants a kiss on your forehead, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes with an affectionate smirk. “And, FYI, that hoodie is Balenciaga. Too fancy for veggie sacks.”

“They make sacks as clothing?” you deadpan, brow arched.

“And yet you’re wearing a piece.” He shoots back, full smug.

“They’re your pieces. Comfort first, brand trashing second.”

“What’s mine is yours,” he hums, tapping your chin with his finger. “Married life 101, baby.”

Despite his saccharine words and the warmth in his eyes—the kind that whispers I still choose you, every time—you don’t relent. Not right away.

You huff quietly, still sulking like a toddler denied dessert. “Finish the snacks. Hit the showers. I’ll pack up here.”

You begin gathering the leftover wrappers and folding the blanket into your bag, but his arm slides more firmly around your waist, halting your hands mid-fumble.

His voice drops low, soft and slow, far removed from the cheeky tone he used earlier. “I know I’ve fucked up in the past. Did some… horrible shit.”

You freeze. The breeze stills too, like the air is listening.

“But I hope you know there’s no one else I want,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours. “No one but you, Mrs. Jeon.”

Pulse jumping, you swallow hard, words caught in your throat. “Promise?”

“Without a doubt.” The smile he gives you then—tender, full, unshaken—could rival the sun. “I’d even work with the staff to stage a public proposal right now. 2025 version. That proposal earlier?” He juts his chin toward the couple farther down the beach. “They’d cry themselves to sleep.”

You burst into a laugh, shoving him away with the towel, draping it haphazardly across his bare shoulders. The wind’s cooler now, biting gently against your flushed cheeks.

“You’re dumb.”

“Nah,” he says, nudging your nose with his, “just in love.”

He stands first, quickly slipping on a shirt, tosses the towel in a nearby basket, before reaching down to help you up. “Let’s go? As much as I loved this water-and-beach day you planned, I’m beat, baby.”

“Shower?”

“I’ll just get one at home.” He flexes his fingers, palm open—waiting.

And without a moment’s pause, you place your hand in his, like it’s always belonged there.

His fingers curl around yours, firm yet familiar, and when he pulls you to your feet, it’s not just to leave the beach.

It’s a quiet promise.

You don’t need sunsets or vows whispered beneath fireworks. Sometimes, it’s as simple as this—your hand in his, his smile tugging at the corners of your world.

The roads of Busan are quieter now, dipped in velvet shadows and punctuated only by the gentle hum of the Harley beneath you.

Night has fallen soft and slow, stars scattered like salt above your heads. Streetlights cast sleepy halos on the pavement as the occasional car rolls past in no particular hurry—drivers winding down their day the same way you are, cradled by the breeze and a little bit of silence.

The wind is gentler now, calmer than it had been by the sea, brushing through your hair as Jeongguk steers the bike down the dim-lit road with careful ease.

Fatigue is slowly catching up with him. He’s stopped a few times just to stretch—hands braced on his lower back, neck rolling to each side with exaggerated groans.

You’d offered to drive (twice), but your heroic, overcompensating husband didn’t even let your fingers brush the keys before shutting that plan down with a shake of his head and a dramatic, “My lady must rest.”

Truth is, the exhaustion’s catching up to you too. Given everything you did earlier—Olympic-level stunts on inflatables, kayaking marathons, and what you’re pretty sure was at least three borderline illegal parkour moves to beat him to the finish line.

Definitely out of your prescription.

Definitely something Yoongi would scold you for, in full grandpa-doctor mode.

And, of course, the moment you post a single photo dump from the day—sun-drenched snapshots, blurry kayaks, and a very wet Jeon Jeongguk—the usual suspects start flooding your notifications.

You scroll half-lidded, trying to stay awake while curled against Jeongguk’s back.

But one DM makes your tired eyes blink open a little wider.

@ dryoongles: Attempting to be the next Black Widow? I’m calling you right now. You better fucking pick up.

@ dear.sunshine.xo: On the Harley. Can’t talk.

@ dryoongles: Yet you’ve got time to post pictures and chat. Thought Gguk’s the adrenaline junkie. Didn’t think you’d follow his footsteps.

@ dear.sunshine.xo: Trying to stay awake. Be thankful I’m on my phone. And he still is. I’m the wife. We’re basically commitment junkies.

@ dryoongles: Aish! What am I supposed to do with you? At least tell me you’ve taken meds in between?

@ dear.sunshine.xo: Of course I did, oehalabeoji 😘 Wouldn’t have survived three rounds at the kayaks if I didn’t.

@ dryoongles: SHIBAL?!

As if summoned by the universe to save you from another message filled with medical scolding, Jeongguk’s voice calls out over his shoulder—bright and boyish, a touch of that spark still alive even after the long day.

“Baby, look!” he points ahead, chin jerking toward the blur of colors glowing in the distance. “It’s the carnival.”

You straighten up behind him, blinking at the bright silhouette of a familiar Ferris wheel, its blinking lights cutting across the night sky like candy-colored constellations.

A rustic rollercoaster coils nearby, faded yet charming. Booths being crowded by the locals and tourists too. Bandanas and paper streamers flutter beneath the string lights, and the air already carries that distinct scent of popcorn, sugar, and salted night breeze.

“Whoa…” you breathe out, eyes wide in quiet awe. “Don’t these only come around in December? For Christmas?”

“Looks like they came early this year. Maybe decided to spread some summer magic,” he grins, already turning into the dirt lot beside the field. The Harley rolls to a stop with a soft purr as he finds a quiet spot to park.

“Weren’t you just complaining about your back like, five minutes ago?” your hand brushes gently over his arm. “We can do this another day.”

“Nah. Next time, it might be gone.” He kills the engine and glances at you over his shoulder, one hand already extended in offering—steady, warm, familiar, as you get off the bike. “Come on. Just a quick walk. Stretch our legs. Maybe I can finally win you that dolphin at the ballon darts… if it’s still there.”

“Only if you let me drive home after,” you’re trying your best not to smile—heart already too full watching the way he bounces on his heels like an overgrown kid. “I mean it, Gguk. You were one blink away from steering us into a manhole earlier.”

