If someone had asked me who the most popular boy on campus was, I wouldn't have needed a second to answer.
It was Jeon Wonwoo.
He was the university’s top scorer, effortlessly brilliant, and blessed with the kind of sharp, breathtaking visuals that made people hold their breath when he passed by. He sat strictly on the front bench, kept his silver-rimmed glasses resting on his nose, and stayed completely out of campus drama. To everyone else, he was untouchable, a gorgeous, quiet prodigy who lived in his own world.
What nobody in that crowded lecture hall knew was that the moment the bell rang and the crowd cleared, that quiet, distant boy was soft. And more importantly, he was secretly mine.
We had been secretly dating for two months. Two months of hidden glances across lecture halls, passing notes under heavy wooden tables, and keeping our fingers brushed together in dark corners when no one was looking.
Today, the professor was a no-show, and the entire room was buzzing like a beehive. I was tucked away in my usual spot—the second-to-last row—propping my chin up on my hand and pretending to stare at the whiteboard.
In reality, my eyes kept drifting straight to the front.
Wonwoo was sitting at his usual desk, leaning back slightly with his arms folded across his chest. But as if he could feel my gaze on the back of his neck, he casually turned his head over his shoulder.
Through the sea of fifty gossiping students, our eyes locked.
The moment our gaze met, the chaotic room melted into background noise. The sharp, serious look on his face instantly softened into something so gentle it made my breath catch. He didn't dare smile that would give us away but his dark eyes held mine with a silent, tender intensity.
I miss you, his eyes whispered across the room.
Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, his gaze dipped toward my desk before lifting back to mine. His brow raised a fraction of a millimeter.
Check your phone.
We didn't need words. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a stupid grin off my face and reached under the desk to unlock my screen:
Wonwoo: You’re staring. Let’s go on a date after class.
Before I could even process the sudden rush of heat in my chest, a hand darted across my desk. The girl sitting right next to me gasped, her eyes bulging as she caught sight of the message.
"What is this?!" she shrieked in a half-whisper, snatching the phone straight out of my hands. "Omo, omo, wait ? what?!"
"Hey! Give it back!" I gasped, reaching over in utter panic, but she pulled it away, holding it high out of reach.
"Are you two since when?!" she teased, suffocating a squeal.
Desperate, my eyes snapped back to the front row. Wonwoo was already looking at me. Across the sea of desks, I gave him a wide-eyed, panicked look Help me, she saw it!
He caught the unspoken plea instantly. Without a hint of hurry, he smoothly slid out of his seat. The entire back row watched in total confusion as the class topper casually strolled down the aisle. He stopped right at my desk, tall and unbothered, and effortlessly plucked my phone right out of my desk mate’s hand.
The girl froze, staring up at him, completely starstruck.
"You should really calm down," Wonwoo said, his deep voice carrying that effortless, quiet authority. "My girlfriend is stressing out."
The whole row went dead silent. My desk mate's jaw dropped so fast I thought it might hit the floor. She immediately brought two fingers to her lips and made a silent 'zip it' gesture, nodding frantically in surrender.
Wonwoo completely ignored the sudden wave of shocked whispers breaking out around us. He turned his attention to me, all that stern authority melting off his face. Gently sliding the phone back into my palm, his fingers brushed against mine, his thumb lingering over my skin for a second.
"Here," he murmured, his voice dropping into a velvet whisper meant only for me.
My face burned bright red right then and there as I stared up at him, my heart pounding so loudly against my ribs I was sure he could hear it.
He offered me a tiny, almost invisible smirk before turning around and walking back to his bench as if he hadn't just set the entire room on fire. A second later, my phone vibrated in my palm:
Wonwoo: I'll wait outside.
When the period finally ended, I packed my bag with trembling hands and practically sprinted into the hallway.
True to his word, he was leaning against the wall right by the door, hands tucked into his pockets. The moment I stepped out, he pushed off the wall and closed the distance between us. Without saying a word, he reached down and laced his fingers firmly through mine, holding my hand right out in the open hallway.
"You were so loud back there," I whispered, my cheeks hot as I looked up at him.
Wonwoo chuckled softly, his deep laugh vibrating through his chest as his thumb gently rubbed the back of my hand, pulling me just a little closer to his side.
"I got tired of hiding," he said smoothly, using his free hand to adjust his glasses. "Besides… I wanted everyone to know who I'm taking on a date today."
Looking up at his calm, satisfied side profile as he held my hand tightly in front of the entire campus, I couldn't help but blush like crazy.
Author’s Note: Inspired by a dream I had last night that was way too good not to share! Writing this down so I never forget this feeling, and I hope it brings a smile to your face while reading it, too!
Synopsis →
She only wanted an alpha's signature.
A law built to keep omegas dependent leaves Nabi with one impossible choice: marry a stranger Alpha so she can chase the career She'd dreamed of her entire life.
It was supposed to be temporary. No courting. No love.
Just paperwork.
But somewhere between shared breakfasts, midnight talks and borrowed shirts that smell like home...
pretending becomes the hardest part.
Tags →
Omegaverse, Arranged Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Supreme Council!Wonwoo, CEO!Wonwoo, Green Flag Alpha, Artist!Omega Reader, Slow Burn (VERY), Domestic Fluff, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Political Drama, Omega Rights, Protective Wonwoo, Caring Wonwoo, Gentle Alpha, Competent Husband, "I'll Handle It", Acts of Service as Love Language, Scenting, Nesting, Sharing Clothes, Sleeping Together (literally), Emotional Healing, they Fall in Love Before They Admit It
Total WC → (250k+ god help me)
Warnings →
MDNI, Omegaverse Dynamics, Heat/Rut Discussions, Injury, Hospital Scenes, Domestic Abuse (side characters), Emotional Manipulation by Society, Misogyny/Sexist Laws, Discrimination Against Omegas, Public Harassment, Physical Assault, Blood (minor), Political Themes, Anxiety, Crying, Emotional Slow Burn, Mutual Idiots in Love, Eventual Explicit Sexual Content , Excessive Husband Material Jeon Wonwoo
It had glass towers and digital archives, biometric IDs and smart classrooms, councils that streamed their sessions live for transparency’s sake. It spoke the language of progress fluently: innovation, equality, reform... yet beneath all of it lay a spine of rules so old they were treated less like laws and more like scripture.
Especially when it came to omegas.
Tradition insisted omegas were delicate by nature, creatures of instinct and excess emotion, bodies designed for bonding and bearing, vessels meant to be guided, restrained, and ultimately claimed. It wasn’t said so crudely in official documents, of course. The wording was softer, they rather said protected class, biological predisposition, natural harmony. But the outcome was always the same. Omegas were managed. Alphas decided. Betas facilitated. And the system called that balance.
Nabi had learned early on that balance was just another word for submission.
She learned it in health classes where omega biology was taught like a warning label. In law modules where omegas were discussed as liabilities, their pheromones something to be regulated for the comfort of others. In the way unmated omegas over a certain age were pitied, whispered about, watched too closely as if independence itself was a symptom of instability.
There were rules for everything.
Rules for how an omega should dress during heat season. Rules for eye contact during courting rituals. Rules that forbade physical touch before a sanctioned bond, while quietly excusing alphas for “instinctual lapses.” Rules that framed an omega’s uncontrolled scent as provocation, scandal, consent implied, while alphas walked freely, their dominance unfiltered, their rut stories traded like trophies.
An alpha with multiple rut partners was admired for virility. An omega with multiple heat partners was labeled desperate, damaged, unfit.
Nabi despised all of it.
She despised the language, the assumptions, the way people spoke around omegas instead of to them. She hated the sacredness with which these traditions were defended, as if questioning them were a moral failing rather than a rational response. Most of all, she hated how the law wrapped discrimination in reverence, how oppression survived by calling itself heritage.
So she fought.
But she had learned very quickly that fighting didn’t always mean being heard.
The conferences she spoke at were small, too small to feel like revolutions, too intimate to feel dangerous. Folding chairs in borrowed halls. Flyers printed with personal money. A dozen, maybe two dozen omegas at a time, some betas, rarely an alpha unless they came to argue or gawk. The wider world didn’t tune in. They didn’t protest her speeches or try to shut them down; they simply didn’t care.
Omega issues were niche issues. Personal issues. Biological issues.
The law, however, cared very much when it suited it.
The opportunity she’d fought for wasn’t international, wasn’t glamorous in the way people liked to pretend progress was. It was local, institutional, deeply embedded in the system itself: a competitive postgraduate research internship attached to a state-funded cultural archive. Nabi’s proposal, centered on reframing omega representation in national art, had made it through review after review.
She had been accepted on merit. She had been rejected by statute.
Omega applicants must provide alpha authorization for unsupervised institutional access.
She read the line so many times it began to feel unreal. The archive wasn’t a battlefield. It wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t even controversial. But it was classified as a protected intellectual environment, and omegas, by default, were not trusted to navigate such spaces alone.
She argued. Again. Quietly this time, exhausted rather than fiery. She pointed out her academic standing, her discipline, her record. She asked why an omega needed oversight to study art while an alpha didn’t.
The administrator, an older beta woman with sympathetic eyes, had sighed.
“Marriage would solve it,” she said, gently, like she was offering a practical tip rather than a life-altering suggestion.
Marriage.
Not bonding, not mating, just… marriage.
It was the compromise the system pretended was progressive. Legal mates without biological obligation. Clean paperwork. Efficient. A way to bypass the elaborate courting rituals that tradition insisted upon.
No months of supervised meetings, no chaperoned interactions, no scent-restricted environments, no vows spoken before elders who judged compatibility as if it were livestock breeding.
Marriage skipped all that.
Two meetings. Documentation. Registration.
And yet, it was still frowned upon.
A married couple without a bond was assumed to be one that simply hadn’t consummated yet. A delay, not a choice. Omegas who married and didn’t mate quickly enough were pitied, scrutinized. Alphas were questioned less kindly, accused of impotence, lack of dominance, failure.
Nobody openly admitted to marriages of convenience, even though everyone knew they existed. The lie was part of the ritual. Society accepted the paperwork as truth and demanded the bodies eventually fall in line.
Nabi hated that she was considering it. She hated that she had no other option.
Her aunt couldn’t authorize it. No omega could. Betas had limited reach. And Nabi refused -absolutely refused- to seek an alpha guardian who wasn’t her equal in intellect, someone who would sign papers like she was a dependent.
If she was going to do this, it would be on her terms.
Which was how she found herself standing outside a restaurant she’d never normally step foot in, staring at the softly lit entrance like it might bite her.
The place was discreetly expensive. No flashy signs, no loud music. Just polished stone, tinted glass, and the quiet confidence of a space that didn’t need to advertise who it was for. She’d read about it in a forum thread late one night, half rumor, half bitter joke.
A place where alphas go when they don’t want the mess of courting.
She adjusted the hem of her dress, suddenly hyperaware of how much it cost relative to the prices she’d glanced at online. It was short, yes, but hardly scandalous. Clean lines, fitted perfectly to her body, elegant rather than provocative. If people stared, that was their problem.
Still, her pulse skidded.
She walked in.
The atmosphere was muted, low voices and the soft clink of cutlery. Alphas were easy to spot, not because they were loud, but because they occupied space without effort. Relaxed postures. Confident stillness. Their scents were present but restrained, layered beneath expensive colognes.
Nabi chose a table near the edge, heart pounding as she scanned the menu and tried not to calculate how many hours of part-time work one meal equaled. She sat there longer than she meant to, fingers tightening around her glass of water, doubt creeping in.
This was ridiculous.
She was about to stand, already composing a self-deprecating lecture to herself, when she noticed him.
He sat alone, farther back, partially shielded by a divider. No phone in his hand. No restless energy. Just… still. His posture was straight without being rigid, broad shoulders relaxed, dark hair neatly styled. An alpha, unmistakably, but not in the way she was used to.
His scent didn’t roam.
It was there, controlled, deep and clean, not sharp or aggressive. No territorial flare. No instinctive pressure. That alone made her pause.
Fuck it, she thought.
She stood before she could talk herself out of it and crossed the space between them, heels clicking softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” she said, voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. “Are you alone?”
His gaze lifted to her slowly.
It was… focused. Not the assessing sweep she’d braced for, not the instinctive drop to her throat or hips. He looked at her face, held it there, as if committing something to memory before answering.
