𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 (𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶'𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲) - 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶 𝘆𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗻 | 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 2
ꕥ summary: she meets him once and thinks he’s… nice. maybe too nice. then life of a broke student catches up, late rent, bills piling high, and he notices. he offers help, but the terms make her blood boil, and she walks away, stubborn and proud. later, she’s a med student, juggling patients and internships, when she ends up caring for the important person in his life she never expected to impress: his grandmother. boundaries are clear, rules carefully followed, yet small gestures, quiet moments, and stolen glances slowly chip away at them both. and somehow, despite everything, something grows that neither of them can ignore.
ꕥ pairing: txt yeonjun x f!reader
ꕥ tags: romance, angst, fluff, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, power imbalance. slow burn, slice of life pg-13 for this chapter
ꕥ wc: 11.2k
ꕥ notes: guys! it's been so long!! so much happened and i am so glad to share that i finished my last law school semester so updates after this will probably go much faster than before :D i am also so excited to become a lawyer hopefully by the end of next year!!
TAGLIST ARE OPEN : @junnielvr @ssdandelion177
The afternoon sun filters in, pale and honeyed, slipping through the blinds of the bedroom in thin, quiet lines. Halmeoni is napping, her chest rising and falling in a fragile, steady rhythm that fills the room with a kind of careful peace.
You sit in the armchair by the window in the living room, buried deep in a massive, dog-eared textbook on neuroanatomy, the pages heavy in your hands. There is a sudden quiz the next morning, so in between checking Halmoni’s meds, you try to cram whatever might appear on that paper. Your highlighter is nearly dried out, the ink fading no matter how many times you drag it across the same sentence, and your neck aches like it’s rusted into place. Across from you, on the small sofa, Choi Yeonjun is taking a call for the nth time today, each time work related. He is supposedly working on his laptop, but the screen has already dimmed to black minutes ago.
He is watching you. You don’t notice, your eyes still locked on the page, your brows pulling together as you try to force meaning out of words that refuse to settle.
“You’ve been on that same page for twenty minutes,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the textbook contents.
You don’t look up, though your heart stumbles anyway. “It’s just a complicated subtopic, Yeonjun.”
“I think you’re exhausted,” he says, and this time there’s no edge to it, no teasing, just something quieter, something that lingers. He stands, putting down his laptop on the table’s surface, the fabric of his trousers shifting softly, and walks toward the small kitchen tucked into the corner. “I’m getting you coffee.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do.” He glances back, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “And don’t worry. I’m making it myself using whatever’s in the pantry. I’m not hiring any staff this time.”
It lands like a joke, but softer, like he’s still trying to make up for something without saying it outright. He’s got your attention now as you fold down the corner of the page, letting the book shut. You watch him for a moment, the way he fumbles with the machine, movements slightly uncertain, like this is unfamiliar territory for him. Someone who can probably navigate rooms full of executives without blinking, now contemplating his next steps over a French press like it might betray him. You could not help but softly giggle at the way his mouth pouts when he’s focusing, making Yeonjun turn to look at you, and you hurriedly avoid eye contact, holding back the smile.
When he finally walks back over, he sets a steaming mug beside your book, careful, almost deliberate. As he does, his fingers brush against yours. It’s brief, barely there, but it lingers in a way it shouldn’t, like the air shifts around it. Both of you still for a second, the quiet stretching just a little longer than usual. Something unspoken sits between you, soft but noticeable, blurring the edges of everything else.
A loud ring from his phone, and being followed by his Macbook after just one second startled the both of you. His hand moves further as Yeonjun stands up right, a heavy breath escalates from him as he picks up his phone. The conversation seems quite tense, his voice sounding like he’s one second away from scolding the poor caller.
“Right, I’ll call you back once it’s done, and I’m only getting there tomorrow morning the earliest.” The call ends abruptly after, and you awkwardly gutters up the courage to ask. “Why are you still here, Yeonjun?” you ask quietly, finally looking up to him. “The helpers and I can watch her. Your assistant has called you five times.”
His gaze meets yours, steady, stripped of the usual ease he carries around.
“Because the board meetings and my office are uncomfortably loud,” he says, his voice lower now, more honest than you expect. “And the house is quiet. But here… with you and Halmeoni… it feels different. Like I don’t have to be a ‘Choi.’” He pauses, then adds, softer, “I can just be here, take my time doing work. Having you around.”
Something feels tight in your chest hearing that last sentence, something you don’t quite want to name. For a moment, it feels easy to stay like this, to let the silence settle around the two of you without pushing it away. Then your eyes catch the cufflink at his sleeve, gold catching the light, then his watch, carefully crafted, polished, precise, belonging to a world that has never once made space for you.
“Don’t,” you say, your voice even softer now, but unsteady. “Don’t make this into something.”
He glances down briefly at where your hand was, something flickering across his expression before it smooths out again. He nods once, small, controlled.
“Right,” he says, stepping back just enough. “Boundaries.”
---
The heavy oak front door clicks shut behind you with a muted thud that echoes through the cavernous foyer. Every joint in your body throbs with a dull, persistent ache, the residue of an eighteen-hour shift in an overcrowded emergency room where the air smells eternally of rubbing alcohol, old floor wax, and adrenaline. Your feet feel uncomfortable inside your sneakers, knees stiff as you kick off your shoes and lean heavily against the cold drywall, letting out a breath so long and weary it feels as though it pulls the last bit of warmth right out of your lungs. The white coat seems heavier than usual and you quickly remove it from your shoulder, hanging them on the rack by the door. Your stomach churns, empty since an energy bar at mid-day, letting out a sharp, hollow growl that sounds ridiculously loud in the sterile silence of the high-rise penthouse.
You enter into the living room, where you spot Yeonjun sitting on the edge of the deep charcoal sofa, his laptop resting across his knees, illuminating the sharp angles of his cheekbones in the dim, ambient cove lighting. His tie is loosened into a relaxed loop, the top two buttons of his tailored oxford shirt unfastened to reveal the hollow of his collarbone. He’s at his usual after office hours shift at home, not even having an outfit change.
The moment the lock turns, Yeonjun’s dark eyes already snap toward the entryway, instantly absorbing the curve of your slumped shoulders, the faint dark smudges beneath your eyes, and the way you drag your feet across the polished floor.
"Rough shift?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling timbre that seems to vibrate gently through the quiet room.
"I think my stomach has officially begun digesting its own lining," you groan, pressing the flat of your hand against your ribs as you bypass him entirely, heading straight for the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator that dominates the kitchen wall. "Tell me you have something. Anything. Cold rice, leftover soup, a piece of stale bread—I might even eat raw eggs at this point."