“A raccoon passed. Not my fault,” he shrugs, as if nearly dying was a minor inconvenience, his arm lazily draping over your shoulders as you both start toward the carnival entrance.

“Jeon Jeongguk.” You stop walking, turning to face him fully now—serious, no smile, no bluff.

That finally sobers him. Lifts both hands in surrender. “Fine, boss wife.” He unclips the Harley keys from his waistband, snaps them onto the loop of your shorts. “There. Full driver rights. Effective immediately.”

“Good.” You reward him with a quick peck on the cheek, your hand finding his instinctively as you step beneath the golden archway of the carnival.

Jeongguk doesn’t let go—not for a second. His arm loops securely around you, keeping you tucked close to his side, subtly steering you away from passing shoulders. Like always.

The crowds have thickened now, but not in a suffocating way—just enough to feel alive. You pass stalls stacked with new prizes and some old ones too, like that faded teddy in a pirate hat and the neon pink dolphin with a lopsided grin.

Children run past holding oversized lollipops. A balloon floats free into the sky. There’s music in the air, a carousel tune playing somewhere nearby, and the scent of buttered corn and powdered sugar wraps around you like warmth itself.

Everything feels suspended in magic, just for a moment—like time has folded in on itself to let you both peek into a softer memory, one you forgot you still carried in your chest.

Tickets quickly secured, Jeongguk doesn’t waste a second before diving into the crowd, tugging you eagerly through clusters of people toward the balloon dart booth.

There’s a glint in his eyes—a boyish mix of vengeance and excitement, all fueled by the ancient wound you’d poked at earlier: the Great Balloon Dart Defeat of years past.

You’re pretty sure both your wallets got wiped out that night, trying to win a dolphin plushie that never made it home.

“I’m just saying—those darts were a scam. Too light. Half of them weren’t even the same weight,” he grumbles, handing the booth attendant one of your freshly-purchased tickets. “You saw me throw it. With all this muscle.”

He flexes his tattooed arm like a show pony, striking a pose under the string lights above.

Rolling your eyes, you pull him gently toward you as another overzealous player stumbles too close, nearly bumping into him. “Muscles have nothing to do with skills, baby.”

He scoffs. “It’s got everything to do with skills. And aim! I had perfect aim.”

The attendant returns with three darts, and Jeongguk lights up the moment they hit his palm. His gasp is so dramatic, it startles even you. “Did these… get bigger?”

“You’re the third player to ask that, Sir,” the teen looks like he’s barely survived his first hour on shift. “But yes, we upgraded after management got spammed with one-star reviews and accusations of ‘bogus darts’… something about the weight and size being—”

“No fucking way you flooded their page,” you spin toward Jeongguk in disbelief, pinching his ribs before he can feign innocence.

“Years ago. It’s called constructive feedback, babe.” He sneaks a quick kiss to your lips before stepping forward, lifting the first dart in perfect form. “Now… behold the redemption of the Golden Maknae.”

Arms crossed, already bracing yourself for the drama, his failure. But then—thwack!

The first dart flies. A loud pop echoes. One balloon down.

You blink. “Beginner’s luck.”

He doesn’t even look at you—just smiles knowingly, lining up the next dart. Pop!

Then the third. Pop!

The tiny crowd gathered behind you gasps, then cheers. Some even start clapping. A child somewhere yells, “Wow!”

Jeongguk’s now doing a literal curtsey, bowing low and wide to the attendants in the next booth who’s started watching him, even waves, like he’s suddenly Mia Thermopolis from the Princess Diaries.

“Breezy.”

“You love it,” he grins.

You do. Damn him.

Not satisfied, he hands over another ticket to the attendant, determined to win both the oversized dolphin and the glittery fish plushie hanging at the very top. “We’re getting the whole aquarium today, babe.”

Another round, another flawless streak. He’s hamming it up now—winking at bystanders, flexing after every pop. The crowd around him thickens, cameras are out.

And Jeongguk? He’s having the time of his life.

“Tiny wife getting crushed, people!” you call out, mock-scowling as you try to push away the cluster of fans forming around him.

“Oh shit—guys, make room for my wife!” He panics, immediately shifting the crowd with quick apologies, reaching out for you once there's space. “Sorry, baby. Got carried away.”

“I don’t get the big deal with this thing anyway.” Snatching the last two darts from his hand, you raise the dart lazily, still facing him, don’t even bother aiming – just toss it behind you toward the balloon wall.

The second dart follows—just as casual.

A few gasps echo around you. Jeongguk’s mouth falls open slightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

The crowd erupts. Applause, hollering, even a whistle from a teen nearby. Jeongguk wraps an arm around your shoulders, spins you to face the balloon wall.

Two popped balloons. Dead center.

“Oh…” you say sheepishly.

He looks at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “Okay, what in the Trained Assassin was that?”

The attendant hands over your hard-earned prizes with a straight face, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to bestow not one but three massive plushies onto a couple with no visible car.

You barely manage to get your arms around the glittery fish and dolphin.

And then comes the kicker—the third grand prize: a massive, floppy-limbed octopus that practically smothers you when they drape it across your shoulder.

Jeongguk’s already laughing, freeing your face from where the dolphin is swallowing half of it. “You look like a one-woman aquarium.”

Even after he takes the dolphin and hoists the octopus over his own shoulder like it’s his backpack, you’re still drowning in plush limbs.

“Okay, this is just the first booth,” you blink at him like he’s lost it. “Knowing your competitive ass, you’re going to want to sweep every stall in this place. How the hell are we bringing these home on the Harley, Gguk?”

Shifting the dolphin to one arm, he pulls out his phone with other, thumb already scrolling through his apps. “Problem solved.”

You squint. “Please tell me you did not just summon a delivery guy to escort your toys home like they’re VIPs.”

“Scheduled for pick up within an hour. We should be done by then, yeah?” proudly, he holds his screen up, grinning as if it was his biggest achievement. “Door-to-door plushie security.”

“This is so embarrassing.” You bury your face between the glittery fish, hoping it’ll save you from the idiot husband that occupies your heart.