“Yes,” he said.
His voice was deep, calm, unhurried.
She gestured to the chair across from him. “May I?”
A pause brief, deliberate. Then a small nod.
“Go ahead.”
She sat, smoothing her dress more out of habit than necessity. Up close, she could feel his presence more clearly, it wasn't overwhelming.
“So,” she began, then exhaled softly through her nose. “This might sound forward.”
He didn’t interrupt.
She met his eyes. They were dark and nreadable.
“You’re an alpha,” she said, then added quickly, “I mean- I can tell. So I’ll just… assume.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, barely.
“All right.”
“Are you,” she hesitated, hating how careful she suddenly felt, “looking for a mate?”
She rushed on before he could answer. “Not necessarily a bond. Just- marriage. Or the possibility of it.”
There. Said.
She felt exposed, ridiculous, furious at herself for needing this at all. Her spine straightened instinctively, bracing for condescension, for amusement, for some thinly veiled lecture about tradition.
Instead, he studied her, the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled against her thigh, the controlled steadiness of her breathing.
“Is that why you came here?” he asked.
She glanced around, then back at him. “I… made an assumption. You were alone.”
“Yes.”
“So I assumed you weren’t waiting for someone.”
“I wasn’t.”
She let out a quiet sigh she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Then I suppose I took a chance.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No,” she said immediately. “I came with no expectations.”
That earned her something like amusement ,a faint restrained curve of his lips that disappeared almost as soon as it appeared.
“And yet,” he said, “you asked me about marriage.”
She swallowed, then decided there was no point dancing around it.
“I’m not looking for a mate,” she said plainly. “And I’m not interested in a bonding process. I need an alpha… legally. For something important.”
She waited for the judgment. For the instinctive tightening of the air, the probing questions, the subtle assertion of control.
It didn’t come.
He didn’t ask what she needed. Or why. He didn’t press, didn’t lean in, didn’t scent her in that invasive way some alphas did when they sensed vulnerability.
He simply nodded, as if acknowledging a fact.
“I see.”
Her shoulders eased despite herself.
A server approached then, placing his plate down with practiced deference. When she tried to wave them off, he spoke first.
“And hers as well.”
Nabi startled. “Oh no, I don't-”
“It’s fine,” he repeated, tone unchanged, already turning his attention back to the server. “Please.”
She hesitated a beat longer, pride warring with common sense, then let out a quiet breath. “All right. Thank you.”
She gave her order quickly, cheeks warm, and when the server left, an odd silence settled between them, it was dense. Heavy with the awareness that she’d already crossed several invisible lines tonight.
She cleared her throat.
“I should probably say this now,” she began, fingers curling together in her lap, “before you get the wrong idea.”
He inclined his head slightly, inviting her to continue.
“I don’t have… omega qualities,” she said, making a small, dismissive motion with her hand. “At least not the ones people usually expect.”
His brow lifted a fraction.
“I can’t cook,” she went on. “I’m terrible at it. I don’t like domestic things, and I don’t pretend to. I’m very career-oriented. My schedule is full, my priorities are… not flexible.”
She swallowed, then pressed on, voice steadier as the words gained momentum.
“Mating feels time-consuming to me. Bonding rituals, the emotional expectations... being looked at like someone’s future mate, someone’s trophy” Her mouth tightened. “I don’t want that. I don’t fit into that.”
She paused, realizing she was rambling, then added more quietly, “I came here thinking I might find someone who needed a marriage too. For practical reasons.”
The silence stretched.
Too much, she thought suddenly. You said too much.
She glanced at him, bracing herself, and caught something fleeting in his expression. A split second where the corner of his mouth curved upward, restrained and brief, like a reaction he’d nearly let slip.
Before she could dwell on it, he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. He still hadn’t touched his food.
“And what is your career?” he asked.
The shift startled her.
“Ah-” She blinked. “I’m in my final year of college.”
“Field?”
“Art,” she said, automatically defensive, then held his gaze. “Fine arts. Visual theory and contemporary practice.”
Instead of the polite nod she expected, he seemed… genuinely attentive.
“Why art?” he asked.
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Because it’s one of the few spaces where omegas are allowed to be loud”
That earned her a longer look.
“I’m Nabi,” she added, deciding she might as well commit fully to honesty now. “I’m twenty-four. And, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m an omega.”
Her food arrived then, the rich aroma making her stomach realize just how long it had been since she’d eaten. She thanked the server and, feeling suddenly self-conscious, picked up her knife and fork.
Only when she took her first bite did he begin to eat as well, movements unhurried.
She continued talking, words spilling more freely now that she’d started.
“I have strong opinions,” she warned him lightly. “And I don’t filter them well. I’m not gentle about traditions or laws or-” She gestured vaguely. “Any of this.”
She chewed, swallowed. “So if that’s not why you’re here, it’s okay. Really. I’d rather know now than pretend this could work.”
He listened without interrupting, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt focused rather than invasive.
“And what do you think I’m here for?” he asked.
She laughed softly, a little bitter. “Honestly? I assumed you were an alpha who wanted to skip courting and get straight to marriage and mating. That seems to be the pattern.”
“A fair assumption,” he said.
Encouraged or maybe just tired of holding back, she continued.
“I think the Supreme Council is to blame for most of this,” she said, tone sharpening. “They create these artificial dilemmas and then act like they’re natural. Like omegas are the problem when the rules are.”
She didn’t curse, didn’t raise her voice. But there was heat there, controlled and deliberate.
“They belittle us. Every regulation is framed as protection, but it’s always in an alpha’s favor. Authorization laws, scent restrictions, guardianship, none of it exists because omegas are incapable. It exists because alphas benefit from control.”
She paused, realizing she’d gone further than intended, then waved it off “Sorry. I said I wouldn’t filter.”
To her surprise, he didn’t bristle. Didn’t defend. Didn’t correct her.
If anything, he looked… impressed.
“Why do you feel so strongly about the Council?” he asked.
She frowned slightly. “Because they decide our lives without ever living them. Because every time an omega speaks up, they’re labeled emotional. Because-” She stopped herself, breath hitching, then forced a smile. “Never mind. That’s not relevant.”
She deliberately shifted the conversation, talking instead about her classes, her projects, the exhaustion of being taken seriously only to be dismissed anyway.
He followed easily, asking occasional questions, never pushing too far, never letting the conversation die.
At some point, when their plates were half-empty and the tension had softened into something almost comfortable, he spoke again.
“May I have your contact?” he asked. “Your number.”
She froze.
“My-?” She stared at him. “Why?”
“This,” he said calmly, gesturing between them, “still counts as a first meeting. Tradition requires at least two before legal proceedings.”
Her eyes widened.
“Proceedings,” she echoed. “As in-”
“As in marriage,” he confirmed.
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
“You’re… serious?”
“Yes.”
She searched his face for mockery, for calculation, for some alpha trick she’d missed. Found none.
“You realize,” she said carefully, “that I don’t intend to change. I won’t suddenly become agreeable or domestic or—”
“I’m not looking for that,” he said.
That simple sentence unsettled her more than anything else he’d said all night.
She hesitated only a moment longer before pulling out her phone and handing it to him. He typed his number in, movements efficient, then returned it.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jeong Wonwoo.”
She typed it in, unaware that the name would soon mean far more than it did now.
When the check came, he paid without comment. As they stood, he didn’t offer his arm, didn’t crowd her space.
Outside, the night air was cool.
“I won’t take you home,” he said, as if anticipating the question. “But I’ll make sure you get there safely.”
He ordered her an Uber, luxury class, she noticed belatedly, and when it arrived, she hesitated before getting in.
“This was…” She trailed off, unsure how to finish.
“Unexpected,” he supplied.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“See you soon, Nabi” he said with a gentle nod.
As the car pulled away, she watched him grow smaller through the window, posture straight, expression unreadable.
It wasn’t until the car stopped in front of her dormitory, an absurd contrast to the sleek vehicle really, that she laughed quietly to herself.
When she finally collapsed onto her bed, shoes kicked off, phone clutched to her chest, only one thought echoed through her mind:
There’s no way this is real.
It felt like a fever dream.
And yet, his name was still glowing on her screen.
wonwoo's head turns the moment he hears you sighing in frustration.
"what's wrong, my love?", he asks, walking around the room looking for his glasses, still shirtless after the shower he took.
you're sitting in front of his giant, state-of-the-art black computer, headphones placed on only one side of your head, covering just one ear.
"this stupid game! i've died again", you groan. "it's like, the seventh time already."
wonwoo laughs, finally getting his glasses from under a pillow on the couch - and mentally cursing himself for leaving it there - before walking up to you. he slides his glasses up his nose, reading the "YOU LOSE" words on the screen.
"um... your skills are rated as a B, so you might not be that bad. maybe you're just not defending yourself right."
"and how the hell do i do that?"
in a swift motion, wonwoo pushes your chair a bit, so he can stand behind you. one of his arms snakes around your left shoulder, while the other one slides down your right arm, holding the computer's mouse with you.
he clicks on the "REMATCH" button that is glowing blue on the screen, and the game starts loading again. as soon as your character appears, wonwoo clears his throat.
"alright, so what you gotta do is make sure you're always next to something that can hide you", he clicks a bit, covering your hand with his. "you see that big barrel over there? that's your best friend."
you - him - makes the character walk over to the barrel, hiding as a few shots start to ring on your headphones. the other players are already shooting each other.
"how do i know when to shoot too then?"
"you feel it", wonwoo smiles, turning his head a bit to look at you, which makes his breath hit your cheek.
on your own, without his help, you peek from behind the barrel, seeing two other characters unprotected. you hit both of them, hiding again and then running to some other place.
"your aim is really good."
"thank you, baby."
someone runs after you, and wonwoo is quick to take control over the keyboard (and over your hands), teaching you how to duck behind a car.
"you did right, leaving the last place so they wouldn't find you after you killed those guys. but remember to be quicker than them."
you nod, feeling the way wonwoo's fingers move over yours as he helps you, trying to remember everything he's clicking and how, when, why.
soon enough, your character is clear again, and wonwoo takes a step back, his warmth no longer embracing you.
"now you do it."
"thank you, baby", you say again.
"we might have to get a computer set for you. we can place it right next to this one, he mentions to his set, where you're sitting.
"can i get a white one?"
wonwoo looks around his game room. a white computer set isn't exactly going to match the decoration, but what else can he say besides-
"yeah, of course. anything for you, love."
a/n: i'm sorry if there's any typos here, it's been a while. all it took was ONE wonwoo tiktok edit to make me write this. he will always be my muse, won't he?
DISCLAIMER: Just a quick heads-up before you dive in! This is purely a work of fanfiction. Everything you read here is made up, and none of this reflects the actual lives or personalities of the idols involved.
Also, I spent a lot of time writing this, so please do not steal my work; Reposting, translating, or copying this story without permission is strictly prohibited. If you see this story anywhere else, please report it.
Enjoy the story!
[Skye's MASTERLIST]
[INTERVIEW]
Question: “Wonwoo, your opening sequence in the song ‘FEAR’ has been received really well by the CARATs. Do you think your deep voice is one of the charms that pulls the fans in?”
Wonwoo adjusted his glasses that were slowly sliding down the bridge of is nose. “I've never thought about that before, but I am definitely curious about what side of me my fans like. That's actually hard to guess... Why do they like me?”
SEVENTEEN: HIT THE ROAD
NEW YORK
08.01.2020
[INTERVIEW]
Question: The group seemed really busy during this time in Japan...
"Well, since this is our first time in Japan since Skye's inclusion within the group, we shot several TV programs, interviews and had loads of photoshoots that I think will help us promote ourselves to the Japanese CARATs, and many others as well… The Japanese CARATs have actually reacted really well to Skye’s addition and all of us are relieved at that."
(At a Studio in Japan for a Magazine's photo shoot)
All 134 members of SEVENTEEN were striking various posed befor ethe camera for the group photos.
“Okay, now we will have shoot Skye with each of the three units and then with individual members…”, the camera man announced.
“1st up…Hip-hop team. The remaining members of you can rest up a bit.” Wonwoo was first up. Skye was already on the set when he shuffled up to her.
The fact that Wonwoo and Skye, two of the quietest members of the group, were still not at complete ease with each other could be easily grasped by anyone who spent some time around them. Around the members, they were all right. But once left in a room by themselves, they still felt slightly stiff and self-conscious.