You pull open the heavy door. A pristine, blue-white light floods the kitchen, highlighting a scene of immaculate emptiness. Beyond three identical glass bottles of sparkling mineral water stacked in a wire rack, a small jar of artisanal cold brew, and a single lemon sitting in solitary confinement on the middle shelf, the vast interior is entirely barren. You stand frozen for a beat, the frigid air washing over your face, before snapping the door shut and spinning around to throw open the high wooden pantry cabinets. Row after row of minimalist oak shelves greet you, bare, save for a glass canister of loose-leaf jasmine tea and a dark bottle of unnecessary Italy imported olive oil.
"Yeonjun," you say slowly, turning around to face him with your arms resting against the edge of the marble island, staring at him in absolute disbelief. "Where is the food?"
He halts a few feet away, a sheepish, almost boyish flush rising along his neck as his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his scalp. "The housekeeping aunty usually restocks the pantry on Thursdays," he admits, his jaw tightening slightly in self-conscious embarrassment. "I canceled them yesterday morning because you were sleeping off your night shift. I knew how exhausted you were, and I didn't want the noise of her unpacking groceries to wake you up."
"Not even instant ramen?" you gasp, dropping to your knees to pull open the bottom drawers of the island, finding only neatly stacked cloth napkins and a set of crystal whiskey glasses. "How does a multi-million-won penthouse in the heart of the city not have a single packet of instant noodles? Isn't that a mandatory emergency supply?"
"I... don't generally eat instant ramen at home," he confesses quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your desperate search. "I can call my personal assistant right now. Or order from that twenty-four-hour French bistro down on the boulevard—they have a bone marrow risotto that—"
"No," you interrupt, standing up so fast your head swims for a brief second. Your stomach betrays you again, letting out another ferocious rumble that causes his lips to twitch with the barest hint of a suppressed smile. "By the time a delivery driver navigates security and gets up the elevator, I will have passed out on this marble floor. That’s fine. I’m going out."
He blinks, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in your tone. "At midnight?"
"At midnight."
Ten minutes later, the heir to one of the largest conglomerates in the city is walking beside you down a narrow, shadowy alleyway located three blocks behind the gleaming glass towers of the main avenue. He refuses to let you out all alone, and even panics when you said you were walking. He insisted on following, even offering to drive you there, but you say it’s just around the building.
He has swapped his suit jacket for an oversized, midnight-black fleece hoodie and dark denim, his golden-toned hair slightly ruffled from pulling the hood over his head. Despite the low-key clothing, he still looks distinctly out of place, the razor-sharp cut of his jaw, his upright posture, and the subtle, instinctive way he keeps his broad shoulder positioned between you and the narrow street, keeping himself on the curb side as a quiet shield against the occasional passing scooter.
"Where exactly are we heading?" he asks softly, his breath misting into small white plumes in the crisp, autumn night air. His hands are thrust deep into his hoodie pocket, though his elbow stays lightly pressed against yours with every stride.
"To a place that caters to actual human biology," you reply, turning a corner where the damp pavement reflects the warm glow of hanging lights.
Ahead, nestled between a shuttered dry cleaner and an old brick building, sits a traditional stall, a cozy, temporary tent made of thick, bright-red vinyl, illuminated from within by string lights that cast an amber halo into the dark street. Thick plumes of fragrant white steam billow out from beneath the plastic entrance flaps, carrying the irresistible, intoxicating scents of simmered anchovy broth, toasted sesame oil, sweet gochujang, and frying batter into the chilly air.
You lift the heavy, rain-beaded plastic curtain and duck inside. The interior is tiny, intimate, and alive with heat. Three small, low plastic tables surrounded by matching red stools are scattered across the damp concrete floor. Behind a long stainless-steel counter lined with bubbling, deep-bellied vats of soup stands an elderly woman wearing a quilted floral vest over a thick purple sweater, her gray hair tightly permed into neat curls beneath a visor.
"Look who finally decided to crawl out of the nest!" the Ajumma barks the moment her sharp eyes catch sight of you, a heavy wooden ladle poised mid-air over a vat of boiling broth. Deep wrinkles fan-fold around her eyes as a broad, fond smile splits her face. "I was getting ready to call the police! Look at you, pale as a sheet, skin and bones! Did that fancy hospital swallow you whole?"
"Shift ran three hours over, Ajumma," you answer, a genuine, relaxed laugh bubbling up from your chest as the knot of tension in your shoulders loosens for the first time all day. "I haven't eaten since noon. I'm practically hallucinating."
Her keen, dark eyes slide past your shoulder, instantly locking onto Yeonjun as he ducks his head to fit under the low vinyl ceiling. He stands hovering right behind you, his massive frame practically filling the doorway, looking around the small street stall with quiet, wide-eyed curiosity. His shoulder bumps against yours, offering an anchor of warmth in the cool tent.
Ajumma squints at him, her bushy eyebrows shooting toward her visor line. "Aigoo... and what is this? Who brought a runaway model into my shabby stall? Look at those shoulders, did you steal him right off a billboard?"
A faint, charming dust of rose pink creeps across Yeonjun’s cheekbones. He immediately straightens his spine, tucking his hands behind his back, and dips into a deep, remarkably formal ninety-degree bow that looks hilariously aristocratic beneath the low red plastic ceiling. "Good evening, Ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm... a friend of y/n."
"A friend," Ajumma snorts with a loud, theatrical wave of her wooden spoon, her eyes dropping down to the way Yeonjun's hand hovers subtly near the small of your back, barely a millimeter from touching your jacket. "Sure, and I'm the country’s President. Sit down, sit down! Stop towering over my kitchen, big boy. I'll bring out the good stuff before your girlfriend faints."
The word girlfriend hangs in the air like a sudden drop in pressure. The space between you and Yeonjun instantly freezes with a stiff, agonizing awkwardness. You quickly take a half-step sideways, putting deliberate distance between the two of you, your face flushing hot under the amber string lights.
You lead Yeonjun toward one of the tiny red plastic tables. His long, lean legs fold awkwardly under the miniature frame, his knees knocking directly against yours in the tight space, but not a single flicker of annoyance crosses his face. Rather he’s looking around in curiosity. He spots a few customers, and shifts his eyes around the kitchen. His brows raise at the sight of only one person there, the Ajumma.
“She runs this stall by herself?” he’s asking, his upper lips pouting in surprise.
“I think so. Her son started studying in university just last month.”