“It’s what delivery services are for, love.” He winks, already leading the charge toward the next booth, the obnoxious bounce in his step returning full-force.

At the ring toss line, he stops abruptly throws his hips in your direction like an idol asking for backup. “Tickets, please.”

You groan, digging into his pocket, peel out the next strip of carnival tickets while muttering, “I love whatever is wrong with you.”

Carefully, you stash the plushies beside the booth in their own VIP corner while Jeongguk takes the rings from the attendant. His confidence radiates like the neon signs overhead—annoyingly loud, annoyingly justified.

He doesn’t even aim. Just lifts one arm lazily and flicks the first ring forward.

Clink.

Clatter.

Right over the neck of the bottle.

Another toss. Same result.

“Bye. I’m done here.” You try to walk away, fully intending to leave him and his cursed bottle accuracy behind, but he’s faster—already swooping you up by the waist and plopping you down beside your mountain of prizes like you’re just another plushie to collect.

“Babe,” he pleads, barely containing his laughter, his bunny smile creeping through. “You know this stuff is nothing. That baby shark plushie?” He points dramatically. “It’s calling for me.”

You follow his gaze to a slightly off-looking shark plushie hanging from the booth’s prize rack. Wide stitched smile. Cartoonishly large eyes. Maybe too large.

“…That thing looks like it watches people sleep. Like… blinks horizontally creepy.”

“It’s cute!” he defends with way too much enthusiasm.

As the attendant hands it over, Jeongguk smashes the plush shark against his face, eyes bulging to match its exaggerated expression. “See? We’re aquatic twins.”

You bury your face in your hands, shaking your head. “I married a manchild.”

“And he won you a fish, a dolphin, an octopus, and a shark,” he sing-songs proudly.

Giving in with a soft sigh, you reach into his pocket for his phone, swipe open the camera, and lift it. “Smile, you cute baby shark.”

Jeongguk instantly obliges, eyes wide, grin wider, squishing the plush against his cheek as the rest of the stuffed gang spills behind him in chaotic, pastel glory.

You hover a second longer, camera still raised, but your gaze flicks between the screen and the man in front of it—this ridiculous, beautiful man.

And for a moment, your heart just… swells.

It’s full—achingly full—with something that bubbles behind your ribs and flutters down your arms, something that whispers I fucking love you with the kind of force that feels too big for words.

You don’t say it. Not yet.

Instead, you simply smile, snap a few pictures, and slip the phone quietly back into his pocket.

Jeongguk, still high on victory and foam-stuffed glory, grabs half the plushies and gestures with a nod. “Come on, let’s keep moving, find snacks before my arms fall off.”

Barely making it a few steps, your eyes catch on something sweet and familiar, your voice instantly shooting up several octaves. “Gguk, Gguk! They’ve still got the Cinnamoroll one!”

You don’t wait. Bolt like a kid on Christmas morning toward the cotton candy stall, hands flailing as if it might vanish if you don’t reach it fast enough.

Jeongguk’s soon he’s beside you, just as breathless, pointing wildly at another flavor. “Oh my God! Hello Kitty! We’re getting both.”

He nudges you to pull out some cash while he places the order with the sweet ahjussi behind the cart, who watches your antics with a knowing smile. “Young love,” he mutters under his breath as he fluffs the pink and blue sugar clouds.

Cotton candies secured, you and Jeongguk tear into them like you haven’t been eating all day, stealing messy bites from each other’s stick and bursting into laughter when it gets on your noses.

You snap a few goofy selfies, half of which are blurry from how much you’re shaking with laughter.

“They taste the same,” you mumble between bites, voice sticky with sugar and nostalgia.

Jeongguk nods, mouth full, stealing another bite of yours. “Swear, it hits harder here than anywhere else. They even sell this at Lotte World now, but it’s not the same.”

“Maybe, it’s cause it’s home.” It barely comes out as a whisper, but he definitely hears you, stops mid-chew.

And you feel it—the way everything stills for a heartbeat. The noise, the lights, the blur of strangers brushing past. It’s like Busan pauses for the two of you. Just long enough.

Jeongguk turns to you with a softness that makes your breath hitch.

“It’s home,” the warmth in his smile is something that stays tucked in your chest long after the moment passes.

Then, he nudges your elbow like he’s trying to restart time. “Come on. I know you’ve been wanting to try the basketball game since we got here.”

“Finally! Let’s go, baby—”

Your triumph is short-lived. The second you throw your fist in the air, your grip falters—cotton candy almost topples, plushie nearly faceplants.

Jeongguk reacts fast, swooping in with instant reflexes to rescue both. “Whoa, easy there, champ. Almost lost Cinnamoroll to gravity.”

You snort, giving him a side-eye. “That’s on you. You handed me a shark and a sugar bomb and expected stability.”

His grin is blinding. “No regrets.”

The carnival’s basketball game had always been the quietest booth on the strip—one of the reasons you’ve loved it for years. Fewer people meant more space to breathe, more chances to win, and enough downtime for the attendants to sneak in a few practice throws between guests.

You used to worry they'd shut it down from lack of traffic, but somehow, they were still here—same old painted rims, same half-deflated balls, same grumpy-faced staff—whenever you and Jeongguk visited, even during that trip three winters ago.

“Now this is a rigged game,” Jeongguk eyes the impossibly high hoops with the same questionable look. “How do you even enjoy this, babe?”

“It’s not that high,” you say, already fishing a few tickets from his pocket and handing them over to the attendant. He nods and gestures toward a side bench, offering to hold your growing collection of plushies for safekeeping. “Yoongi treats this like a kiddie arcade game.”

“Grandpa’s an aspiring NBA player,” Jeongguk huffs as he sets the toys down. The attendant hands him three basketballs—he keeps two and passes one to you. “He could probably shoot blindfolded while making his hospital rounds. Too bad his height’s his greatest enemy.”

Gasping dramatically, you shove at his chest, though he doesn’t even budge. “Don’t diss our tiny friend, my co-tiny, like that—his real enemy is chronic sleep deprivation.”

Already stepping into position, knees bent, arms raised and with one clean flick of the wrist later, the ball arcs smoothly into the basket.