“Can you two strike a different pose? May be get a little closer to each other?” The camera man could also sense the awkwardness found it difficult to get a shot as per his liking. Seungcheol and Vernon tried to crack jokes in an attempt to ease them up while Mingyu yelled some pose ideas to the two.
They were clumsily shifting around each other until Wonwoo froze as he felt Skye slide a hand under his own and lean her head on his left shoulder. He remained frozen for a few seconds more before settling into the pose and leaning his own head upon hers. Mingyu and Coups whistled and encouraged them while Vernon was seen smiling knowingly.
The camera man didn’t waste a second before clicking the shutter as fast as he could.
“Thank you~ We're done~”, he said after he successfully secured a few shots as per his liking.
[INTERVIEW]
Question: How do you spend your time during the tours…or in general?
“I'm a quiet person. I do like being around people too, but I need to have some time alone as well… walking around the streets, but also sleeping in my room. I like to play games, and read books in my spare time.”
Question: And which member do you think is similar to you?
“I think Jihoon…The8…and also maybe Skye…But Jihoon usually spends most of his time in the studio while The8 often goes back and forth to China. Skye, as far I have seen, also tries to take walks or read books in her down time…so yeah…”
TOKYO
03.11.2019
(Back at the hotel)
“Shua hyung, say hi to the camera! We're going to Super Junior's concert~”, Hoshi rambled in excitement as he joined some other members who were waiting for him in the elevator.
“Is Wonwoo eating alone?”, Woozi asked Jeonghan. Jeonghan woke up about an hour after almost a quarter of the group had left for the concert and had joined Woozi in the latter's room for dinner.
Jeonghan slurped the rest of the ramen broth from his bowl. “Well, he was almost done with his dinner when I came to wake you up... I think he is planning to go out by himself now. What about you? Are you going to go work out after playing tennis?
“I am not sure yet, should I work out and then play tennis? Or play tennis first and then hit the gym...”, Woozi voiced his dilemma as he attempted to open a bottle of zero coke.
Meanwhile, the two youngest members were finishing up their meal in another room.
“What are you plans for today, Channie?”, Skye mumbled as she chewed her food.
“I think I'm going to go to the sauna with Vernon and then go work out. Later I plan to join you in the pool , and then I'll probably just laze around until I fall asleep.”
The camera moved to Skye.
"Do you have any plans to go out?", the question was directed at her.
“For me, since today is our only day off in the midst of the busy Japan schedule, I'm going to go around some tourist spots.”
“Whoa…don’t you think you should rest a bit?” The older male was amazed at her energy.
“You should never miss a chance to look around in a new place…who knows when I’ll be back here again?” She started to organize the empty dishes as they finished the food.
"Wonwoo said he could show me around some places around since you all have already been here before...I have decided to take up his offer..."
[INTERVIEW]
Question: So Wonwoo, what is SEVENTEEN to you?
“You know, I'm not the type of person to talk much... so, I have always kind of had a weak presence. I felt like I couldn't fit in that well anywhere, ever since I was young. But in SEVENTEEN, I don't feel like that. The outspoken members make sure to make a space for the reserved ones like me, Minghao and...”, Wonwoo looked up with a smile. "and Skye"
ODE TO YOU _ MAKUHARI
07.11.2019
“Since Dino had to go to the emergency department of the hospital for his fever and stomach issues…you all need adjust the performances during the rehearsal itself so that you can make up for his parts...”, the stage director announced. The members nodded grimly.
“Well, he did say he was feeling weird for the last 2 days”, Skye mumbled to herself. “I hope no one else catches whatever is bothering him.”
As the time for the concert approached, Skye took her time and looked around the waiting room. Seungkwan was getting his foot taped up. Jeonghan was getting a last-minute massage in his shoulders that had been sore for quite some time now. With Dino missing, the situation didn’t look good at all. She prayed to whoever was up there that no one else fell sick.
Jeonghan looked up and noticed her face scrunched in worry. “Haneul-ah, don’t worry. Oppa is physically exhausted but mentally I’m excellent.” He flashed a thumbs up at her with the characteristic mischieveous grin adorning his face.
Skye cringed at the 2nd oldest referring to himself as oppa. All the members knew her aversion to this particular term. “Please lend your cheerful mindset to the tired ones instead of wasting it at such poor jokes, Jeonghan oppa …”, she emphasized on oppa this time in an attempt to tease him back with the hope it would lighten the mood.
But all her hopeful prayers came crushing down when she got to know that Wonwoo had collapsed when coming down from stage after the first set. She hurriedly changed into her next outfit and ran over to where the doctor was checking Wonwoo while some other staff members were massaging his limbs. She requested one of the staffs who moved away and Skye took her place, rubbing Wonwoo’s left palm.
“Wonwoo, you need to rest. I beg you. t=The rest of the members can cover for you today!!” Wonwoo struggled but managed to open his eyes as he was surprised to hear the girl's voice. She sounded terrified for some reason. He hadn't expected to see her there.
He shook his head.
Wonwoo had managed to get changed into the outfit for the next stage with the help of the staff and laid down until it was time to go up again. However, Skye hadn’t left his side. When he finally managed to get up and head to the stage for the Hip-Hop unit’s performance, she followed him to the backstage.”
He gave her a tired smile. “I will be okay. Go prepare for your next stage.”
[INTERVIEW]
Question: Your condition was not the best during the Japan leg of the tour... Did you start feeling sick before the concert started or were you okay till you went up on the stage?
“That day, the members were already very worried, going up onstage. We said, we should do the show well even with just 13”, Wonwoo said to the camera. “But I guess my body was in a worse condition than usual that day and I did start realizing that before the show commenced. I couldn't let it show though, since Dino was already missing. When we were performing the first song, I realized that it was going to be tough. My breathing felt heavier and that led to hyperventilation. So, even when I was just standing still... I felt like I was going to faint."
Question: Why did you decide to continue performing instead of just staying back and rest for that day?
“Well...our fans have spared their precious time to come see our performance and they are our priority…I didn't want to disappoint them, and if two members were missing... I felt we'd be letting them down.”
“And I didn't want to give up. If I was going to pass out, it was going to be after the show. I think that's why I ignored Skye’s pleading and I went back on stage.”, he explained. “Honestly, after all that unfolded in Japan, me and Skye got much closer.”
Question: Finally, anything want to say to the fans?
“Everyone in the world has something tough going for them, and I feel often, that I want to be their comfort. That's my driving force these days.”
[If you slow down for a moment, and catch your breath…]
[You can forever keep these passing moments in your heart.]
Title :: Future nostalgia
Classification :: Time Travel AU • Domestic Fluff
Summary :: A little boy arrives at Hogwarts claiming you and Professor Jeon Wonwoo are his parents, turning your lives upside down.
Word Count :: 11k words
series masterlist ✦ svt masterlist
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Domestic Fluff • Time Travel • Parenthood
Trigger Warnings: Child in distress (temporary separation from parents) •Memory alteration/partial memory loss • Mention of pregnancy
A/N: Fic's a little cliche, but I wholeheartedly believe in Soft!Dad Jeon Wonwoo. Give me your kids wonu ;p what who said that huh
I actually have no idea how kids are...
The rain had been falling since the afternoon, turning the castle windows into rivers and made the corridors smell of wet stone. You had stayed later than usual in the greenhouses, repotting a stubborn batch of mandrakes for the second-years who would be arriving in a few weeks, and by the time you climbed back up to the staff quarters your boots were soaked through and your cardigan smelled like fertilizer.
You almost didn't hear it, a small sound, like a hiccup, half swallowed by the storm.
You stopped in the corridor outside the professors' wing, wand raised, and found a child tucked against the cold stone wall. He couldn't have been older than five or six, curled into himself with his knees drawn to his chest, dark unruly hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes damp at the shoulders and his cheeks pink from the cold. He was fast asleep despite all of it.
"Oh, dear."
You crouched beside him, carefully brushing the wet fringe away from his forehead. When he didn't stir, your first instinct was to get him warm.
Slipping your cardigan from your shoulders, you wrapped it around the tiny frame before gently lifting him into your arms. He was surprisingly light, his small pruned hands clutching at the fabric as he slept.
You hurried straight to Professor McGonagall's office.
She opened the door before you had even knocked twice. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of the sleeping child bundled against you.
"I found him outside the professors' quarters," you explained. "He was freezing."
McGonagall's expression immediately hardened into business.
"Bring him inside."
A fire crackled in the grate as you settled the boy onto the sofa, rubbing gentle circles over his back in an attempt to warm him. McGonagall cast several warming charms over the room before turning to Filch, who had appeared in response to the commotion.
"Mr. Filch," she said briskly. "Gather available staff. Immediately."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It didn't take long. Within a few minutes, half the staff room had gathered, which was really only about nine people. McGonagall stood at the head of the room in her tartan dressing gown, looking like she would very much like to be back in bed. Flitwick hovered by the fireplace. Hagrid took up an entire corner simply by existing.
You looked down at the boy again, and something about him nagged at you. The straight dark hair, the soft feline shape of his eyes, even the slight downturn of his mouth in sleep, all of it reminding you vaguely of someone you passed in the corridors without really seeing. Before you could chase the thought further, he stirred. His nose scrunched, his fists rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and he blinked up at the unfamiliar room.
"Sweetheart, are you o—"
You never finished the question. He launched himself at you, small arms winding around your neck with startling strength, nearly knocking you backward as he buried his face against your shoulder. You went rigid with shock, hands hovering uselessly over his back, before instinct took over and you held him.
A broken sob escaped him. "Mama..." he hiccupped, the word breaking beneath another sob. "I looked everywhere for you."
Within seconds he was crying in earnest, hot snotty tears soaking into your cardigan, his fingers clutching at the fabric as though letting go would make you disappear. You looked up helplessly at McGonagall, at Flitwick, at anyone who might explain this. Nobody could, and the words you meant to say, that 'there had been some mistake', died in your throat against the completeness of his devastation. You gathered him closer instead, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"Shh... it's alright," you murmured softly. "You're alright now."
When you pulled back to look at him, his cheeks were wet, his nose pink from crying and cold, and he couldn't have been older than five.
"What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt?"
He only shook his head against your shoulder, one last shuddering sob escaping before his breathing evened into sniffles.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice gentler than you had ever heard it. "Dear boy. What is your name?"
He loosened his grip enough to look at her, wiping his eyes on your cardigan sleeve. "I'm Woojin."
The room visibly relaxed. At least he was coherent.
"Woojin. That's a lovely name," you said.
"You named me, Mama," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then added, generously, in case you needed the rest, "Appa told me that."
"Do you know where your parents are, Woojin?" McGonagall asked. She was the only one composed enough to keep making sense of things.
Woojin looked around, found you first, and pointed. "Mama." Then his gaze slid past everyone else to the office door, just as another professor hurried in, wand still lit from the dark corridors, and his face lit up entirely.
Professor Jeon Wonwoo had barely crossed the threshold before the boy collided with his legs. "Appa!"
His eyes widened behind his glasses, genuine shock flashing across his usually unreadable face as he instinctively looked up at the people in the room, then back down at the child attached to him.
"Mama found me," Woojin said into his trousers, voice thick with tears, "but I was so scared," his hands tightening in the fabric as if to reassure himself Wonwoo was really there.
"I—" Wonwoo started, and had nothing to follow it with. His hand hovered a moment before settling gently on the boy's back. "I've got you."
McGonagall's eyes moved from the child, to Wonwoo, to you, and back again. The only sound left in the room was Woojin's sniffling. She removed her spectacles, pinched the bridge of her nose, and exhaled slowly.
"My office. Now. We have quite a bit to discuss."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
"Home," Flitwick pressed gently, kneeling to Woojin's eye level, though they were nearly the same height already. "Can you tell us where home is, dear?"
The boy gave him a look that suggested this was a very silly question. "Hogwarts," he said. "Obviously."
"And your parents teach here? At Hogwarts?"
The little boy nodded as an answer.
McGonagall let the silence settle for a moment, studying the little boy who had long since abandoned any attempt at sitting properly. Woojin had curled into your side, one cheek resting against your shoulder while his small fingers remained stubbornly hooked around Wonwoo's sleeve, as though he needed to reassure himself that the two of you were still there. Whatever fear had reduced him to tears earlier seemed to have eased now that he was between the people he believed were his parents.