He simply adjusts himself, his dark eyes fixed entirely on you as you hand him a pair of wooden chopsticks and pour hot, savory fish-cake broth from a battered aluminum kettle into a small paper cup.
"Drink this first," you instruct softly, nudging the cup toward him. "It'll warm you up."
Within five minutes, the small plastic table is entirely covered in steam and color: a wide oval plate heaped with thick, glossy, dark-red tteokbokki swimming in a rich chili sauce; a bamboo basket overflowing with golden, double-fried twigim, kimchi jeon, crispy sweet potato and two massive ceramic bowls of piping-hot udong, the clear amber broth glistening with sesame oil and topped with mountains of fried tofu and chopped green onions.
Without waiting further, you snap your chopsticks apart, snag a thick rice cake, and pop it into your mouth. A sound of absolute, unadulterated satisfaction escapes your throat as the sweet, fiery heat hits your tongue, instantly reviving your tired senses. "Oh, thank God."
Yeonjun watches you, his expression softening into something so tender it rivals the warm steam rising from the bowls between you. He carefully picks up his own wooden chopsticks, mimicking your movements as he takes a piece of golden sweet potato batter, dips it lightly into the crimson tteokbokki sauce, and brings it to his lips.
He chews slowly. His dark eyes widen, a flicker of genuine surprise washing over his features as he swallows. "This is... remarkably complex. The sweetness hits first, but the depth of the broth beneath it…"
"Of course it's good," you say around a bite of chewy udong noodles, shaking your head with a grin. "She’s been simmering that base broth for over thirty years. You can't buy a flavor like that in a five-star dining room with white tablecloths."
"I won't even try to argue with that," he murmurs, his lips curving into a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to the corners of his eyes, erasing every trace of the tense, tired executive who was staring at a laptop an hour ago.
"I ate here three times a week during my first few months of med school," you say, picking up two sets of metal chopsticks and setting one beside his paper cup of barley tea. "When my student loans ran late, she used to slip extra beef slices into my bowl and pretend it was a mistake."
Yeonjun listens, his dark eyes fixed on your face. He watches the way your shoulders finally relax under the yellow light of the hanging bulb.
"I didn't know people actually did that," he says softly.
"What? Gave out extra food?”
"Looked out for strangers like that," he clarifies. He rests his forearms on the small table, leaning in slightly. "In my world, if someone gives you something extra, it means they're preparing an invoice for later."
You stare at him, the casual bitterness in his tone catching in your chest. Before you can answer, the Ajumma slams two tins of sparkling ciders and two cups of ice onto the table, the cubes clink and shift beneath the pour, slowly sinking into the chilled drink as tiny bubbles race toward the surface.
"Eat while it's hot," she orders, slapping a small plate of fresh green peppers between your bowls before bustling off to tend to another pot. The warmth from the soup rises between you, a cloud of steam that softens the sharp lines of his face. You continue to dig in immediately, taking a hot spoon of broth and closing your eyes as the savory heat hits your stomach.
Yeonjun watches you for a second before picking up his spoon. He takes a cautious sip of the white broth now. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, the rich, deep flavor catching him off guard.
"It's very good," he admits, taking a second, larger bite.
"I told you," you say, a tiny smile touching your lips.
For a few minutes, the only sound between you is the rain tapping against the vinyl tent and the clinking of spoons against stoneware. The hunger recedes, leaving behind a heavy, cozy quiet.
"My family used to have dinner together every Sunday," Yeonjun says out of nowhere, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry to the other dining in. He keeps his eyes on his bowl, stirring the soup. "It was held at the main house. Twelve courses. Different wine pairings for each plate."
You stop your spoon halfway to your mouth, listening. He almost never talks about his family without that clinical, detached corporate tone.
"Sounds fancy," you respond, carefully.
"No. It was miserable," he says, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. "If you held your fork at the wrong angle, my father's secretary would make a note of it. If you talked too much, you were interrupted. Meals weren't for eating. They were performance reviews."
He looks up from his bowl, his dark eyes catching yours. The vulnerability in them is sharp, raw, and completely unarmored.
"I was ten before I realized people were supposed to enjoy eating," he continues. "I thought dinner was just something you endured so you didn't get written out of the trust."
Your heart twists. You look at him, this man who can buy the building you work in, sitting on a cracked red plastic stool in a dark alley, admitting to a childhood spent walking on eggshells. You feel a sudden, overwhelming impulse to reach across the small table and place your hand over his. To tell him that he doesn't have to perform here. But you don't.
You catch yourself, your fingers tightening around your paper cup instead. The reality of his world—the boardrooms, the cold family dinners, the mountain of wealth that separates your daily life from his stares right back at you. You are a med student drowning in shifts; he is an heir with a legacy hanging over his head. You aren't dating. You can't cross that line.
Yeonjun notices the hesitation in your posture. He sees the way your hand pulls back, the subtle wall rising back up between you. A flicker of quiet hurt crosses his features, but he quickly covers it, leaning back against the cold plastic of his stool.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice reverting to that carefully controlled tenor. "You're exhausted. You don't need to listen to me complain about my childhood."
"No," you say quickly, looking directly into his eyes so he knows you mean it. "I want to hear it. It's just... it's a lot different from my world."
"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to the space between your hands on the table. "Our worlds don't exactly have much overlap."
The air grows heavy again, filled with the unsaid weight of what you both feel, the intense, magnetic pull that has been building for weeks, crushed under the terrifying reality of how vastly different your lives are. Neither of you knows how to bridge the gap without getting hurt, so neither of you moves.
"Finish your soup," you say softly, offering a quiet, truce-like smile. "Ajumma gets offended if you leave broth behind."
Yeonjun looks at you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw slowly releasing.
"Alright," he murmurs, picking up his spoon again. "I wouldn't want to get on her bad side."
Yeonjun uses his chopsticks to break off a small piece of the yaktu-jeon, dipping it carefully into the small plastic saucer of soy sauce and pickled onions. He moves with an innate, quiet restraint. He chews slowly, his dark eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down the clear plastic flap of the tent.
"I used to think people only sat together like this in dramas," he says quietly, his voice carrying a raspy edge that is barely audible over the hiss of the rain. He doesn't look at you immediately; he keeps his focus on his cup sparkling cider, his thumb tracing the rough, ridge-patterned plastic. "Where everyone is cramped into a tiny space and the air smells like kerosene and grease. In my house, if you could hear the person sitting across from you chewing, or if the room was warmer than twenty-one degrees, someone was reprimanded."