“Aye! Still got it.” You spin, grinning wide, slapping a high five with an amused bystander. “Yoongi’s magic hands are still in me.”

Jeongguk pauses, lips pursing like he’s trying to contain an avalanche. “That sounded so wrong.”

You blink, confused. Until— “No! What the—ugh, I meant his skills are in me. I mean, like, passed on—like, within me!”

“That’s worse, babe.” He’s doubled over now, wheezing, nearly dropping the next ball. “Go on, try again. I believe in you.”

Groaning, you roll your eyes, still red-faced but laugh anyway. “Yoongi’s basketball skills that he trained me with over time through years of sibling bonding are – whatever. There’s a reason I hated literature in high school.” You fling the next ball. Lands in flawlessly.

The attendants – usually grumpy and dreads to go home each passing second – actually claps for you, but Jeongguk’s louder than all of them combined.

“That’s my wife!” he shouts. “Clap harder! You saw those mad skills, right?! Come on! This is art!”

“Gguk, quit it,” you throw the ball at him, still laughing at his awfully sweet support system. “Come on, give it a try.”

“I’m going to suck.” He crosses his arms like a sulking child. “Swear, this is the one thing I’m not good at. This is your game.”

“You’re the one who bragged in Uni that you could shoot from half court.”

“And you know I hit the janitor’s cart trying.”

“It was cute.” You step closer, gently place the last ball into his hand, guide his stance. “Almost made me admit I had a crush on you back then.”

“You wanted to admit it back then?” His voice is soft now, awe threading through it, boba eyes wide and shiny like he’s about to melt into a puddle right on the pavement.

He blinks. Then, in pure Jeon Jeongguk fashion, chucks the ball blind and dumb, clearly not aiming—and misses by a mile.

You scoff, ignoring your racing heart. “Great. Wasted a shot.”

Pulling out a new strip of tickets, you had it over to the attendant, exchange them for another set.

Placing a ball in Jeongguk’s hands again, you take your time, hand over his, guide him gently. “Relax. Steady. Focus. Stay in position.”

“What position, baby?” he smirks, earns a jab from you to his side. “Yup,” he wheezes, doubling over. “Knew I should’ve shut up.”

He listens this time. Aims. Arms firm, wrists in perfect shooting stance. Carefully eyes the hoop, brows scrunched in concentration, mutters something you don’t understand – you swear it’s some prayer – whispers to the ball.

And shoots.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Jeongguk’s always been a fast learner, but still, you get excited with his first successful attempt.

“That was awesome!” High on his little win, you can’t help it. Lean in, give him a soft, gleaming kiss, just brief enough to steal his breath.

Jeongguk’s glowing now, chest puffed out. “More balls. Take it all!” He slaps the rest of the tickets onto the counter, even tosses his wallet over. “Here, just take the whole thing. Card’s in there. Sticky note with my pin’s in there too. I’ll KakaoPay you my soul.”

“Baby, stop!” You’re breathless from laughing, barely managing to shove the wallet back into his pocket. “You’re going to scare the poor guy.”

“We’re just getting started! Next LeBron in the making!”

“Calm down, NBA wannabe.” But your grin is wide as you sink another shot. “Let’s hit the Ferris Wheel next? Think we’ve racked up enough plushies to fill the living room alone.”

“Say less, my love.” He follows right after with another perfect throw, wrapping up your makeshift basketball sports camp. “Kiss?”

Squinting your eyes playfully, you shake your head, lips purse to hide a smile.

When the attendant gestures toward the prize rack, you don’t even need to ask what Jeongguk wants—eyes already glued to the huge Iron Man plushie and a tiny Spider-Man keychain plushie like a kid at Comic-Con.

“We’ll take those two, please,” you don’t hesitate, gladly taking the two marvel plushies, handing it over to him.

“Thank you.” The words come wrapped in a kind of softness that doesn’t need volume. Arms loop around your waist, he presses a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head.

It’s simple. It’s quiet.

But it’s enough to make your chest ache.

By the time the Ferris wheel cart lurches into motion, you and Jeongguk are already half-buried under a mountain of plushies seated across from you.

The glittery fish plopped on its belly, the dolphin’s flipper droops to one side, the octopus slumped like it’s given up on life, Baby Shark stares you down with wide-eyed judgment, and Iron Man’s helmet peeks smugly over the pile—clearly leading the gang. The Spider-Man keychain plush squished under him, just like how Peter would cling on to Tony in Endgame.

Jeongguk has his arm lazily wrapped around your shoulder, fingers curling absentmindedly against your sleeve as you cuddle close to his chest, sharing warmth against the cool night air., both of you staring in mutual awe—and mild concern—at your stuffed army strapped securely on their seat.

It’s chaotic. It’s cramped. And it’s perfect.

“Hate to admit,” you sigh, eyeing the blue wide-eyed predator again, “but Baby Shark is growing on me.”

“Told you.” Jeongguk grins triumphantly.

“Reminds me of that time you tried to escape the cage during our first shark dive.”

“They came out of nowhere!” he insists. “Besides, sharks are cool. Always said, if we had a translating device for sea creatures, I bet half of them would say they’re just misunderstood.”

You chuckle, gaze wandering to the way the night glows beyond the cart rails. “Jeon Jeongguk, defending oceanic apex predators since 2009.”

“They need love too.”

Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d try to make villains into soft things with hearts that just need to be heard.

Because deep down—underneath all the ink, behind the occasional cocky smirk and golden boy mischief—is the same wide-eyed boy you met at sixteen.

The one who gave a lecture on why goldfish deserve better tanks. The one who hand-fed a wild squirrel a peanut and swore it winked at him. The one who—no matter how much he grows—still believes in the best of everything, even the scariest things.

A tired smile tugs at your lips as you press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, settling deeper into his warmth. “I love your curious self. That heart that wants to understand everyone and everything. Still a weirdo... but you’re my weirdo.”

For a second, he’s quiet. Then, softly, “You love me?”

There’s a shift in his voice – the sight crack, the awe hiding beneath the teasing. It’s there in the way his chest stills for a second, like he’s afraid to move and ruin it.