"Woojin," she said at last, her voice gentler than ever, "can you tell us a little about your parents?"
The effect was immediate. His face brightened so completely that it chased away the last traces of tears, and he twisted around to beam at Wonwoo with open admiration. "My appa's the best wizard ever," he said, stretching his arms wide. "Appa teaches defence and all the big kids like him." He giggled to himself before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "Some people think he's scary, but they're just being silly. Appa's not scary."
A ripple of restrained amusement passed through the room, though Wonwoo looked as though he wished the stone floor might kindly open beneath him.
"Appa used to be a Auror" Woojin's hands flew up to illustrate every word. "He caught lots of bad people and fought bad monsters." He glanced proudly at Wonwoo again. "Mama says he's the bravest." He nodded, satisfied he remembered it right, and declared, "I'm gonna be bravest like him when I'm big."
You felt the weight of every professor's gaze drift toward Wonwoo, whose composure faltered just enough that his eyes lifted, almost involuntarily, to meet yours.
McGonagall let the silence pass before turning her attention back to the child. "And your mother?"
Woojin smiled just as brightly. Without hesitation, he leaned back against you until his head rested comfortably beneath your chin, as though he had occupied that spot a hundred times before. "Mama teaches Herbology," he said happily. "I go to the greenhouses with her sometimes and I help" He puffed out his chest with quiet pride. "I can water the plants all by myself now." Then he sighed dramatically. "But I'm still not allowed near the bitey ones. Mama says I'm too little."
Hagrid let out a booming laugh.
"Yer mum's got the right idea. Best keep away from the chompy ones till yeh're bigger."
A few quiet chuckles escaped around the office despite the increasingly impossible nature of the conversation.
Professor Flitwick smiled warmly, "Do you like living at Hogwarts, Woojin?"
"Mhm!" Woojin nodded enthusiastically, his feet swinging beneath the sofa. "I see Mama every day. And Appa." He began counting on his fingers. “Sometimes Appa takes me to the library, and..." His eyes suddenly found McGonagall again. "You always give me biscuits."
For the first time that evening, McGonagall looked genuinely surprised. "I do?"
He nodded so enthusiastically his fringe bounced. "The round buttery ones. You keep them in a tin," His voice dropped into another confidential whisper. "You say not to tell anyone, 'cause then everyone will want your biscuits."
The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched despite herself. "I see."
Her gaze lingered on the three of you before she rose, smoothing her dressing gown. "I believe it would be prudent to contact the Ministry."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
By the time the initial shock had settled, it was well past midnight. The Ministry had been contacted, preliminary statements had been taken, and despite an office full of brilliant witches and wizards, no one seemed any closer to understanding how a little boy claiming to be your son had appeared outside the professors' quarters.
Woojin, meanwhile, had reached the end of a very long day. His head kept drooping against your side before jerking upright again, only to repeat itself moments later.
McGonagall noticed it too. "I believe that is enough for one evening," she said, closing the folder before her with quiet finality. "The rest can wait until morning." Her gaze softened as it settled on Woojin.
"The poor boy needs sleep."
The question that remained was where, exactly, he was meant to sleep. He couldn't spend the night in an empty classroom, and neither of you thought he should be alone. Instinctively, both of you looked down the corridor beyond McGonagall's office.
Two doors.
Professor Jeon's quarters.
Professor Lee's quarters.
McGonagall rose from behind her desk and crossed the room, crouching carefully until she was level with the boy.
"Come along, dear," she said kindly. "Why don't you spend the night in my quarters? I've a spare room, and we'll have a proper breakfast in the morning, along with the biscuits you like."
Woojin only shuffled closer, wedging himself between you and Wonwoo, refusing to let go of your sleeve. "No," he said, quiet and almost frightened. "I wanna stay with Mama and Appa."
McGonagall didn't seem offended in the least. If anything, her expression only softened further. "I see," she said, and looked between the three of you. "Well. That does complicate matters somewhat."
For the first time that evening the reality of it settled over you differently. You barely knew Professor Jeon. Outside departmental meetings and the occasional polite exchange in the Great Hall, the two of you had scarcely spoken in the two years you had both worked at Hogwarts. He kept to himself, and you had long since accepted that as simply the way he was. And now the two of you were discussing sleeping arrangements for a child who believed he was your son.
"Professor Jeon," you started, awkward. "You've still got to deal with the Ministry tonight, don't you?"
"I'll need to make a few reports and statements," he agreed.
"I'll take him tonight," you said, glancing down at Woojin, who was fighting to keep his eyes open. "I've looked after children before. My younger brother practically lived in my room until he was eight."
“Are you certain?” Wonwoo studied you a moment, that thoughtful, unreadable look of his, carrying the peculiar feeling of being carefully weighed. "You have had a long evening as well”
"I'll manage."
His gaze dropped to Woojin, whose fingers had found their way around both your sleeve and his own. After a long moment he inclined his head. "Thank you." It sounded almost strange coming from him. "Professor Lee, if anything comes up..."
"I'll come and find you."
He nodded once. "I'll be awake."
The exchange lasted barely a minute, and yet, as you left McGonagall's office, you realized it was the longest conversation the two of you had ever had. Behind you, his door closed with a quiet click.
You didn't expect the night to be particularly difficult. You had practically helped raise Chris. Children, you thought, weren't entirely unfamiliar territory.
You did not, it turned out, know how this child worked, not yet
The cot took only a flick of your wand to assemble. It was small, comfortable, tucked beside your own bed.
"There we are," you said softly.
Woojin looked at it, then looked at you. Before you could persuade him otherwise, he padded straight past it, climbed into your bed, disappeared beneath your blankets and patted the mattress beside him with sleepy certainty.
"Mama."
With a quiet sigh, you extinguished the bedside lamp and slipped beneath the blankets yourself. You let him sleep beside you today. Tomorrow, surely, things would be less strange.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
He was asleep almost before you settled beside him.
One small hand remained stubbornly fisted in the fabric of your nightshirt, refusing to let go even in sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night he shifted closer, inch by sleepy inch, until his cheek rested against your shoulder as though he'd been searching for it all along.. Then came the tiny sniffle
His brows pinched together and a soft, heartbreaking sound escaped him. A quiet, muffled sob of a child caught in the middle of a bad dream, crying without ever fully waking.
Something inside your chest gave way and you brushed your fingers gently through his dark hair, careful not to wake him.
"Hey," you whispered into the darkness. "It's alright sweetheart, you don't have to be scared."
You drew the blankets a little higher around his shoulders.
"I've got you."
Gradually, the little frown disappeared. His breathing evened out once more, warm against your shoulder.
Sleep never came quite so easily for you.
Instead, you lay awake listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, unable to stop thinking about the woman somewhere, who had tucked this little boy into bed every night before somehow losing him.
Whoever she was...
She had to be terrified.
You hoped someone was telling her he would be alright.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came too early. For one disoriented moment you couldn't remember why your shoulder ached, or why someone else's breathing filled the quiet of your room. Then you looked down and remembered everything at once.
Getting yourself ready was one thing. Getting Woojin ready was another entirely. You had barely managed your own cardigan before he darted away from the chair you'd been coaxing him toward for five minutes, hairbrush still useless in your hand.
"Come here, sweetheart. It'll only take a minute."
"No." He stopped just out of reach, arms folding with all the seriousness a five year old could summon. "It hurts."
"I'll be gentle."
"Appa does it better." He patted his own unruly hair. "He makes it look like his."
"I'm afraid I don't know how your Appa does it," you admitted, smiling despite yourself, which only earned an offended huff and a turned away face. With a sigh you reached instead for the toothbrush you transfigured the night before. He accepted it obediently enough, until he looked down and his expression crumbled into disbelief. "This isn't my dinosaur one. Uncle got it for me. I can't brush my teeth without it."
"You absolutely can."
By the time someone knocked, you had given up on your own appearance entirely and opened the door mid argument about whether teeth brushing was optional. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, and whatever he had meant to say caught somewhere behind his teeth. His gaze swept over you, barefoot, hair damp and half brushed, cardigan buttoned askew, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the polished colleague he knew with the woman standing in front of him, harried by an impossible five year old before eight in the morning.
"Sorry," he said after a beat. "McGonagall says the Ministry's arrived. I thought," his gaze slid past you to where Woojin was attempting to hide the toothbrush under a cushion, "..do you want some help?"
"Please," you said, with real feeling, and stepped back to let him in.
He turned out to be considerably better at negotiating with a five year old than you expected, crouching to listen with total seriousness as Woojin explained the importance of the dinosaur toothbrush. Whatever quiet bargain passed between them, worked. Within minutes Woojin had surrendered the hairbrush without complaint, sat patiently while Wonwoo worked through the tangles of his hair, and agreed the substitute toothbrush could be ‘just for today.’
"I've been trying to do that for twenty minutes," you said, watching them in mild disbelief.
"He was very reasonable," Wonwoo said.
Woojin, delighted to have both of you in one room, skipped over. "Mama slept in again," he informed Wonwoo happily, without a trace of malice. "She's always late. But I didn't wake her up. I was good." He recited it like a familiar house rule. "'Let Mama sleep. She needs it more than we do.' Appa you always say that."
"Very good," Wonwoo agreed, straight faced, and caught your eye over the boy's head. Heat crept up your neck.
"I don't always sleep in," you muttered, reaching for your bag. "At least, I don't think I do."
You thought you caught the corner of his mouth twitch and you cleared your throat before the little boy could say something even more embarrassing.
"...We should probably head down for the meeting."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials arrived right away, after reading Professor McGonagall’s letter.
They introduced themselves as members of the Department of Mysteries, though none of them elaborated on what that actually meant. Dressed in unassuming grey robes and carrying curious brass instruments that hummed softly in their hands, they transformed an unused classroom into a temporary examination room and spent the better part of the morning trying to determine exactly who—or what—Woojin was.
Woojin, for his part, found the entire experience fascinating.
Outside the classroom, you waited with your arms folded tightly across your chest, listening to the occasional burst of childish chatter through the half-open door. Professor Jeon stood beside you in companionable silence, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.
"They keep looking at him like he's a puzzle to solve," you murmured.
"They're trying to understand him," Wonwoo replied quietly. After a pause, he added, “If any of them are unkind to him, I intend to say something about it, regardless of rank."
You looked at him, surprised by the protectiveness in his voice.
One by one, the possibilities were eliminated.
Memory charms.
Polyjuice Potion.
Transfiguration.
Illusions.
Every test reached the same conclusion.
Finally, the lead official requested a private meeting with you, Professor Jeon, and Professor McGonagall.
"There is no indication," the witch began carefully, "that this child has been altered or fabricated through magic."
She placed two sheets of parchment on McGonagall's desk.
"We also performed a magical signature analysis, and the child's magical signature naturally carries traces of both parents."
She looked between you and Wonwoo. "Woojin's magical signature matches both of yours."
"...No," you said quietly, staring at the parchment for another long moment before shaking your head.
"There has to be some mistake." Your eyes flicked helplessly between Professor McGonagall and the woman seated across the desk. "We've never..."
The words lodged stubbornly in your throat.
Beside you, Wonwoo spoke before you could force yourself to finish.
"...We're just acquaintances."
You looked at him gratefully, and nodded.
"We work together," he said, almost absently, as though saying it aloud would somehow make the conclusion change. "We've never been anything beyond colleagues."
Silence settled over the office.
The official folded her hands neatly atop the desk.
"There is no known spell capable of forging that result," the lead official said carefully, in the privacy of McGonagall's office "As far as the Ministry can determine... this child is biologically yours."
You found yourself reading the report again, despite already knowing exactly what it said, as though the letters might have changed in the last few seconds.
Beside you, Wonwoo removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose before putting them back on again.
"Time," McGonagall said eventually, "is the only variable I can think of that would explain a child appearing who is, biologically, already yours, when neither of you has so much as had dinner together."
You, sitting very straight in your chair with hands folded tightly in your lap, felt something in her chest go strange and light and frightened all at once. Beside your, Wonwoo hadn't moved, but anyone could see, in the careful, controlled stillness of him, that he was thinking exactly as fast and exactly as far ahead as you were.
"We'll investigate the how," McGonagall said, not unkindly. "In the meantime, the boy has made his preferences extremely clear, and I see little value in fighting a five-year-old’s instincts when they've so far been correct about everything else. Professors Jeon and Lee, until we know otherwise, I'm placing him in your joint care."