You rest your chin in the palm of your hand, your own chopsticks resting across the rim of your now empty bowl of udong. The bone-deep fatigue from your fourteen-hour shift still aches in your lower back, but the sharp, empty gnawing in your stomach has finally settled into a dull, comforting warmth. "It sounds like living in a museum," you murmur softly, watching the way the dim light catches the sharp angle of his jawline.
"It was," he replies, finally turning his head to meet your gaze. His dark pupils are wide, reflecting the ambient red glow of the tent. "Everything was kept behind glass. Everything had a specific protocol. Even when my grandfather passed away, we didn't cry in the living room. We were given five minutes in a private study, and then we had to put on our jackets and face the reporters." He lets out a short, breathy exhale that isn't quite a laugh. "So when I see you... working until your hands shake, coming back here, eating at a place where the owner yells at you to eat more... it feels real. But it also feels like a world I'm not supposed to touch."
The honesty of his words hangs in the humid air between you, raw and unpolished. You feel a sudden, tight ache in your chest, the urge to tell him that he doesn't have to stay behind the glass when he's with you.
Your mouth twitches at the thought. But then your eyes catch the subtle, immaculate detail of his clothing, the hand-stitched hem of his shirt sleeve peeking out from under his dark hoodie, the quiet, undeniable weight of a world built on old money, corporate influence, and expectations that would tear a hospital intern like you to pieces. You remember the mountain of student loans waiting in your email inbox, the cramped, drafty apartment you still pay rent on just to keep your pride intact, and the stark reality that you are living in his penthouse on borrowed time.
Slowly, deliberately, you bite your word back, wrapping both palms around the warm, flimsy paper cup of tea instead.
Yeonjun catches the movement. His eyes track your hand anxiousy moving, and a faint, imperceptible tension returns to his posture. He doesn't press. He doesn't reach across the gap. He simply picks up his chopsticks again, leaning back slightly to restore the invisible, protective boundary you both keep erecting.
"You should eat the rest of the pancake," he says, his voice shifting back into that carefully measured, gentle tone as he uses his chopsticks to nudge the crisp edge of the chive pancake toward your side of the plate. "You're the one who worked fourteen hours on her feet. I just sat in air-conditioned boardrooms all day."
"A mental shift can be just as exhausting," you say softly, taking the piece he offered.
"Maybe," he murmurs, watching you chew with an intensity that makes the back of your neck warm despite the chill creeping under the vinyl flap. "But at least your work actually saves people. Mine just moves numbers from one column to another."
"It's not that simple, Yeonjun, and you know it."
"Isn't it?" He tilts his head, a small, somber smile touching the corner of his lips. "If I vanished tomorrow, the company would appoint a new board member by Monday. If you don't show up for your shift, a patient doesn't get their medication. That's the difference between our worlds. Yours matters. Mine is just... noise."
You look at him, really look at him—seeing past the expensive clothes and the polished demeanor to the quiet, isolated man sitting under a yellow lightbulb in a back alley. "It matters to Halmeoni," you say quietly. "And it matters to the people who actually know you."
He stills at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, heavy gravity that makes your breath hitch in your throat. For a long, fragile moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound is the rhythmic bubbling of the broth pots behind the counter and the steady fall of the rain outside, keeping two people from two entirely different lives suspended in the same quiet space.
“My childhood wasn't exactly…” You pause, rolling the paper cup slowly between your palms. “I wouldn't say it was bad. We just didn't have much.” You keep your eyes on the condensation gathering around the bottom of the cup, watching one tiny droplet make its way down the plastic before disappearing into the table. “I think I learned pretty early that if I wanted something, I probably had to figure out how to get it myself.” Your voice stays casual, almost conversational, but the words carry more weight than you intend. “My parents were always working. Sometimes I'd wake up before they did, make my own breakfast, go to school, come home and wait until someone got back. There were days when I thought the sound of our front door opening was the best sound in the world.”
Yeonjun doesn't interrupt. He has stopped eating altogether, his chopsticks resting loosely between his fingers as he listens. You glance up once and find him watching you with the same quiet attention he had earlier, except there is no pity in his expression. You are grateful for that. Pity has always made you uncomfortable, especially the kind that comes with lowered voices and sympathetic smiles, as though poverty is something that needs to be whispered about.
“We weren't miserable,” you add quickly, almost out of habit. “We laughed a lot. My mum used to sing when she cooked, even though she was terrible at it. My dad would complain about the noise from the living room, then start singing along when he thought she couldn't hear him.” A small smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. “We didn't have a lot of things, but somehow the house never felt empty when they were both there.”
The smile fades gradually as another memory surfaces, one you haven't thought about in a long time. “But money was always there. Not in the way people talk about it now, like investments or property or whatever.” You give a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “It was more like checking the electricity bill before turning the lights on. It was knowing which supermarket had cheaper eggs. It was my mum standing in front of the washing machine, counting the coins in her purse because she wasn't sure if she had enough for the laundromat.” You swallow, looking down at your hands. “I remember being about eleven and asking her if we were poor. She got really quiet. Then she told me, ‘We're okay.’” You smile faintly at the memory. “She never actually answered the question.”
Yeonjun's expression changes, barely. His brows draw together, and he lowers his gaze to the table as though he's trying to picture it. “Did you understand what she meant?”
“Not then.” You shake your head. “I thought being okay meant having enough money. Later I realised she meant we had each other.” Your fingers tighten around the cup. “But I also realised that only love doesn't make bills disappear.” The words come out softer this time. “It doesn't make tuition cheaper. It doesn't stop the landlord from calling when you're late with rent. It doesn't make your parents less tired when they've been working all day.” You let out a breath through your nose, almost embarrassed by how much you've said already. “So I guess I became very practical.”
“That explains a lot,” he says.
You look up immediately. “What does that mean?”
A tiny smile appears on his face. “You always have a plan.”
“I have to.”
“You carry three pens.”
You blink at that. “What?”
“I've noticed.” His smile grows a little. “You always have three pens in your pocket. Sometimes four. One black, one blue, one red. You check your phone battery constantly. You keep snacks in your bag even though you complain about being broke. You have a backup charger for your backup charger.” He leans back slightly, looking almost amused now. “You prepare for everything.”
You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. “Why are you paying so much attention to me?”
The question slips out before you can take it back.
His smile disappears, though not completely. He looks down at his hands for a second, turning one of the chopsticks between his fingers. “I don't know.”
The answer is so simple that it leaves you with nothing to argue against. You look away first, suddenly fascinated by the rain outside. Your cheeks feel warmer than they should, and you blame it on the cramped tent, the spicy food, anything except the fact that he has been noticing things about you that you didn't realise anyone noticed.