“Called you a weirdo and that’s all you picked up?” You lace your fingers with his and squeeze, hoping it says enough.

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles, the moment quiet and full. “I’ll always be your weirdo.”

Then, as the cart creaks higher, he tugs you closer, wrapping you tighter in his warmth. “Also... I don’t think I ever really thanked you. For swimming with me with the sharks back then. I know how badly Jaws traumatized you.”

You scoff, nuzzling into his side. “Because we watched it by the beach, at night. The movie wasn’t even the scary part—it was the fact that we were basically ankle-deep in seawater watching it.”

“Hey. 3D didn’t exist in our time. Had to improvise.” He grins.

“It was a good improvise,” you admit with a chuckle, eyes growing heavy as the memory flickers back—his dumb little setup with water-filled plastic bags, holes he’s poked in, the plastics he’s taped to the resort’s old fan nearby. The way he shrieked louder than you when the seagull passed overhead.

The ride creaks again, then steadies. Below, the carnival glows like a tiny snow globe, fairy lights dancing, the buzz of voices soft and distant.

“Thank you,” he’s quieter this time. “For always going along with my crazy ideas. Even the ones that nearly get us killed. You never had to—but you did.”

He pauses. You feel it, more than you hear it, the weight of the next words settling between you.

“I just hope… we’ll still get to have more. That you’re still willing to go along for the ride with me. The Sunshine and Jeon Adventures—international version maybe? Been a while since we’ve taken a real trip.”

“I love your crazy adventures.” The warmth in your chest tinges with something tender. “Makes me want to try things I never thought I could.” You glance up at him, lips twitching. “Osaka was the last one.”

“Three years ago,” he murmurs. His arm tightens around you. “I really wasted a lot of time.”

You press your cheek to his chest. “You’ve still got all the time in the world. To go on new adventures. To try impossible things. Who knows? You might even land on the sun one day.”

He lets out a low laugh, tinged with affection. “No thanks. You’re the only sun I need. Not trying to get grilled like samgyeopsal just yet.”

His tone softens as he looks down at you, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “We’ll have all the time in the world for more adventures. Just you and me.”

You don’t answer anymore – just smile, curl into him, and let the breeze slip through the railings of the cart. The Ferris wheel is nearing its peak now, high enough to see the outline of Busan’s sleepy coastline in the distance.

For a moment, it feels like everything has slowed down—like the world has paused to make room for this.

Only the soft creak of the cart, the whir of gears below, and the rise and fall of his breathing remain.

The Harley’s barely rolled to a stop when Jeongguk hops off the bike like he’s in the middle of a heist, nearly making you swerve as you park.

“Gguk!” you shout, fumbling the brake as he’s already sprinting up the porch steps where a delivery man stands, arms loaded with the mountain of carnival plushies.

“Sorry, baby!” he calls over his shoulder, breathless. “I’ll help out in a bit—just gotta secure the VIPs!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, securing the lunch bag, camera bag and digging into the seat compartment for the backpack.

It's a delicate balancing act as you hoist everything onto your shoulders—especially since your overly enthusiastic husband is currently staging a plushie rescue mission at the front door.

Minutes later, he returns, hair a little tousled and cheeks flushed, still catching his breath. But the moment he sees you struggling with the bags, he doesn’t hesitate—swoops in like a man with a vendetta and steals them all from your arms.

“Mission accomplished. VIPs are safe and accounted for,” he declares with mock pride.

“They better be,” you mutter, trying to grab the lunch bag back—only for him to hold it hostage. “You nearly got me to crash the bike for those glorified cotton balls.”

He just grins and heads inside, placing everything down carefully in the living room. You follow, only to tug him upstairs by the wrist, making a beeline for your bedroom before giving him a firm nudge toward the ensuite.

“Go shower. Take your time. Come out when I tell you to.”

Jeongguk blinks, scrunching his brows in suspicion. “What are you up to now?”

“Less questions. More moving.” You give him one last shove before darting toward the guest room, his confused laughter echoing down the hallway.

“And you call me weird,” he mumbles, but you hear the amusement in his voice, the soft kind—the kind reserved just for you.

In the guest room, everything you’d prepared earlier in the day still waits.

Your silk gown rests folded atop his oversized hoodie, just in case the rooftop breeze gets too cold. The folded picnic blankets, some throw pillows sits beside them, and in the corner, a small box with his favorite lavender-scented candles and the string of fairy lights you dug out from basement storage.

Shower done in record time, you slip into the robe and hoodie combo, quickly gather everything into your arms, and dash to the kitchen.

Dinner prep is fast but focused. You take out the naengmyeon broth you’d prepped that morning—remembering every tip Jeongguk once gave you back in the Seoul house when he’d teach you how to cook. You’d burned it the last time, but today it’s come together perfectly, as if even the kitchen gods are on your side tonight.

The kimchi and veggies are already prepped, the noodles boiling in the pot, bubbling gently as you steal a taste. Not bad. Actually… delicious. You whisper a small prayer to your nervous stomach that tonight, there are no room for mistakes.

Once everything’s packed and ready, you make trip after trip up to the rooftop—blanket first, then food, then candles and lights.

The candle flames flicker to life, and you string the fairy lights along the railing last. Finally stepping back, breath fogging gently in the cooler night air, you take in the scene.

It’s not perfect. But it’s yours. It’s his. It’s the both of you.

The water’s still running by the time you’re back in the bedroom, but you don’t hear the usual rounds of songs when Jeongguk’s taking his sweet time in the shower, throwing a whole concert. Meaning he’s almost done. Meaning you were just in time.

Grabbing a sticky notepad from the desk, you peel of a piece and scribble down a simple message: ‘Let’s reach for the sky tonight. Come up?’

You stick it gently on the bathroom door, knock three times, and call softly through the steam-misted air, “Gguk? Come out when you’re done.”

Then you're off again, hurrying barefoot up the stairs, wind pressing cool against your cheeks as you step onto the rooftop and lower yourself onto the blanket.

Above, the stars twinkle like tiny witnesses. Behind you, the fairy lights glow gold. And in your lap, two bowls of cold noodles sit warm with the heat of your intentions.