The meeting dissolved not long after.
Outside, Woojin was exactly where you left him, on the stone bench with Hagrid, legs swinging as the gamekeeper showed him something cupped in his enormous hands. The moment he spotted you both, a wide smile appeared on his face. "Mama! Appa!" He slid down and trotted over, slipping one hand into each of yours as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Hagrid chuckled as he rose to his feet.
"Kept 'im company while yeh lot were busy," he said. "Good little lad, this one."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Wonwoo said sincerely.
Hagrid waved it off with a smile before lumbering away, leaving the three of you standing together in the quiet corridor.
“Finished?”, Woojin asked curiously, looking up at both of you. "I'm hungry."
You exchanged a brief, helpless glance over the top of his head with Wonwoo. Neither of you had the heart to tell him that nothing was finished at all.
"Come on," you said eventually, squeezing his little hand. "Let's get some breakfast."
After everything the Ministry had just told you, trying to make sense of the impossible on empty stomachs seemed like a particularly poor idea.
Woojin started happily swinging your joined hands as the three of you started down the corridor. You'd barely made it a few steps before he stopped so abruptly that you almost walked straight into him.
"...Mama?"
You looked down. "Hm?"
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, glancing briefly at Wonwoo before leaning closer to you"...I need the toilet."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, despite everything that had happened that morning, you let out a chuckle.
You caught yourself just in time, smoothing your expression before he could mistake it for teasing.
"Right," you said with all the seriousness you could manage. "That does seem rather urgent."
Beside you, Wonwoo cleared his throat, though you caught the faintest hint of amusement softening his otherwise impassive expression. It was such an ordinary problem, contrasting everything the two of you had been dealing with since the night before.
"I'll meet you in the Great Hall," he said.
"We'll be there shortly." You smiled gently at him.
The moment you took a step, Woojin immediately began tugging you along with considerably more urgency than before.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Great Hall was mostly empty this early in the term, the students not due back for another week. It was, you thought, the only mercy available to you that morning.
A handful of professors had already gathered at the staff table, breakfast spread lazily before them.
At one end, Quidditch coach, Kim Mingyu was halfway through his toast, chatting idly with Wonwoo.
"So," he said around a mouthful, "I heard something interesting happened last night. They say you've got a kid now." He grinned. "Shame I missed it. Would've loved to witness the birth."
"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Wonwoo said flatly, not looking up from his coffee.
At that moment you stepped in with Woojin marching several paces ahead, waving at each professor as though he'd done it every morning of his life. Then his eyes landed on Mingyu and lit up entirely. "Uncle Gyu!" He barreled straight into him.
Mingyu froze with his toast halfway to his mouth. "Uncle?" He looked from the boy clinging to his side, to you, to Wonwoo. "Jeon. Care to explain why your alleged son thinks I'm his uncle?" But Woojin was already climbing onto him, fists in his robes, and whatever surprise Mingyu felt lasted about two seconds before dissolving into delight.
"You promised you'd take me flying," Woojin reminded him, very seriously. "Yesterday. You said."
"I did?" Mingyu blinked.
"Yesterday," Woojin reminded him very seriously. "You said."
Mingyu looked helplessly towards Wonwoo. "...Did I?" , his attention back to Woojin, who was waiting with unwavering confidence.
"Well... Clearly I'm a man of my word " He grinned. "how about after breakfast?"
Woojin gasped happily before scrambling down again. He hurried straight over to Wonwoo, climbing onto his lap without invitation and cupping his face between both tiny hands.
"Appa," he asked earnestly, "can I go?"
Then he twisted around to look at you.
"Mama?"
For a split second, you froze. Your instinct was to say yes. Then another thought occurred to you.
You had absolutely no idea whether you and Wonwoo had rules about things like this.
"Eat first," you said instead.
Woojin's smile faltered.
"But—"
"You've hardly eaten," you said gently. "Finish your breakfast, and then you can go."
You looked across him, at Wonwoo. "Do you think that's alright, Professor Jeon?" The title felt strange after "Appa" only moments earlier.
Woojin's shoulders slumped, appealing wordlessly to the other parent, but Wonwoo only said, "Mama's right," and the boy sighed and hopped down, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich.
Mingyu laughed. "He's definitely your son."
You chose not to ask which one of you he meant.
The moment he was done eating, Woojin was on his feet before anyone else had even pushed back their chair.
"I'm done!"
Before either of you could say another word, Mingyu had already scooped him effortlessly onto one shoulder.
"Come on then, Mini-Jeon."
Their laughter echoed across the Great Hall as the pair disappeared towards the doors together.
Which left the two of you alone at the staff table, breakfast half eaten, with a conversation neither of you had quite prepared for.
"We should talk about how this is going to work," you said.
"Yes," Wonwoo agreed.
You looked at each other, two colleagues who three days ago had rarely exchanged more than polite greetings. "Whatever happens, however he got here, however the Ministry sends him back, he's still five," you said. "He doesn't understand any of this. He's frightened. The least we can do is make sure he feels safe until it's over."
"I agree," Wonwoo said, without hesitation, resting his forearms on the table, already thinking ahead. "The students return next week. Until then, one of us can always be with him."
You nodded. "If I have no lessons, he can stay with me in the greenhouses."
"And during my free periods..." His gaze drifted towards the doors Woojin had disappeared through. "...I'll take him."
You let out a breath, some of the panic that had lived in your chest since the boy first wrapped his arms around your neck finally easing. "So we'll just figure it out."
"We will."
For now, at least, neither of you had to figure it out alone.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The week that followed should have been simple. But, it wasn't.
You settled into the arrangement, Woojin's mornings in the greenhouses, coloring at a little workbench while you repotted seedlings, his afternoons in the Defence classroom with Wonwoo, parchment and crayons spread while lesson plans got written around him. The handovers were brief and polite. Professor Lee. Professor Jeon. A quick word about whether he'd eaten or napped, and then one of you would return to work while the other walked away with his small hand in theirs.
It was practical and organized. Exactly what two colleagues might come up with facing an impossible situation.
It should have worked. Instead, almost without either of you noticing, Woojin began to change.
The chatter went first, the little stories that used to tumble out of him without pause, about Fang, about Uncle Gyu and flying, about Flitwick's levitating feathers, grew fewer and fewer until most meals passed in near silence. Then the smaller things. He stopped reminding you that you supposedly gave him a flower from the greenhouse every day. He stopped correcting Wonwoo when he forgot some detail his Appa should have known. By the end of the week he barely touched his food. There was no tantrum, nothing dramatic to point to, just a boy shrinking a little further into himself each day, his smiles rarer, his laughter quieter, the brightness that had burst into your life outside the professors' quarters slowly dimming.
You noticed it and so did Wonwoo. However, neither of you could figure out why.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The greenhouses had long since emptied one evening, the last gold light fading from the grounds, when you noticed the silence first. Usually Woojin waited on the bench outside, legs swinging, ready to show off whatever he had drawn. Tonight, he wasn't there. A tiny sniffle carried through the quiet instead. You found him curled against the doorframe, knees to his chest, small shaky sobs escaping into his sleeves.
"Woojin?"
His head lifted just as hurried footsteps rounded the corner, Wonwoo, who had come to collect him for dinner, stopping short at the sight. The two of you exchanged one panicked look before crouching together. Your hand found his shoulder. "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?"
That was all it took. He threw himself into your arms, shaking, and you wrapped him up while Wonwoo lowered onto one knee, palm circling slow between his shoulder blades. "What's wrong, buddy? Tell us."
It took a long moment before he could speak. "How long," he hiccupped, "are you gonna stay mad at each other?"
You blinked in surprise. "What?"
"Mama and Appa..." Another sob broke through before he could finish. "...You're mad."
"We’re not angry," you said immediately, looking helplessly towards Wonwoo before turning back to the little boy. "Sweetheart, I promise I'm not—"
"Mama liar." The words landed like a slap. He'd never called you that before.
He shook his head, tears spilling fresh. "You call Appa 'Professor.' Mama never calls Appa 'Professor.' You don't eat breakfast together. And Appa doesn't come get you after the greenhouses. You don't read me stories together. You don't say goodnight together." His voice kept dropping. "You don't even sleep in the same house."
His breath hitched high and miserable. "Did I do something? I'm sorry..."
Your heart broke clean in half. Beside you Wonwoo had gone rigid. "You didn't do anything," he said, low and fierce. "Nothing about this is your fault. You didn't make us angry."
"We're not angry with each other," you said, brushing the damp hair from his face. "Do you want to go home? Hm?"
The words hung heavily in the evening air.
Woojin's shoulders trembled as he looked desperately from one face to the other. He sniffled, slipped one small hand into yours, then reached for Wonwoo's with the other and he began walking.
You and Wonwoo exchanged one confused glance before following, letting the little boy lead you through the quiet corridors of the castle, never once hesitating, until he stopped outside a familiar door. Professor Jeon's quarters.
Only then did he look up at the two of you, still holding both your hands.
"...Home."
You went in. There didn't seem to be any other option.
Wonwoo's quarters were, nearly identical in size and shape to yours, and almost entirely bare of anything personal. There was a neat stack of books, a single armchair, a room that looked like it belonged to a man who spent as little time as possible actually living in it. Woojin stood in the middle of it, small and confused, turning in a slow circle.
"Where's my room?" he asked. "Where's my toys?"
There was nothing to show him, no room, no toys, no trace of the boy he was, only two adults trying to comfort a child for the absence of a life that hadn't been built yet.
You knelt and wiped his face with your sleeve. "Sleep for tonight. Tomorrow, I promise, we'll get you new toys. A whole room full, if you want."
He considered this gravely and nodded. "Promise?"
"Promise," Wonwoo said, and meant it in the particular, unshakeable way you were coming to learn was simply how he meant everything.
Satisfied, Woojin rubbed his eyes, yawned, and padded toward the bedroom as if he knew every step by heart, climbing beneath the blankets before either of you reached the doorway. He scooted to the center and patted the empty space on either side. "Can I sleep in the middle tonight?"
The room fell silent. You looked at Wonwoo. He looked at you.
"...The middle?" you echoed weakly.
Woojin nodded, it was the most ordinary request in the world for him.
You hesitated until Woojin had disappeared almost entirely beneath the blankets, only his sleepy little face peeking out.
Leaning towards Wonwoo, you lowered your voice to little more than a whisper.
"...What do we do?"
"He's already distressed," he murmured finally. "If we tell him no now..." He didn't need to finish it. "Stay here until he falls asleep."
You nodded. "Just until he falls asleep."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Morning came slowly. You woke first, it taking a long moment to place the unfamiliar mattress, before you felt something warm and heavy draped across your waist. Woojin had migrated in the night until he was sprawled almost entirely over you, one leg thrown across your middle. You smiled, then glanced past him and froze. You didn’t realise that you had accidentally fallen asleep last night beside the two boys.
Wonwoo was asleep on the other side of the bed. Without his glasses, without the polished look he carried through every staff meeting, he looked... younger somehow. One arm was thrown over his head, the other resting loosely near Woojin.
And beside him, Woojin slept exactly the same way, the same arm flung above the head, the same slight parting of the lips, even the same faint crease settled between their brows. It was almost unsettling, how alike they looked.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across Wonwoo's forehead, obscuring part of his face. Before you could think better of it, your hand lifted almost on instinct, fingers moving carefully toward the loose strand.
The moment your fingertips grazed his hair, brown eyes blinked open.
You stilled, like a deer caught in headlights. ”Oh”
“I was just..observing” Then, quietly, you murmured, "...He sleeps like you."
His eyes flicked to Woojin's arm still flung over, then back. "Does he?" His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than you had ever heard it.
"The same expression and the same way he throws his arm over his head."
He looked at the boy a long moment. "I never would've noticed," he said, in his raspy voice. Neither of you spoke after that. Between you, Woojin sighed contentedly in his sleep and burrowed closer, anchoring himself to both of you at once.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You went to Hogsmaede the very next morning, all three of you, to fulfil previous night’s promise of getting toys and clothes for Woojin.
The first stop was a children's clothing shop, and within minutes you'd disappeared into the racks. "Woojin, come here." You held a tiny knitted jumper against his front. "Oh, look at you. You're adorable."
"I look handsome," he corrected.
"You look very handsome."