“When I was younger,” you continue after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think becoming a doctor would fix everything.”
Yeonjun looks back at you. “Everything?”
“Not literally everything.” You laugh genuinely. “I wasn't that dramatic at twelve.” You pause, then smile softly. “I just thought if I became successful enough, my parents wouldn't have to worry anymore. I could buy them a proper house. Pay off whatever they owed. Tell my mum she didn't have to count coins before going grocery shopping.” Your voice catches slightly, but you smooth it over with another sip of tea. “I thought medicine was the answer because doctors were the people everyone listened to. They walked into a room and suddenly everyone knew what to do.”
“And now?”
You look at him across the small table.
“Now I know doctors are mostly just tired people who Google things when no one's looking.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is quiet but genuine, his head dipping as he shakes it. “That's reassuring.”
“You're welcome.”
The laughter settles between you, making the space feel lighter. You pick up another piece of pancake even though you're already full, mostly because you need something to do with your hands. “But I still want it,” you admit. “Medicine, I mean. Even after everything. Even after the nights where I wonder why I willingly chose this.” You look toward the opening of the tent, where the city lights blur behind the rain. “There are moments at the hospital when someone gets better, even a little, and you see their family breathe again. You realise you're part of that moment. I don't think I could give that up.”
Yeonjun watches you quietly. “So you really would do it all again?”
You think about the long shifts, the cheap meals, the textbooks with broken spines, the shoes that have nearly fallen apart from being worn too many times. You think about your parents and the promises you made to yourself when you were young enough to believe every problem had a solution if you worked hard enough.
“Yes,” you say eventually. “I'd complain the entire time, but yes.”
His mouth curves into a small smile. “Your parents must be so proud of you.”
The words make your fingers stop.
For a second, you don't answer. You stare at the cup in your hands, watching a tiny drop of condensation roll down the side and disappear beneath your thumb. When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than before. “They were.” You swallow. “At least, I think they were.”
His smile fades.
“They passed away before I could finish.” You say it simply, without dressing it up, because there is no easy way to say something like that. “My mum never got to see me start medical school. My dad didn't even get to see me finish my first year.” You give a small laugh that doesn't quite sound like one. “I used to joke that they were going to be the annoying parents who told everyone their daughter was a doctor. My mum would probably have carried my graduation picture around in her wallet.”
Yeonjun doesn't say anything. You are grateful for that.
You look down at your hands again, remembering the little things instead. Your mother's fingers fixing your collar before school. Your father's habit of waiting by the door when you came home late. The cheap dinners that somehow tasted better when all three of you were sitting around the same table. “Sometimes I still catch myself thinking about telling them something,” you admit. “Like when I passed an exam, or when I got a good placement, or when something happens at the hospital that makes me think, ‘Mum would have loved this.’ Then I remember.”
Your voice trails off.
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. Yeonjun doesn't try to fill it with one of those meaningless things people say when they don't know how to respond. He just sits there, listening, his eyes lowered to the table. For once, there is no solution in front of him. No problem he can throw money at, no person he can call, no favour he can ask. There is only you, sitting across from him with a life that continued even after the two people who had once been at the centre of it were gone.
“I think that's part of why I can't give up,” you say eventually. “I know they're not here to see it, but I still want to finish. Sometimes it feels stupid because the person I was trying to become a doctor for isn't even around anymore.” You rub your thumb against the side of your cup. “But then I think about how excited my dad was when I got into medical school. He called everyone he knew. My mum cried for almost an hour.” A smile finally appears, small and tired but real. “So I guess I have to finish. Someone has to prove they weren't crying for nothing.”
Yeonjun lets out a quiet breath, and when you look at him, his eyes are fixed on you. “They wouldn't think you failed because they're not here,” he says.
You give him a look. “I know.” You look away again, a little embarrassed by how easily you blurted out about your childhood and family to him. “Maybe I just miss them.”
“I think that's allowed.”
The simplicity of it catches you off guard. No grand speech. No attempt to make the grief sound beautiful. Just that. You're allowed to miss them. You nod slowly, blinking once before reaching for your drink again. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think so too.”
For a while, neither of you speaks. The rain continues outside, steady against the windows, and somewhere beyond the room, a car passes through the wet street. Yeonjun doesn't reach across the table or try to comfort you in a way you might pull away from. He simply stays where he is, giving you enough space to breathe while making it clear that he isn't going anywhere.
You glance at him after a while. “You know, if they were still here, my mum would probably hate you.”
His eyebrows lift. “Why?”
“She'd think you were too handsome.”
He stares at you for a second before laughing, completely caught off guard. “That's why she'd hate me?”
“No.” You finally laugh too, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little. “Then she'd probably figure out you're rich and then she'd hate you for a completely different reason.”
“That sounds fair.”
“She'd interrogate you.”
“I can handle an interrogation.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “You have very little faith in me.”
“I've known you long enough.” The words leave your mouth before you realise what they imply. Long enough. Not forever. Not enough to erase the differences between you. But long enough to know how he takes his coffee, how he gets quiet when he's worried, how he checks his grandmother's room before leaving even when the nurses have already assured him she's fine. Long enough to know the person behind the tailored clothes and the family name.
And perhaps, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, long enough for him to start becoming someone you no longer want to keep at a distance.
You glance at him, attempting to distract the conversation now. “What about you?”
He seems caught off guard by the question. “What about me?”
“Would you do it all again?”
His fingers still around the chopsticks. For once, he doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift toward the rain, toward the tiny street outside that probably looks completely different from every place he usually spends his evenings. “I don't know,” he says eventually. “I don't think I've ever asked myself that.”
You study his face, the way his expression has gone distant. “Why not?”
“Because nobody ever really asked what I wanted.” His voice is quiet. “They asked what I was going to do. Who I was going to become. What position I would take. Which company I would inherit.” He gives a small shrug. “Those are different questions.”
Something about that makes you pause.
For all the differences between you, there is something strangely familiar in what he has just said. You both grew up learning what was expected of you. The difference is that his expectations came wrapped in wealth and polished silver, while yours came in overdue bills and tired parents. Neither of you had been particularly good at asking what you wanted outside of what was necessary.
“You should try answering it sometime,” you say. “What you want.” You shrug, trying to make it sound insignificant. “Not what your family wants. Not what the company wants. You.”
His gaze stays on you for a few seconds longer than it should. “I think,” he says slowly, his eyes focusing on you, “I'm starting to figure that out.”