All that’s left now… is for him to arrive.

You’ve counted numbers backward, recited the alphabet like it’s a prayer, even restarted your phone three times just to give your fingers something to do—but nothing eases the nerves prickling your skin.

Until the door creaks open. And he steps out.

Jeongguk halts mid-step as if someone knocked the wind out of him. His eyes widen, then soften, darting between the fairy lights strung along the railings, the flickering candles, the throw pillows, the picnic blanket, and the familiar scent of lavender in the breeze.

Then they fall on you—hair still a little damp, wrapped in his hoodie, sitting cross-legged with two bowls of naengmyeon in front of you.

His breath catches. “W–What… baby, what’s all this?”

There’s awe in his voice, disbelief painted in every slow blink. His eyes shine—not just from the fairy lights—but from something fuller, deeper. The way he looks at you now… like he’s seeing his entire world folded in one rooftop.

You stand slowly, smile shy, reach for his hand. “Thought it’d be nice to end the day up here. Wind down after all the aquatic and carnival madness. Maybe…” you glance up at the sky, “watch the sunrise together. Like we used to.”

Jeongguk doesn't speak immediately. His brows twitch, like he’s overwhelmed, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to feel this happy. He swallows hard, glancing at the bowls you’ve prepared. “When did you even manage all this?”

“Your wife has ninja skills,” you tease, nudging him gently as you tug him down to sit beside you. Then, carefully, you offer him a bowl. “I just hope I didn’t ruin the naengmyeon.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One slurp in and a low groan rumbles from his chest. “Holy—okay, this is amazing.”

You exhale, shoulders dropping with a relieved laugh. “Swear? Like, not in a you’ll-need-antacids-in-ten-minutes kind of way?”

“Swear.” He places a kiss against your cheek, the kind that’s soft and slow, followed by a whisper against your skin. “It’s perfect. Thank you, baby. Looks like someone graduated Jeon Culinary School with honors.”

He hands you your bowl and you both dig in, knees brushing, the savory broth wafting between you.

“Of course,” you murmur through noodles. “Might’ve burned a couple pans and melted a ladle in the past… but tonight? Consider this a solar eclipse where I don’t bring shame to your chef legacy.”

Jeongguk laughs—chokes, actually—one hand pressed to his chest. “You’re going to make me cry into the soup.”

“Please don’t,” your eyes are already glistening. “If you start, then I’ll start. Then we’ll both end up sobbing into our dinner. Feeding seagulls soggy naengmyeon wasn’t in my planner.”

He grins, cheeks round, pulling you into his side with one arm. “Come here.”

You lean into him easily, resting your head on his shoulder as the waves roll in below, slow and steady, like they’ve learned to breathe with you.

The rooftop wraps around you both like a quiet cocoon, the soft hum of Busan murmuring beneath, hushed by distance, by height, by the sacred pause between day and night.

A warm breeze drifts through, gentle as fingers combing your hair, carrying the faint scent of the sea and lavender from the candles flickering beside you. Somewhere down the shore, a faint guitar plays—its melody half-lost in the wind, but somehow, it finds its way to you.

Above you, stars begin to peek out from the curtain of dusk one by one—shy, silvery witnesses to your quiet moment. They glimmer like little promises, like they, too, are waiting for what comes next.

And for once, you don’t feel the rush of time. Everything slows down, suspended in something soft, something sacred.

The kind of stillness that only comes when you’re exactly where you belong.

Once the bowls are empty and stacked neatly to the side, you shift behind him, pulling him gently into your arms this time. He leans back without question, his body melting against yours, his head resting right beneath your chin.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, fingers playing with your sleeve. “I missed you so much, baby.”

You smile against his temple, brushing your hand softly along his forearm. “Spending the whole day together wasn’t enough?”

“You know what I mean.” His face hides against your arm now, his voice half-muffled. “It’s just… you. Us. These quiet moments. Mostly you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t need to. Instead, your fingers gently tangle with his, brushing over the curve of his wedding ring, still snug on his finger. Still worn like a promise.

“I missed you too.” You kiss his forehead, slow and full of feeling, holding him just a little tighter.

He falls silent for a second. The nerves were long gone after you’ve both savored the dinner you’ve prepared but the bobbing in his throat is back. You notice the way his chest falls and rises rapidly like he’s trying to keep it together.

He goes quiet again.

The nerves you thought had melted earlier creep back—subtle but present. You feel it in the way his chest rises a little faster, the way his grip on your hands tightens.

Then, slowly, he shifts in your arms, turns to face you fully. His hands never let go.

His gaze finds yours, swimming with something vulnerable—something on the cusp of overflowing.

“I have to tell you something.”

Your heart stalls. He hasn’t even said anything yet, but the way his fingers tighten slightly around yours, how his gaze lingers just a beat too long before flicking away—it’s enough to make your pulse skip, your palms dampen with nerves. Every irrational scenario plays out in your head like a film reel gone rogue.

Still, you steady yourself, hiding it behind a small chuckle. “Is something wrong?”

He smiles—small, uneven, not quite reaching his eyes. “Met my boss earlier this morning. I told you that, right?”

You nod slowly, brows already furrowing. “Yeah. I remember.”

Jeongguk takes a breath. His thumb strokes over your hand absently, like it grounds him. “It was… pretty important. I mean, him coming all the way here to Busan—it wasn’t just a check-in.”

He hesitates, the words starting and stalling as if each one gets caught in his throat.

“The company…” He lets out a breathy, nervous laugh. “God, I’m so bad at this. It’s not bad—I promise.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You squeeze his hand. “You can tell me. Take your time.”

He nods, grateful, swallows again. “They’re offering me something. A new opportunity. A big one.”

The pressure in your chest disappears in a flash, replaced by a rush of joy. You blink in surprise, then beam. “That’s amazing, Gguk! Congratulations! You’ve been working your ass off for this! Is it a promotion?!”

His laugh is sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as his fingers slip gently from yours. “It’s not quite an immediate promotion yet.”

You wait, patient, but curious now.