Before you could admire him any longer, the jumper disappeared from your hands. Wonwoo had taken it without a word, turning it over to inspect the label before feeling the fabric between his fingers. Satisfied, he placed it into the trolley while you wandered off again.
"Oh! Woojin, come look at these."
The pattern repeated itself half a dozen times, socks embroidered with broomsticks, robes so impossibly small they made you coo, a knitted hat with bear ears, you and Woojin gasping over each discovery as though it outdid the last, while Wonwoo quietly sorted excitement from practicality behind you, checking sizes and seams before either dropping an item in the trolley or returning it to the shelf.
At one point you and Woojin reached for the same pants at the same moment, looked at each other, and said "in the trolley" in perfect unison. Woojin dissolved into giggles. So did you. Wonwoo paused with another mini sweater halfway to the trolley, watching the two of you laugh over something so inconsequential, and thought, though he didn't say it, that even if Woojin didn’t look like you, he had definitely inherited your joyful personality.
Without a word, he set the pants into the trolley and followed after the pair of you once more.
By the time you finished buying clothes, toys, bedding, books, and enough school supplies, the afternoon had slipped quietly into evening.
Dinner was at a little restaurant tucked between a bookshop and an apothecary, warm with the smell of fresh bread. Until your meals arrived, Woojin had already begun drooping where he sat beside Wonwoo.
He lasted about halfway through his dinner before his cheek settled onto the tabletop with a tiny sigh, the glass of pumpkin juice still clutched loosely in one hand.
You smiled fondly. "I think someone's reached his limit."
Wonwoo glanced over and without disturbing him, he quietly slid the abandoned food onto a plate before pulling the glass of pumpkin juice safely out of the boy's reach.
Only then did he look back at you.
"So," he said, the first time he'd ever started a conversation without prompting. "Did you always want to teach?"
You blinked, pleasantly surprised.
"I think so," You traced absent-minded circles around the rim of your mug. "Professor Sprout was my favourite when I was here. She made everyone feel like they belonged in her classroom. I wasn't particularly talented at first. I nearly killed a Venomous Tentacula in second year."
"...Impressive."
"It wasn't on purpose." You laughed. "I just remember thinking, if I could make one student love Herbology the way she made me love it, I'd have done something worthwhile."
"I imagine you already have." He said it so plainly it took you a second to realize he meant it. "And you?" you asked. "Woojin mentioned you being an Auror."
"I joined the Ministry after graduation." He leaned back slightly.
"It felt like the right thing to do. I was good at it." There was no arrogance in his words, just facts.
"But..." His gaze drifted briefly to the little boy asleep beside him, “eventually I realized I couldn't protect everyone. Perhaps I could teach someone else how to protect themselves instead. So I came here."
You looked at Woojin, asleep between you, utterly convinced this thoughtful, reserved man was his father. "I get it why he looks at you the way he does. Like you can fix anything."
"...I hope," he said quietly, "...I never give him a reason to think otherwise."
By the time you started back toward the castle, Woojin had gone entirely boneless with exhaustion, walking between you with a hand in each of yours, until somewhere along the path his feet simply stopped moving altogether and Wonwoo swept him up without breaking stride, settling him against his shoulder and he was asleep before you'd cleared the gates.
"I'll take him tonight," Wonwoo said quietly, adjusting his hold on the boy. "You should rest. You both used up too much energy while shopping.”
You didn't argue. You walked back to the castle beside him in comfortable, unhurried silence, watching and admiring the way Wonwoo had stepped up into his role so effortlessly.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Students returned the following week, and it took less than a day for the entire castle to discover that Professor Jeon had, apparently, acquired a child.
Woojin looked so unmistakably like Wonwoo, same eyes, same careful, watchful stillness, the same particular way of tilting his head when he was thinking. The resemblance alone silenced most speculation. It took a little longer for anyone to connect the boy to you, mostly because you and Wonwoo had been so studiously careful in public, but it happened anyway, and by the second afternoon the whole school seemed to know that the small boy trailing Professor Jeon between classes called Professor Lee "Mama."
Your brother heard it from three people before lunch and arrived at your Herbology classroom at a dead run.
He burst through the door mid-lesson, loud and dramatic as ever, and you rounded on him without missing a beat. "I am teaching, Chan, go back to your dormitory or I will hex you where you stand."
But Woojin had already spotted him from his corner table, where he'd been colouring quietly through the lesson exactly as he always did. "Uncle Dino!"
Chan blinked. "Huh—?" But the boy had already crossed the room and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him down into the corner with the urgent, conspiratorial whisper of a child sharing a secret.
"Why are you at Hogwarts?" Woojin whispered. "You're supposed to be at work."
"What work?" Chan asked, faintly dazed, crouching properly now, studying the boy's face with growing, dawning confusion. The resemblance to Wonwoo really was uncanny. "How old are you kid?"
Woojin held up five fingers. "Five. I'm a big boy."
The class had, by now, entirely abandoned any pretence of working. You dismissed them five minutes early out of pure self-preservation, and the moment the door shut behind the last student, Chan rounded on you with the full, righteous fury of a man who has just done extremely questionable maths.
"Five years?" he demanded. "You hid a child from me for five years? I'm telling Mum and Dad."
You smacked the back of his head without much force and dragged him toward the door, explaining low and fast everything that had happened. His expression cycled through disbelief, alarm, and fascination. "So he just appeared? In a corridor? And nobody's told Mum and Dad?"
"McGonagall wanted to keep it contained until the Ministry understood what they were dealing with," You said, moving down the row of Mandrake pots with the automatic efficiency. "There's nothing to tell them yet. There's nothing certain to tell anyone yet."
"There's a child, noona. That feels fairly certain." He lowered his voice, glancing at Woojin, who was very obviously listening despite pretending otherwise. "Does he — does Professor Jeon know? Properly know? Has he said anything? Because if he's making you handle this on your own while he just stands there being broody and unreadable like he always—"
"He's been extremely present, actually," you said, sharper than you meant to, faintly surprised by your own defensiveness. "He is good with both of us."
"So you and Professor Jeon..." He said the name like it tasted strange. "He barely talks. Is he good to you? Because I don't care if it's the future or the past or whatever timeline nonsense this is, if he ever—"
"Chan."
"I'm just SAYING—"
"Uncle Dino and Appa are best friends," Woojin announced, from where he'd resettled himself contentedly on the crate beside him, "Appa says you're the little brother he never had."
You couldn't help smiling. Somehow, it was comforting to know that somewhere in some timeline, your brother had found a best friend in Wonwoo. You hadn't expected that of all things, but it felt right.
"That's not—" Chan opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "That doesn't sound like Jeon Wonwoo at all—"
"Was I not supposed to say that?" Woojin asked, blinking up at him, entirely innocent, already sensing from the sudden stillness in the room that he had said something he wasn't meant to.
You closed your eyes briefly and reached for patience.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Woojin settled, in the weeks that followed, into the rhythm of the castle so completely it became hard to remember what Hogwarts had looked like without him.
One evening the greenhouses had gone quiet, students long gone, the castle settling into its nighttime hush beyond the glass, when the door creaked and Wonwoo stepped inside.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You aren't." You glanced up from the moonlily buds you were coaxing open.
"I came to see if you were still here," he said. "Woojin was asking where you were."
Your expression softened. "Is he alright?"
Wonwoo sat on a stool, pulling it closer to your set. "He waited up." said, the corner of his mouth lifting,"..but ended up falling asleep."
You smiled to yourself. "I'll apologise in the morning for making him wait up."
"He won't remember."
His gaze drifted to the flowers. "What are these?"
"Moonlilies. They only bloom after sunset, rather boring during the day." Your fingers brushed a pale blossom as another unfurled beside it, silver petals catching the moonlight through the glass roof.
"They're beautiful," he said.
"They're my favourite." You gestured at the rows stretching deeper into the greenhouse. "They'll keep blooming another hour or so. If you ever can't sleep, you can come see them."
Something unreadable crossed his face. "I'd like that."
The quiet settled again, comfortable, until he spoke. "Hold still." You blinked, and he leaned closer, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. "There. You had mud." Your heartbeat became unexpectedly hard to ignore. He seemed entirely unaffected, or simply very good at pretending otherwise.
After a moment, as though the question had only just occurred to him, “Do you have a partner?"
The question caught you so off guard you laughed. "No."
"No one waiting for you?"
"No."
He nodded once. "I've been thinking," he said. "About Woojin. He still wakes some nights expecting both of us, and we keep sending him between two rooms." He paused. "I was wondering whether we should ask Professor McGonagall if our quarters could be connected. So he has one home."
The thought lingered longer than you expected. It wasn't technically moving in together, just one home, for a little boy who couldn't understand why his parents lived apart. "I think he'd like that," you said.
"I do too."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
McGonagall agreed the next morning with the look of a woman who'd been waiting rather a while to be asked, and the magic took most of an afternoon, walls softening, a doorway blooming where there had been solid stone, two sets of rooms folding into one home neither of you had entirely built on purpose.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you, and the moment he crossed the threshold he simply lit up, spinning in a delighted circle.
You brought Woojin to see it after dinner. He walked in ahead of you and lit up completely, spinning in a circle. "My house is back!" He threw his arms around the couch. "I missed you, home!" then, abruptly, "Where's Seol?" already forgotten in the next breath as he sprinted for the bedroom that had once been yours.
"Mama, Mama, this is my room!" he announced, bouncing on the bed with total confidence, and you didn't have the heart to correct him, didn't particularly want to.
He herded you both through the rest of it with the brisk, self-appointed authority of a very small landlord, and finished by planting himself in front of what had been Wonwoo's door alone,until that afternoon, pointing inside. "Go to your room. Goodnight, Mama." He rose on his toes, pulling you lower and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then did the same to Wonwoo, who accepted it with startled, helpless tenderness. Then Woojin stepped back, arms crossed, and looked between the two of you expectantly.
"Now your turn," he said, like this was simply the next obvious step in the routine.
You and Wonwoo looked at each other. A warm flush crept across your cheeks, his ears turning red in similar fashion.
"...Oh," you managed intelligently.
Beside you, Wonwoo looked equally flustered, clearing his throat as though searching for words.
Before either of you could decide who was supposed to move first—
"Fast," Woojin giggled, looking at the pair of you like you were being terribly silly. He pointed at his own cheeks with both hands. "Goodnight kisses!"
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. Wonwoo quietly looked at the ceiling.
"...Right," you mumbled.
Woojin waited patiently while the two of you recovered enough dignity to lean down and kiss one of his cheeks each
Woojin dissolved into delighted laughter. "Silly Mama and Dada," he announced, thoroughly unbothered by the fact that you'd both gone crimson and speechless, and skipped off to his own room without a backward glance, leaving the two of you standing in the doorway in the sudden, charged quiet he had left behind.
Neither of you said very much, after that. There wasn't, really, anything sensible to say.
You ended up in the same room. It seemed the simplest arrangement now that the quarters had become one home instead of two, and neither of you had the energy to overthink what that might mean.
He was careful with you. Quiet, steady, bringing the same attentiveness he brought to everything, and you found you trusted it completely, the way you had found yourself trusting nearly everything about him these past weeks without quite noticing when it started. His hand found yours in the dark. Sleep came slowly, not from discomfort, but from being suddenly, acutely aware of each other in a way you hadn't been before. Eventually, exhaustion won and you both drifted to a quiet sleep.
Woojin woke sometime after midnight.
He padded sleepily into the hallway, rubbing one eye with the back of his fist. The door to the bedroom stood slightly ajar.
He peeked in. Moonlight spilled across the room, and his parents were asleep, your back against Wonwoo’s chest, his arm loose around your waist, both of you breathing with the heavy rhythm of people too tired to notice how close you had ended up. His sleepy face broke into the biggest grin. "You’re back," he whispered, and climbed carefully onto the bed, curling up in front of you instead of between you, pulling your arm over himself with practiced familiarity, asleep again within seconds.
Wonwoo woke first in the morning. Woojin lay between you now, not separating you, but tucked safely in front of you, your arm around him, his own arm still loose around your waist. Three people. One tangled shape on the bed.
He watched you both breathe a moment, then reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before settling back against the pillow. For once, he felt no urgency to get up. Morning could wait.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
With Woojin increasingly absorbed into afternoons with Uncle Dino or Uncle Gyu, you and Wonwoo found yourselves with actual unclaimed hours, and neither of you was quite willing to waste them.