You know better than to ask what he means. Instead, you reach for the last piece of pancake and push it toward him.
“Eat.”
He looks down at it, then back at you. “That's your big advice?”
“For tonight, yes.”
A quiet smile appears on his face as he picks it up with his chopsticks.
“Okay,” he says. “I'll eat.”
For the next forty minutes, the distant roar of Gangnam's midnight traffic fades into a background hum. The world narrows down to the yellow glow of the string lights, the smell of toasted sesame, and the quiet rhythm of shared food. Yeonjun sheds his guarded, perfectly manicured posture entirely. He learns how to blow on the steaming udong broth before taking a sip straight from the heavy ceramic rim, and when a stray drop of dark red chili sauce lands just near the left corner of your lower lip, he doesn't grab a paper napkin or point it out.
He simply reaches across the tiny red table, his thumb brushing over your skin with feather-light precision, wiping the speck away. Instead of pulling back immediately, his fingers linger against your jaw for a fraction of a second, his calloused thumb tracing a gentle circle against your cheekbone while his dark, steady gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes the air in your lungs freeze.
"What?" you whisper, your cheeks suddenly burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the spicy gochujang. You pick up a tissue, wiping the spot he just touched, trying to fix it yourself even when there’s nothing anymore.
"Nothing," he says quietly, his voice dropping into that soft, velvet tone as he finally pulls his hand back, dabbing his thumb with a paper towel. "Just... I've lived in this city my whole life, surrounded by the best restaurants money can buy, and I don't think I've ever felt this full."
"It's just street food, Yeonjun."
"It's not the food," he corrects softly, his eyes meeting yours in the warm, amber light of the vinyl tent. "It's who I'm eating it with."
Before the weight of his words can settle too heavily around your shoulders, Ajumma marches over and slams a small metal dish of steaming, sliced kimbap right onto the center of the table with a loud clatter.
"Service for the handsome ‘friend’," she declares, winking broadly at you as she wipes her hands on her purple apron. "Eat up, young man. You're going to need your strength if you want to keep up with this one. She’s stubborn, she works too hard, and she doesn't know when to ask for help."
Yeonjun lets out a rich, deep laugh, a clear, ringing sound so full of genuine amusement that you realize with a sudden pang how rarely he ever laughs like that inside the pristine walls of his penthouse. He bows his head respectfully to the old woman. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
The walk back to the high-rise is conducted in slow, deliberate steps, neither of you eager to return to the clinical silence of the apartment. The midnight air is crisp, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and ozone, biting at your cheeks as you navigate the narrow sidewalks. Yeonjun matches his stride to yours, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dark hoodie. He walks on the street side of the curb, a silent, instinctual habit of protection that he doesn't draw attention to, his tall frame acting as a windbreak against the gusting breeze sweeping down the concrete canyon.
When you finally step into the private elevator of his building, the shift in atmosphere is instantaneous and suffocating. The doors glide shut with a silent, gold-leafed click, sealing you both inside a small box of polished brass, mirrors, and soft amber lighting. The mirror reflects the stark contrast between you: you, in your oversized, rumpled coat with faint hospital-soap scent clinging to your sleeves, and him, standing tall beside you with the sharp silhouette of a man built for boardrooms, despite his casual clothes.
As the digital display silently ticks up through the floors—40, 41, 42—the air grows thick with the unsaid. He stands so close you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of rain and dark wood cologne wafting off his skin. His hand hangs at his side, just inches from yours. You see his knuckles tense, his fingers twitching slightly as if pulling against a physical weight, debating whether to close the small gap between your palms. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, your own mind racing through a dozen reasons why you shouldn't let him, the student loan bills waiting on your desk, the brutal hospital shifts, the cold reality of his family's expectations.
Before the hesitation can resolve itself, the elevator chimes softly, declaring your arrival at the penthouse. The doors slide open to reveal the vast, shadowy living room overlooking the sprawling, glowing grid of the city below. The moment breaks like glass. Yeonjun steps out first, holding the sensor with his hand to keep the doors wide, his eyes sweeping over you with a quiet, lingering intensity that makes your pulse race faster than the three flights of stairs ever could.
"Get some rest," he says softly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seems to vibrate right through the hardwood floor. He stays by the door of his wing of the apartment, hands remaining firmly in his pockets, keeping the boundary intact even as his eyes betray the magnetic pull drawing him toward you. "I'll make sure the kitchen has actual food before you wake up tomorrow. No assistant required."
You offer a small, weary smile, taking a step back toward your room, your fingers tightening around the strap of your tote bag. "Goodnight, Yeonjun." He watches you until your bedroom door clicks shut, the soft sound echoing like a finality through the vast, quiet space, two people sleeping under the same roof, separated by a distance that has nothing to do with physical space.
The promise of making the kitchen has actual food is fulfilled. You wake up to the sound of some thumping from the kitchen. After getting ready for your shifts, you are greeted by the silhouette of the familiar tall figure, he’s all suited up in navy today, with an apron with flowery pattern wrapped around them. You huff at the unbelievable sight. His lips are puckered in focus, and as you get closer you finally sniff the smell of scrambled eggs on the pan. He doesn’t notice your presence yet, as he struggles with the salt bottle cap for a moment, twisting it the wrong way before finally getting the shaker open. Some of it goes flying next to the pan, as he curses softly at the mess.
“What are you doing?” you interrupt, his shoulder jumping at that, his foxy eyes glaring when he turns his back towards you before finally softening at your sight.
“Hey, go sit there, I’m making breakfast,” he assures, your eyes following his at two plates waiting on the kitchen counter, two pieces of pancakes on each, edges burnt, with slightly undercooked beef bacon and uneven banana slices.
“So unlike you,” you respond, finally sitting at the seat, your eyes still on his movement. Yeonjun glares at you before pouting, “Excuse me, I am being nice. I realise I am being a bad landlord, and my tenant is already starving enough so I have to make her food and make sure she eats enough.”
The sarcastic remark only left a bittersweet feeling to you. He carefully plates the scrambled eggs into the plate, the presentation awkward but it still gives off genuineness. “Thanks. You really don’t have to. I could survive by snacking on a protein bar, really.”
He shakes his head at that, disagreeing. “No. You live under my roof, and you don’t have time to eat proper meals before coming to attend my grandmother. This is the least I could do.”