“They’re asking me to lead two major campaigns first—big brands, international clients. And if that goes well, I’d be stepping in officially… as Executive Creative Director.”

You don’t even let him finish. Already lunging at him, throwing your arms around his neck and crushing him in a hug.

“Holy fuck, Jeon Jeongguk,” you whisper against his cheek before peppering him with kisses. “That’s huge. I can’t believe this. I’m about to stitch you a whole new suit. No—ten suits. I’m bringing out the ancient sewing kit.”

He laughs, softer this time, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. “I know, baby.” But it fades as he pulls back just slightly, eyes flickering down. “You’re going to have to hold on to that though.”

Your brow lifts. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

That makes you pause. The buzz of excitement falters just slightly. “Why not? Gguk… this is the opportunity you’ve been dreaming about. Remember how hard you pushed five years ago when the position opened up? You worked through holidays, back-to-back campaigns, nearly made yourself sick just trying to prove you were ready.”

He lets out a faint chuckle, the memory hitting home. “You and Tae hid my laptop in Yoongi-hyung’s office and locked up all my hard drives. Told me it was the only way you’d get me into a hospital.”

You smile, but only briefly.

“So why are you hesitating now?”

“Not exactly passing it up,” he says, firm this time, eyes locking with yours. “I just told them I’d think about it. That I wanted to talk to you first.”

“You never needed to check in with me about work, Gguk,” your fingers find his again. “You know I’ve always been on your side. I still am. Always will be.”

There’s a second of quiet, long enough to make the wind feel louder, brushing past your ears like a whisper.

He breathes in deeply. Then exhales.

“Because… the job’s in Paris.” His voice is soft, fragile in the quiet rooftop air. “And it’ll go on for a year.”

It’s not what you expected.

Not even close.

But it doesn’t make you unhappy. There’s a slight sting, yes—like a small tear in fabric you’ve worn for years. A fraying along the edges of comfort.

You’ll miss him.

You’ll ache.

The thought of him waking up oceans away, breathing a life that doesn’t start with your shared morning mess and sleepy kisses—that thought presses tight against your chest.

But even then... joy wins.

Because this is him. And this is everything he’s worked for.

You’ve always wanted his dreams to outrun the limits of Seoul, of Busan. Have always believed in his wings. And tonight wouldn’t be the night you clipped them.

“Paris…” you whisper, not as a question, just the shape of a memory. A city you once fell in love with before you even stepped on its streets. Your lips tug into a small smile despite the swirl inside your chest.

“It’s your favorite city.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Boba eyes full, like the ocean swelling at high tide, and behind it—something else. Something aching, something wanting. “It’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

He pauses. Licks his lips. Swallows like it hurts to say.

“I was hoping… you’d come with me.”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re conflicted—but because he remembers. He remembers. Through everything, even now, he still remembers. That the city of lights and art and winding alleys lined with ivy-covered cafés used to live in your journals. That Paris was always that city for you.

“Jeongguk…”

“It’ll just be a year,” he presses gently, voice picking up in hope. “You could finally explore, for real—no client appointments, no business calls blasting your phone. You can take those overpriced art classes at École des Beaux-Arts. Or maybe even try the pastry school we joked about that one night—remember?” A small laugh escapes him. “We could do it all together. You and me. Our second shot. Our new dream.”

His eyes are gleaming now, mouth curved, breath uneven in the way it gets when he’s excited. And it’s beautiful—his hope. It always has been.

But yours comes from a quieter place now. A different place.

“Gguk…” Your voice softens, hands reaching up to touch his cheek, thumb brushing along the skin there. “It’s not that easy.”

His smile falters.

“Why not? You’re not with Seora anymore. There’s nothing holding you here now. And if you don’t have any plans yet—then this is perfect. Come with me.” His hands find yours, clutching like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Please.”

And it hurts.

The way he’s looking at you now—eyes wide, almost trembling—like if you said yes, everything would be okay again. Like he’d carry the whole world on his back just to make it happen.

You swallow the ache in your throat. Meet his gaze with a smile that trembles around the edges.

“Your plans… they’re beautiful. You remembered every detail. Even the school I used to doodle on napkins. My favorite place in the world…” Your voice breaks just slightly, but you gather yourself. “It’s just… I can’t go.”

Silence.

Jeongguk’s hands slowly slip from yours. He leans back, eyes searching yours as if hoping for a different answer hiding in the spaces between your words.

But when he finds none, he shifts. Takes a seat back. “Then I’m not going.” His voice is sharp. Shaken. “Fuck the job. I’m not leaving.”

“Baby…” You reach out instinctively, but he pulls away.

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes glassy, jaw clenched. “I’m not going anywhere if you’re not with me.”

He turns as if to pace, but you rise and gently stop him with a hand on his wrist.

His chest is rising fast now, panic slowly leaking into his voice. “I’m serious. Don’t ask me to do this without you. I can’t. You know I can’t.”

You nod, quietly. Expected it. Braced for this.

And still, it doesn’t make it easier.

Taking both of his hands again, you pull him close, press your forehead to his. Let your silence hold him steady before your words follow.

“You’ve wanted this for years. Long before me. You’ve worked for it in ways no one else could understand. Please… don’t let me be the reason you walk away from something this big.”

“I’ve been telling you…” he breathes, voice cracking now. “None of that matters if you’re not by my side. It’s all meaningless without you.”

And still, your hands stay gentle. Your smile stays soft.

“I’m not going to force you if you don’t want to go.” You shift closer, legs slowly draping over his lap as your hands cup his jaw, steady and warm. “But please… think about it. Just promise me you’ll think about it. I don’t want you looking back one day and wondering what if. I don’t want you to regret this.”

“What I’ll regret,” he says quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his palm warm against your cheek, “is leaving you again.”

His voice wavers—not with uncertainty, but with the kind of devotion that sounds like a vow.

“There’ll be other jobs, baby. Another opportunity. One that doesn’t fucking rip me across the map from you. I’ve already lost you once. I’m not letting that happen again.”

And something in your heart just… unfolds.

You’ve been loved by him before.

But this? This is different. This is him fighting for you again. This is love without hesitation, without self-preservation, without pride.