It was Wonwoo who moved first.
He started appearing at the greenhouse door with two steaming cups of tea, lingering awkwardly in the doorway until you looked up from your work.
"Thought you might want company," he'd say, as though that alone explained why he crossed half the castle during his free period.
More often than not, Woojin would toddle over the moment he spotted him, abandoning whatever stick or flower had captured his attention. Wonwoo would wordlessly scoop him with one before handing you your tea. Within a week the gesture had become second nature.
A few days later you found him asleep over a stack of essays, quill still loose in his hand. You slipped his glasses off his face and set them beside the parchment before nudging his shoulder.
He blinked awake, disoriented, and you told him plainly that he needed to go to bed.
"I still have—"
"You've been raising an energetic five year old all day," you said, folding your arms. "The essays can wait."
He looked at you for a long moment, and something in his expression softened before he admitted, voice still thick with sleep "I don't mind either of your energies," he stifled a yawn, stretching his arms "..makes me happy."
You had absolutely no idea what to do with that so you said nothing at all.
He still insisted on staying up most nights to finish grading, so eventually you started bringing your own work into his office instead of arguing about it. Neither of you said much once you were both settled. He would shift his chair a little closer, you would spread your parchment across the corner of his desk, and the two of you worked in companionable silence until the candles burned low.
He began walking you to your classroom afterward too, even though the route took him the opposite way from his own. He never explained it beyond insisting he would get to his class eventually, and eventually, it seemed, always meant after he'd seen you safely to your door.
On the colder mornings you were the one who stopped him and Woojin halfway across the courtyard, pointing sternly at the hat dangling forgotten from Woojin's hand until he groaned and put it on. Then you turned the same look on Wonwoo.
"You too."
He blinked in suprise."...Me?"
"You'll both catch cold," you said, and without another word pulled his scarf a little tighter around him.
He noticed things before you did. A quill running low on ink would be quietly replaced on your desk overnight. If you skipped lunch, a neatly wrapped sandwich would turn up in the staff room by early afternoon, and you'd know without asking where it came from.
You noticed things too. Whenever he buried himself in paperwork through mealtimes, you started simply setting a plate down beside him in the Great Hall and waiting until he ate it, ignoring whatever protest he tried to offer. Woojin, already halfway through his own shepherd's pie, took to backing you up without being asked, informing his father solemnly that Mama had said to eat, so he should eat.
Wonwoo accepted defeat every time.
Across the table, Mingyu had taken to watching these exchanges with an unbearably smug grin, and one evening he finally said aloud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks, “I love your little family
You and Wonwoo looked up in perfect unison.
"We're not—"
"...a family?" Mingyu finished for you, smiling into his drink. "Right."
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Slowly, the conversations that had once ended after a polite greeting stretched into long ones. Silence stopped feeling awkward between you. You learned that Wonwoo didn't speak often, not because he had nothing to say, but because he waited until something was worth saying. He learned, in turn, that you talked enough for the both of you, wandering easily from Herbology to your brother's latest letter to a book you read years ago that had suddenly reminded you of a student.
Most people interrupted you eventually. Wonwoo never did. He listened with his attention fixed solely on you. Over time you began to notice the small things about him that anyone else might have missed: the faint lift at the corner of his mouth, the thoughtful hum whenever he disagreed, the way he would bring up something you had mentioned days earlier as though it had never once left his mind.
Somehow, without either of you deciding it, spending time together stopped feeling like an obligation born from impossible circumstances. You began to look forward to it instead.
One evening, while Woojin sat between you at the table stubbornly sounding out a picture book, you found yourself watching Wonwoo rather than the page. He guided the boy through each difficult word with endless patience, never frustrated, never rushing him, and the thought left you before you could stop it.
"I think I understand now," you said, "why I'd marry you."
You looked at him, a little embarrassed after the words left you, and Wonwoo looked completely caught off guard.
"I think I do too." He held your gaze for a long, quiet moment.
Then, almost shyly, he looked back down at the book beside him, where Woojin was still waiting, for his appa to help him with the next word.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The best afternoons belonged entirely to Woojin.
They usually started with a game of tag across the grounds, Wonwoo pretending badly not to be fast enough to catch him, until somehow you were running too, laughing while Woojin shrieked with delight between the two of you.
Someone always tripped eventually, usually you, and Wonwoo would stumble trying to catch you before all three of you went down together in the grass, Woojin throwing himself on top of the pile with a triumphant declaration that your pile was now a hamburger.
You and Wonwoo dissolved into helpless laughter beneath the weight of a giggling five year old.
It was in moments like these that you had to remind yourself, gently and every time, that none of it was permanent.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Ministry officials returned in early October with answers at last.
An illegal Time-Turner experiment had torn open a fracture between two points in time. Woojin had wandered too close, slipping through before anyone could stop him. He had never belonged in this timeline—not because he came from another world, but because he came from several years ahead.
Somewhere in that future, two frantic parents had spent weeks searching for the little boy who had vanished without a trace.
"There is a window," the lead investigator explained quietly. "We can safely return him."
The witch hesitated before continuing.
"The timeline will... protect itself afterwards."
You asked her what that meant.
"Everyone’s memories won't disappear all at once," she said. "But as the fracture closes, they'll begin to blur. Faces first, then conversations. Eventually it will feel more like something you dreamed than something you lived."
Woojin would forget these months too. He would remember growing up exactly as he was meant to. As far as he would ever know, he had never been here at all.
It was supposed to be a kindness, yet it felt unimaginably cruel.
The walk back to the castle was silent.
That night, neither of you slept much. Woojin, blissfully unconcerned, lay between you talking about things that happened that morning-- Uncle Gyu teaching him Quidditch fouls, Uncle Dino taking him along with his friends to Hogsmeade. Every ordinary little story landed somewhere deep inside you, each one another reminder that there was an entire life waiting for him beyond your reach.
Eventually his words grew slower, each sentence interrupted by a yawn, until they dissolved into sleepy murmurs. Within minutes he was asleep between you, one small hand fisted loosely in the fabric of Wonwoo's sleeve.
You watched him for a long time. Then, unable to stop yourself, you gathered him carefully into your arms and pressed your face into his soft hair. The first tear fell before you realized you were crying, and you tried to stay quiet so you wouldn't wake him.
Beside you, Wonwoo didn't say a word. He simply moved closer until your shoulders touched, then wrapped one arm around both of you, drawing you and the sleeping boy against his chest. You felt his chin come to rest lightly atop your head. For a while there was only warmth, and the quiet understanding that for one more night, the three of you were still here. You leaned into him, having a final night with the family you had briefly been allowed to borrow.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Astronomy Tower was quiet at dawn.
Woojin stood between you, one hand tucked into yours and the other in Wonwoo's, looking more curious than frightened.
"Will you be okay?" you asked softly.
He looked up at you with complete certainty. "I'll see you for dinner."
The words caught somewhere behind your ribs. Wonwoo crouched down in front of him and smoothed a wrinkle from his little jumper, telling him gently that his mum and dad had been looking for him. Woojin frowned, as though the sentence didn't make any sense at all
"You are my mum and dad."
You dropped to your knees beside Wonwoo, your shoulder brushing his.
"We are," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just... a little earlier."
Still not able to grasp the meaning, he wrapped both tiny arms around the two of you together, deciding it probably wasn’t that important anyway.
"I'll see Mama and Appa for dinner,” he mumbled into the hug.
The Ministry kept its promise. The memories faded carefully over the following days, lifted away one by one until neither of you could remember the name of the child you loved, only the shape he had left behind.
Some things, however, refused to disappear. Whatever the timeline had taken, it hadn't touched what you and Wonwoo now shared. Somehow, without either of you noticing, Wonwoo had become the first person you looked for at the start of every day, and you had become the place he returned to at the end of it. Neither of you questioned when the castle had stopped feeling like home, and each other had quietly become one instead.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several years later, you stood in the kitchen of the house you shared with Wonwoo and eventually made your own. Morning sunlight spilled across the wooden table, where a list of baby names lay abandoned between two half-finished mugs of tea.
Absentmindedly, your hand rested over the gentle curve of your stomach.
Wonwoo looked up from the list and asked if you had any favourites. You tapped the parchment with the end of your quill, thinking, and the name left your lips before you could even reconsider it.
"...Woojin."
You frowned slightly, almost amused by yourself. "I don't know why," you admitted. "It just... feels right."
He looked at the name for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I like it too. It somehow feels perfect."
Neither of you questioned it. Some things had long since stopped needing explanations.
Outside, Seol tore happily through the garden after a fluttering butterfly, barking with the same boundless enthusiasm she had since she was a puppy. You watched her through the window until you felt familiar hands settle gently around your waist from behind.
"You've been standing too long, baby," Wonwoo murmured against your ear, pressing a small kiss to your jaw.
"I'm pregnant, not made of glass."
"I know," he said, guiding you back toward your chair anyway, one hand settling over yours where it rested against your stomach.
"You fuss too much, honey," you said, though there was no real complaint in it.
"So I've been told."
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to face him. He knelt without a word, the way he always did lately, resting his cheek on your stomach a moment, like he was listening for something.
You laughed softly and turned in your seat to look at him properly. He caught your gaze almost immediately.
"Baby," he said, kissing over the curve of your stomach, "can you tell your mama to stop staring at me?"
You let out an indignant laugh. "I think I’m allowed to stare at my handsome husband."
The faintest blush made his ears turn red. You smiled, softer now, and settled your hand over his where it rested against your stomach.
"You're going to be such a wonderful father, Won." You said it so simply, like you already knew, and subconsciously you did. "I just know it."
For a moment he only looked at you, like he couldn't quite find the words for what that did to him. Then he straightened, tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, before leaning down to meet your lips.
The kiss was slow and careful. One hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek, the other gripping the armrest of the chair to avoid hurting you. When he finally pulled back he only went as far as your forehead, staying close, breathing you in like he wanted to keep this exact moment a little longer.
"I love you," he murmured against your skin, quiet and certain, like it was the easiest true thing he had ever said.
"I know," you smiled, your hand finding his jaw. "I love you too."
His hand found your stomach again unconsciously, just as something shifted beneath it. Both of you went still.
"Did you feel that?"
A small kick answered for him. Wonwoo huffed out a soft and a little disbelieving laugh, and bent down to press yet another kiss to your stomach, murmuring something against it too quiet for you to catch. You covered his hand with yours anyway, content to let him have the moment.
Outside, Seol barked triumphantly at nothing at all. Inside, your home was warm with morning light and love, that the two of you had spent years quietly building.
And somewhere in that warmth, already loved before he had taken his first breath, a little boy was about to come home to the family that had always been his.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
The Light We Build
Wonwoo x f! Reader | Single Dad x Teacher
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
After stepping out of the shadows and onto the red carpet at his side, you must face the blinding glare of the public eye and the true weight of belonging to him.
Part 9 Part 1
The morning light cuts through the gap in the curtains like a blade.
You've been awake for twenty minutes, maybe longer, lying perfectly still beneath sheets that still carry the scent of last night's champagne and his cedar soap. The city sprawls beyond the window, all glass towers and distant traffic, and somewhere in that sprawling digital universe, your face is everywhere.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. Again. It's been buzzing for hours.
You reach for it with a hand that feels disconnected from your body. The screen is a wall of notifications—texts from numbers you haven't thought about in years, tags on social media platforms you barely use, a string of emails with subject lines like "CONGRATULATIONS???" and "URGENT: Please call me."
The top thread is from your family group chat. Forty-seven unread messages. Your mother has sent a screenshot of some entertainment site's headline: Mystery Woman Steals Hearts (and Jeon Wonwoo) at Mingyu's Premiere. Your aunt has replied with a string of heart emojis and a blurry photo of you on the red carpet that someone captured from a livestream.
Your stomach lurches.
You open the article. It's one of the kinder ones—speculative but not cruel, curious but not invasive. "Fans are calling her the 'real-life Cinderella' after the former SEVENTEEN member made his first public appearance in years with an unidentified woman on his arm. The couple matched in pastel yellow, and Wonwoo's smile—rare and genuine—has sparked a frenzy online."
Cinderella. You almost laugh. Cinderella didn't have paint under her fingernails and a degree in early childhood education.
But the comments. God, the comments.
She's so pretty! They look amazing together!