For the next few mornings, the kitchen slowly becomes a place you find yourself lingering in, even when you tell yourself you are only there because the food is already made. Yeonjun never says anything about it, and neither do you, but somehow there is always something waiting for you before you leave for your shift. Some mornings it is toast with eggs, other mornings it is whatever he has managed to convince himself counts as breakfast. The food is never perfect. The eggs are sometimes too dry, the toast occasionally comes out suspiciously dark, and once, you find a pancake that is still cold in the middle. You tease him about it every time, and he pretends to be offended every time, but he keeps making them anyway.
You start noticing the little things too. He has learned that you don't like your eggs too runny, that you prefer your coffee without too much sugar, and that you will always eat the fruit first when you are in a hurry. He learns these things without asking, the same way you have slowly learned that he leaves his watch on the counter when he gets home, that he hates when people leave cabinet doors open, and that he gets unusually quiet whenever Halmeoni has a difficult night. Neither of you call it a routine, because giving it a name would make it feel like something more than it is supposed to be. Still, there are mornings when you walk into the kitchen half-awake and find him already there, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly messy, and the sight feels strangely familiar.
It is not that you have stopped being careful around him. You still keep track of the distance between you, still remind yourself that this is his house and you are here because of Halmeoni, not because the two of you are slowly becoming comfortable with each other. But the sharpness that used to sit between you has softened around the edges. Sometimes you catch yourself laughing at something he says before remembering that you are supposed to be annoyed with him. Sometimes he says something ridiculous just to hear you complain, and you have begun to suspect that he enjoys your irritation far more than he should. It is easier now, somehow, to forget the dinner that started all of this when he is standing in front of the stove arguing with a pancake that refuses to flip properly.
One morning, though, you leave the kitchen with a strange feeling you cannot quite place. You thank him before heading out, and he tells you to eat the food he packed for later instead of surviving on coffee again. You roll your eyes at him, but you take the container anyway. Neither of you knows that by the end of the day, you will be sitting beside his grandmother for four hours, listening to her breathing become shallower with every passing hour.
Halmeoni is having a bad day, her breathing is shallow, her spirit fragile as she had to be hospitalised again. The room grows darker as evening settles outside the windows, the machines beside her bed filling the silence with their quiet beeps. By the time she finally falls asleep, your throat is dry and your back aches from sitting in the same position for too long. You only notice that you had spent four hours holding her hand, reading her poetry in a voice that hides your own exhaustion as your eye catches a glimpse of the time when your phone lights up shortly from a notification.
You wait another few minutes just to make sure she is properly asleep before carefully slipping your hand from hers. You straighten the blanket around her shoulders, check the monitor one last time, and step quietly out of the room.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and only then do you let your shoulders drop. The exhaustion you had been holding back all afternoon settles over you at once. You take a slow breath and look down the empty hallway, expecting nothing more than another long walk to the nurses' station. Instead, you find Yeonjun standing several metres away, staring at the white walls.
"She's finally asleep," you say, gaze fixated on his tense back. You remain two steps away from him, hesitant to be wanting to step into his personal space.
He doesn't turn around. "I heard you reading. My mother never did that. She just hired someone to do it. I used to listen from the hallway, wondering if the words sounded different when someone was paid to say them."
The vulnerability in his voice is a physical weight. You step closer, the air cools against your face. "Yeonjun..."
"I'm sorry about the dinner," he says suddenly, his voice cracking as he turns towards you. "I know it’s been so long, and this is an overdue apology. The offer. I thought... I thought that's how the world worked. You have something you want to protect, you secure it by any means. I didn't realize that by trying to help you and Halmeoni, I was insulting you."
As you glance up, the bright light catches the moisture in his eyes. He isn't the Choi heir at this moment. He’s the lonely boy Halmeoni described.
"I don't want to buy you," he whispers. "I just don't know how to keep you here any other way."
The silence on the private hallway shifts from heavy to hollow as his words settle. You take that final step, closing the two-step gap until you are standing beside him. You don't touch him yet, but you let your shoulder lightly brush his arm, a small anchor in the dark.
"The words do sound different when someone is paid to say them," you explain softly, your gaze following his to the distant corridor. "They sometimes sound like a script. Or they sound like a shift ending at five o'clock."
Yeonjun’s grip tightens on the phone on his hand, his knuckles turning white.
"But I’m not here because of a contract, Yeonjun," you continue, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. "I stayed tonight because she’s your grandmother, and she was scared. She told me that she needed to hear my voice because if she tried to be asleep with no one around, or just silence, she’d be terrified that there would be no one else around if something would go wrong."
He lets out a shaky, jagged breath, his posture finally breaking as he bows his head. The Choi Heir facade doesn't just crack, it dissolves. "You're the only thing in this entire building that doesn't feel like an arrangement," he admits, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the hospital's ventilation. "I don't know how to handle something that isn't... transactional."
You turn your face upward toward him, finally meeting those brown eyes. You offer a small, tired smile, the first real one he’s seen from you in months.
"Then stop trying to arrange me," you reply gently, your hand lands on his sleeve to offer comfort. "You don't need a contract to keep someone around, Yeonjun. You just need to be here. Honestly, without the checkbook. That’s the only way anyone ever stays genuinely."
He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, the caution between you melts into something aching and real. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near your hand, hesitant to invade your space after everything he's messed up.
"Can I start over?" he asks. "No offers. Just... me."
The softness of the moment suddenly feels like a trap. As his hand hovers near yours, warm against your own cold, pale, unmanicured, a cold wave of reality crashes over you, so you pull your hand back from his sleeve, the friction of your cheap, polyester scrub sleeve rubbing against his tailored, clean cut fabric. It’s a harsh reminder of the double shifts, the ramen dinners, and the looming debt that he once tried to fix with a casual contract offer. You didn’t notice the way his face drops, as you pull away your hands before he even gets to touch them.
"I can't," you whisper, the word catching in your throat.
Yeonjun’s taken aback, his hand freezes in mid-air. The longing in his eyes is replaced by a flash of confusion. "Y/N? I just said I’m sorry. I’m trying to—"
"That’s the problem, Yeonjun," you interrupt, stepping back until your heels almost betray you. The gap between you feels like a whole sea again. "You’re 'trying.' To you, this is a beautiful, tragic moment on a balcony. To me, this is a temporary break before I go back to a life you can’t even imagine."
You look around the floor, each expensive furniture picked with care, private rooms for extraordinary patients, before your mind drifts vaguely at the glittering skyline view their mansion has, and the penthouse and cars that he owns and the slums he’s never seen.
"We’re not even on the same page. When you look at me, it feels like you see someone you need to take care of or fix. When I look at you, I just see why I’m working three jobs to get by. People like you don’t really start over with people like me. You just… drop in for a while, then leave when it stops being interesting."