It’s the love you’ve been craving from him for years. And now, it feels like home again.

“You’ve never lost me.” The whisper leaves your lips as you close the space between you.

Gently, you lean forward, forehead resting against his. “I’ve always been with you here…” Your fingers trace his temple.

“Especially here.” You press them lightly to the center of his chest, where his heart thunders beneath skin and cotton.

“And I’ll always be with you,” you murmur, “even when you can’t see it.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond—not with words, at least.

Instead, you lean in, your lips brushing over his in the softest promise. And then again—deeper, slower. The kiss unravels you both, quieting the ache, replacing it with something warmer, fuller.

You pour every beat of your heart into the space between his lips and yours—every word you can’t bring yourself to say.

He sighs into the kiss, fingers twitching like he wants to hold you, ground himself, but you don’t let him—not yet.

Shifting gently, you guide him back until his spine meets the picnic blanket, your body coming to rest above his, your knees on either side of his hips.

The moonlight glows faintly across his cheeks, kissing the shadows of his jaw and the plush curve of his lips as you pull away just enough to look at him.

His eyes are glassy, glinting, searching. Hands hover, wanting you. Reaching for you.

But you gently take them—wrap your fingers around his wrists—and ease them back against the blanket. Not harshly. Just enough.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Baby…” he breathes, his voice laced with ache and longing. He looks up at you, wide-eyed and full of wonder. There’s need there, yes—but more than that, there’s awe. Like he can’t believe this version of you is still his to love.

“I’m here,” you tell him. “I’ve always been here, my love.”

You bend slowly, pressing soft kisses down his neck, each one delicate and lingering. Lips trailing lower, long his collarbone, across his chest—letting your touch speak the words you can’t say without breaking.

Your hands slide up his arms, memorizing the familiar terrain of him, anchoring yourself to the only place you’ve ever truly felt safe.

And he just lies there beneath you, breathing your name like a prayer.

His fingers twitch beneath your hold, but he doesn’t pull. Lets you take the lead, lets you love him the way you need to.

Your fingers move with quiet intention, slow and reverent as you ease his shirt over his head, revealing warm skin and familiar planes that still feel like home.

The cool breeze brushes over his chest, goosebumps blooming beneath your touch—but the shiver that runs through him isn’t from the wind.

It’s from you.

And when he lets out a breath—barely audible—you smile softly against his skin, your lips hovering just below his collarbone.

“Cold?” you whisper, teasing.

He shakes his head, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No. Just you.”

You laugh softly at that, brushing your nose against his before kissing him again—slowly, sweetly, until his whole body melts beneath you.

When he reaches for the hem of your night gown, fingers grazing with hesitation, you stop him gently. Just a touch. Just a look.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” you whisper, lips brushing his cheek.

He nods, wordless, trusting.

You keep the gown on, a soft slip of silk that flutters like moonlight over your skin—but the rest of your clothing is gone, forgotten somewhere along the way, until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and want.

“I want you to remember…” you kiss your way back to him, just below his lobe, slow and steady, “…that no matter what you do, where you go, it’ll always be you and me.”

His hands slide to your waist, no longer pinned, but guided—holding you gently now, as if you were something holy.

You let him.

Because tonight, he doesn’t need to prove anything. Doesn’t need to chase or lead. He only needs to feel.

And you—you—are here to give him that.

Your hips roll over his slowly, deliberately, drawing soft sighs from his lips as your hands explore the lines of his body, his tattoos, mapping him again as if you’ll need to memorize every inch.

He whispers your name like he’s never said it before, like it holds every ache and hope inside it. His hands slip beneath the silk at your waist, fingers trembling with reverence, grounding himself in the way your skin fits against his.

But still, you lead.

The pace is unhurried, wrapping your fingers with his, never letting go, guiding them to your heart, before returning them to the curve of your hips. And when you sink down over him, slow and warm and full, the breath he exhales sounds like relief.

Not just from pleasure—but from the ache of finally, finally being held like this again.

Foreheads touching. Breath mingling. Limbs entangled with each other. The world stills around you.

You move with softness, not for show, but for truth. Each slow rock of your hips is a reminder. Each roll is a promise.

I’m here.

You’re mine.

Even when you’re weren’t

You lean in, your lips brushing over his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his lips, before you kiss him again—deep and quiet and consuming.

“Just remember tonight. That’s all I ask,” you whisper between kisses. “No matter how far. No matter how long. Please don’t forget tonight, us.”

His fingers tighten on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His body arches into yours, lost in the rhythm you set, the meaning threaded in every slow movement.

And when he moans your name again—half-broken, half-saved, when he says, “I love y—”, you hush him with a kiss, hand cradling the back of his head, your hips still moving, deeper, slower, fuller.

"I love you. I love you so much." you don't rush. Don’t let him hide.

You make him feel it. All of it.

The ache of all the years in between.

The gratitude for finding his way back to you.

The guilt he still carries, even when you never asked him to.

The love—your love—that never wavered, even in silence.

Every slow roll of your hips, every quiet kiss you leave on his skin, speaks louder than anything either of you could say out loud.

You touch him like he’s yours—not in possession, but in knowing. Like every part of him has been yours since the beginning. And always will be.

And he feels it—feels how deeply, how completely, he’s still loved. Not in spite of everything. But through it.

By the way your hands trace his face like a memory.

By the way you look into him, not at him.

By the way your body moves with his—not rushed, not frantic, but full of meaning. Full of you.

His eyes flutter shut, lips parted in a gasp, but it’s not just the pleasure that overtakes him—it’s you. The weight of being wanted, forgiven, and kept. The depth of being loved like this.

And when he finally comes undone beneath you, trembling with your name on his tongue, your hands hold him through it—safe, grounded, home.

You don’t let go.

Even afterward, when your body settles over his, chest to chest, cheek against his damp shoulder, your hands stay tangled, lips pressed faintly to his neck.

"I love you, Jeon Jeongguk." you whisper again. “I’ll always be with you.”

And this time, he believes you. Surrenders.

To you.

To everything you’ve always been.

To everything he knows now, he never wants to lose again.