"Y/n,” he warns, “don’t say that," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning sharp with a different kind of pain. "I've never felt that way."
"Easy for you to say," you counter, your voice trembling. "You can afford to be vulnerable. If I let you in and this fails, if I lose my focus or my job because I'm distracted by you—I lose everything. You just go back to being a Choi. I go back to nothing."
The hospital lighting that made him look like a lonely boy now makes him look like a statue, cold, expensive, and unreachable. You realize with a sinking heart that even his apology feels like a luxury you can’t afford to accept.
"Halmeoni needs her vitals checked in an hour," you say, your voice regaining its clinical, distant edge. "I should go prepare the charts." You turn to leave, but his voice stops you at the fifth step.
"Is that all I am to you now? Just a hazard to your career?"
The air on the hospital’s private level turns from cold to electric. Your shoes click sharply against the concrete floor as you whip around, the exhaustion of the four-hour company for his grandmother finally boiling over into a raw, jagged anger.
"A hazard?" you snap, the word echoing off the glass doors. "You think you’re a hazard? Yeonjun, you're out of reach."
He flinches, but then his eyes narrow, his own frustration rising to meet yours. "I’m standing right here! I’m apologizing. I’m admitting I was a fool at that dinner. What else do you want from me? Blood?"
"I want you to realize that I don’t stand a chance to be with you!" you fire back, stepping toward him, all caution gone. "You stand there in a suit that costs more than my medical school tuition and tell me you didn't realize you were insulting me? How sheltered do you have to be to think the only way to bridge the gap between us is to buy me?"
Yeonjun’s jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white. "I wasn't trying to—"
"You were!" you cut him off, your voice cracking with a mix of fury and grief. "Because in your world, everything has a place and a price. But look at me! I’m a student doctor living on caffeine and prayer. If I let myself care about you, if I actually try to be with you, your world will tear me apart. Your parents will see a gold-digger, your friends will see a charity project, and eventually... eventually,” you pause, your voice breaking, “you’ll just see someone who doesn't fit into your life."
The overhead lights catch the sheen in your eyes as you take another step, closing the space between you until you’re standing right in front of him, close enough to feel it in your breathing.
"I don't stand a chance, Yeonjun. Because the second this gets hard, the second your board of directors or your mother whispers that I'm a distraction, you’ll go back to being a Choi. And I'll be the one left in the hallway, ruined, with nothing but a medical license I can't afford to lose. I can't risk my heart on a maybe from a guy who thinks love is a transaction."
Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve physically struck him. The anger in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a desperate, wild intensity. He moves suddenly, his hands coming up to grip your arm.
"You think I'm that weak?" he whispers, his face inches from yours, his breath hitching. "You think I’ve spent every night in that hospital room watching you help my grandmother fight for her life just to let you walk away because of a life I'm born into?"
He leans in, stopping just short, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without him ever touching you. "Y/n, I don't care about the chance you think you don't have. Give me the chance to prove you're the only thing in this life I actually want to keep."
"I think you don't have a choice," you say, your voice lowers. "Your world will eat me alive, and my world will just make you resentful."
You turn to walk away from the scene, letting his hold around your arms loosening, feeling tears almost escaping, but his hand shoots out, grabbing at your arm as you lean on the wall. He’s breathing hard, looking down at you with a desperate, wild look in his eyes.
"You’re not leaving until you admit one thing," he says, his face inches from yours. The air between you is thick, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the sterile, sharp smell of medical antiseptic. His hand braces against the wall beside you, close enough to block your way without actually touching, leaving you caught in the narrow space between him and the quiet stretch of hallway. You can feel the warmth of him even without contact, a quiet contrast to the cool, sterile air of the hospital.
“Admit what?” you say, a little out of breath, still trying to steady yourself. “That you’re annoying? A bit too used to getting your way? I think you already know that, Yeonjun.”
“Admit you’re scared,” he replies, quieter now, but more certain. His face inches a little closer, not enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you notice. “Not because of money, or my family, or any of that. You’re avoiding this because you don’t want to deal with how you feel.”
Your chest tightens, and you look away for a second. “I don’t have the time to think about feelings, Yeonjun. I have other things to worry about.”
“You’re handling everything on your own,” he says, a hint of frustration slipping through, but it softens just as quickly. “I see how hard you’re trying. I’m not here to fix it or throw money at it. I just… I don't want you to do it alone.”
His hand lifts for a moment, hesitates, then gently brushes against your jaw. It’s such a small touch, but it lingers longer than it should. You don’t move away, even though you know you probably should.
“You’ll leave,” you whisper quietly, the words coming out more honest than you intended. “When it gets complicated, or when someone tells you I’m not worth the trouble. You’ll go. And I’ll just have to deal with it.”
He exhales, resting his forehead lightly against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he murmurs. “I’ve been left behind plenty of times too. That’s why I’m still here. I’m asking for you to give me a chance.”
You don’t say anything after that, and that is exactly how Choi Yeonjun knows he has lost this round. Not because you argued back, not because you raised your voice, but because you didn’t. He watches the way your expression shifts, subtle but enough, like something inside you quietly closes off, like a door being pushed shut without a sound. When you push him by his shoulder slowly, it gives him a horror reminder like the distance between you has suddenly been redrawn into something he is no longer allowed to cross so easily.
“I should go,” you say, your voice steady in a way that doesn’t match the way your hands briefly tighten at your sides.
He almost interrupts you. The instinct is there, immediate and unfiltered, sitting right at the edge of his tongue. Stay. Wait. Don’t go like this. But he doesn’t say any of it, because there’s something about the way you’re already turning away that tells him it wouldn’t matter. You’ve already decided. And pushing you now would only make you retreat further.
So he lets you walk past him.
He notices everything in that moment, annoyingly so. The way you don’t look back. The way your steps are just a little faster than usual, like you’re trying to get out before something pulls you back in. The faint sound of your steps against the floor, steady and controlled, even when everything else about this moment feels anything but that. He stays where he is, rooted to the same spot, listening to the sound of you leaving until it fades into nothing, swallowed by the hallway like you were never there to begin with.
Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
He drags a hand through his hair, gaze fixed on the empty space you left behind, jaw tightening slightly as the quiet settles in. He knows what just happened. He pushed too far, said too much, forced you to look at something you weren’t ready to name. He has always had a bad habit of doing that, stepping past lines because he refuses to pretend not to see what’s right in front of him. And with you, it’s worse, because every time you pull away, it only makes him more certain there’s something there worth staying for.
Still, certainty doesn’t make this any less frustrating.