I've never seen him smile like that. Protect her at all costs.
Who is she? What does she do? Does anyone know if she's in the industry?
A daycare teacher. You're a daycare teacher who spends her days singing the clean-up song and negotiating snack time treaties. You don't belong on red carpets. You don't belong in headlines. You don't belong in any of this.
The phone buzzes again. A text from your co-teacher: Ummmm are you seeing this?? Call me when you wake up!!
You don't want to call anyone. You want to crawl under the sheets and disappear.
Beside you, Wonwoo stirs.
His arm tightens around your waist, his face pressing into the curve of your shoulder. He's still half-asleep, his breathing slow and even, his features utterly relaxed. Without his glasses, without the tension he carries during waking hours, he looks younger. Softer. And still—irrevocably, undeniably—every inch the global icon.
The sharp line of his jaw. The perfect slope of his nose. The way his lashes fan dark against his cheekbones. Even in sleep, even rumpled and bare-faced and tangled in hotel sheets, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine.
You've seen the old photos. You know what he looked like on stage. The eyeliner, the choreography, the thousands of lightsticks waving in perfect synchronization. You know that millions of people have screamed his name, have waited in lines for hours just to catch a glimpse of him, have dedicated entire corners of the internet to documenting his every move.
And now they're documenting you.
The thought hits like a physical blow. You can't breathe.
You slide out from under his arm, moving with the careful silence of someone who doesn't want to be caught fleeing. The marble bathroom floor is cold against your bare feet. You close the door behind you, turn the lock, and press your back against the wood.
Your reflection stares back from the mirror. Messy hair. Smudged remnants of last night's makeup. The faint pink marks Wonwoo's mouth left along your collarbone. You look like someone who spent the night being thoroughly loved.
You also look like someone who is absolutely, completely terrified.
The cold water you splash on your face doesn't help. The deep breaths don't help. Nothing helps. The panic is a living thing, coiling in your chest, squeezing your lungs until every inhale feels like work.
You're a daycare teacher. A nobody. A girl in paint-stained overalls who happened to catch the attention of a man who used to command stadiums. And now the world wants to know who you are, and what happens when they find out? What happens when they realize you're ordinary? What happens when the novelty wears off and they turn on you?
Your hands grip the edge of the sink. The marble is cool and solid. Real. You focus on that. On the here and now. On the sound of your own breathing, ragged and too fast.
A soft knock at the door.
"Baby?" Wonwoo's voice is rough with sleep. "You okay in there?"
You squeeze your eyes shut. "Fine. Just—give me a minute."
A pause. Then: "Take your time."
His footsteps retreat. He doesn't push. He never pushes. That's one of the things you love about him—the patience, the steady certainty, the way he always seems to know exactly when to give you space.
But right now, even that feels like too much. Even his patience feels like a weight you can't carry.
The drive back to the suburbs is quiet.
Wonwoo handles the wheel with one hand, the other resting on your thigh. His thumb traces absent patterns through the fabric of your jeans—you'd changed out of the yellow dress the moment you got back to the house, pulling on your oldest, most comfortable clothes like armor. He hasn't commented on it, hasn't asked why you're being so quiet. He just drives, his expression calm, the radio playing something soft and instrumental.
The familiarity of the highway should be comforting. The strip malls and gas stations and exit signs you've passed a dozen times before. But everything feels different now. The world outside the window looks the same, but you feel like a stranger in it.
When he pulls into his driveway, the house looks exactly as you left it. The cardboard castle is still visible through the living room window. Miguel's tricycle is tipped over on the front lawn.
Home. This should feel like home.
Instead, the walls feel like they're closing in.
"I need to pick up Miguel from my aunt's," Wonwoo says, killing the engine. "You want to come with? He's been asking about you." He turns to you, and his eyes are soft, searching.
The question is simple. The answer should be simple. But your throat is so tight you can barely speak.
"I think I need a little time," you manage. "Alone. Just to—process everything."
Something flickers across his face. Concern, maybe. Hurt, maybe. But he nods, and his hand squeezes your thigh once before letting go.
"Okay. Take whatever you need. I'll bring Miguel back in a bit. We can talk then."
You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.
He leans over and presses a kiss to your forehead. His lips are warm. Familiar. And for a moment, you want to grab him and hold on and never let go.
You get out of the car and you watch him drive away.
And then you go inside, find a piece of paper in the kitchen drawer, and write five words you never thought you'd write: I need a few days.
You leave the note on the kitchen counter. You grab your bag. You call an Uber.
And you run.
Your apartment is exactly as you left it.
Small. Cluttered. The plants on the windowsill are drooping, you haven't watered them in weeks. The sink has a single coffee mug sitting in it, and the faint smell of something forgotten in the fridge lingers in the air. Dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the blinds.
You drop your bag by the door. You don't turn on the lights. You don't check your phone. You just stand in the middle of your living room, surrounded by the life you built before Wonwoo, before the black envelope, before everything changed.
Then you start cleaning.
You wash the mug. You scrub the sink. You water the plants and throw out the leftovers and vacuum every inch of the carpet. You change into your rattiest sweats, the ones with the hole in the knee and the paint stain on the thigh. You pull your hair into a messy bun. You turn off your phone's notification alerts and bury it under a pile of laundry.
For the rest of the afternoon, you don't think about red carpets or headlines or the thousands of people who now know your face. You don't think about the way Wonwoo looked at you last night, like you were the only person in the universe. You don't think about Miguel's small arms wrapped around your legs, or the way his laughter sounds like bells, or the weight of the ring you know Wonwoo will eventually offer you.
You don't think about any of it.
You organize your bookshelf. You rearrange your kitchen cabinets. You scrub the baseboards until your knees ache and your hands are raw. You make a pot of tea and drink it standing at the window, watching the sun sink behind the building across the street.
And when the tears finally come, hot and silent and unstoppable, you let them.
You don't understand why you are feeling this way.
The days blur together.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of bad television and stale takeout. You don't check the news. You don't check social media. You respond to exactly one text—your mother, who you tell you're fine, just overwhelmed, please don't worry—and then you bury your phone under your pillow and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
The next day, you finally shower. You wash your hair. You put on clean clothes. The woman in the mirror looks less like a ghost now. She looks tired, yes. Drained. But still standing.
You think about Wonwoo constantly.
You think about the note you left. The words you couldn't bring yourself to say in person. You think about whether he's angry, or hurt, or worried. You think about Miguel, who won't understand why you're suddenly gone. You think about the way Wonwoo's voice cracked when he said I love you in the hotel room, like the words had been locked inside him for years and he was finally setting them free.
You love him. You love him desperately. That's not the problem.
The problem is the cameras. The scrutiny. The way every move you make from now on will be observed, analyzed, judged. The problem is the weight of his world, the sheer scale of his shadow, the terrifying knowledge that you will never again be anonymous.
Can you handle it?
You don't know. You honestly don't know.
But you do know one thing: you can't hide forever.
Monday morning dawns grey and cool. You drag yourself out of bed at six, pull on your favorite overalls—the ones with the sunflower embroidered on the pocket—and drive to Shining Diamond Daycare with a knot in your stomach the size of a fist.
The school is chaos when you arrive. The annual showcase is today, the biggest event of the year, and the facility is already buzzing with activity. Parents are hauling in costume bags and folding chairs. Teachers are running around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. The main room has been transformed into a makeshift auditorium, with a stage at the front and rows of tiny chairs arranged in crooked lines.
You throw yourself into the work with a ferocity that surprises even you.
You hang streamers. You tape down extension cords. You mediate a meltdown over a missing tutu and help four-year-old Jun set up his magic trick props and somehow end up with glitter in places glitter should never be. The chaos is familiar. Comforting. It drowns out the noise in your head, the endless loop of anxiety that's been playing since the hotel room.
By the time the parents start arriving, you're too busy to think about anything except making sure the kids don't destroy the stage before the show even starts.
"Teacher!" Miguel's voice cuts through the din, high and bright and unmistakable.
Your heart stops.
You turn, and there he is—running toward you on chubby legs, his arms outstretched, his dark hair combed neatly for once. He's wearing a little button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and his face is split in a grin so wide it makes your chest ache.
He crashes into your legs and wraps his arms around your knees.
"Teacher! I missed you! Dad said you were resting but now you're here!"
The knot in your stomach tightens. You drop to your knees and hug him properly, breathing in the familiar scent of baby shampoo and crayons. "I missed you too, sweetheart. So much."
When you pull back, he's beaming at you. "I'm gonna dance today! Dad said you'd watch!"
"Of course I'll watch." You ruffle his hair. "You're gonna be amazing."
And then you look up, and the world stops.
Wonwoo is standing at the entrance to the main room.
He's not wearing a baseball cap. He's not wearing sunglasses. He's not hiding. He's just standing there—dressed simply, a dark sweater and jeans, his glasses on, his hair slightly tousled—and every single person in the room is staring at him.
The whispers start immediately. Phones come out. Parents nudge each other, eyes wide with recognition. The ripple of awareness spreads through the room like wind through wheat, and you watch as the crowd parts, as conversations stall, as the collective focus of forty-some people narrows to a single point.
Wonwoo doesn't look at them.
His eyes are locked on you.
The walk toward you is slow and deliberate and utterly unhurried. He moves through the parting crowd with the same quiet, commanding presence you noticed the first time you really saw him, the day he took off his glasses and looked at you with that sharp, piercing focus. The "tired dad" persona is gone. The oversized cardigans are gone. There is only him—Jeon Wonwoo, the man who once commanded stadiums, the man who has spent years hiding from the world, walking toward you like you're the only thing in the room worth seeing.
The parents are filming. You know they're filming. You can see the phones out of the corner of your eye, the red recording lights blinking. Your coworkers are gaping. Somewhere behind you, your co-teacher drops her clipboard.
You can't move.
Wonwoo stops in front of you. Close enough to touch. Close enough that you can smell his cedar soap, see the faint shadows under his eyes, the determined set of his jaw.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you whisper back.
"I got your note."
The words land softly between you. His expression doesn't change. No anger. No accusation. Just a quiet, steady patience that makes your heart crack open.
"I'm sorry," you start. "I just needed—"
"I know." He reaches out, and his hand finds yours. His fingers lace through your own, solid and warm and sure. "I know what you needed. And I understand." His thumb strokes your knuckles. "But I need you to understand something too."
He releases your hand. Takes a single step back.
And then he reaches for the microphone stand at the edge of the stage.
A collective gasp ripples through the room. Someone's phone clatters to the floor. Someone makes a noise that's somewhere between a squeak and a scream.
Wonwoo taps the mic. The feedback whines for a moment, then settles.
"My name is Jeon Wonwoo," he says, and his voice—that low, resonant rumble—fills the room like a physical presence. "Most of you probably know who I am. Some of you might not. It doesn't matter." His eyes find yours. "I'm not here for you. I'm here for her."
The room is dead silent.
"I spent years hiding," he continues. "From cameras. From attention. From the person I used to be. I built a quiet life in the suburbs and I convinced myself that quiet was enough." A pause. "Then I met her."
He gestures toward you, and you feel every eye in the room swing in your direction. Your face is burning. Your hands are shaking. But you can't look away from him.
"She didn't know who I was," he says, and a small, wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Still doesn't, really. Not the version of me that existed before. She only knows the dad. The one in the oversized cardigans." A ripple of laughter from the adults who know exactly what he's talking about. "And she liked him anyway."
The smile fades. His voice drops, more serious now.
"My world is loud. It's chaotic. It's terrifying sometimes. I know that. I know the last few days have been overwhelming. I know you're scared, and I know you had every right to take the space you needed." He takes a breath. "But I didn't step back into the light for the fame. I stepped into it because you gave me the courage to stop hiding. And I don't want a life—" His voice catches, just for a moment. "—I don't want a life where I have to watch you walk away."
Miguel tugs at your hand. You look down, and he's grinning up at you, his small fingers wrapped around yours.
"Dad has a question," he whispers, loud enough for half the room to hear.
And then Wonwoo drops to one knee.
The gasp that rips through the room is almost deafening. Phones flash. Someone shrieks. A child starts crying in the back, and another one yells "WHAT'S HAPPENING?" in the piercingly clear voice only a toddler can produce.
But you don't hear any of it.
You're watching Miguel reach into the pocket of his button-down shirt. His small fingers fumble for a moment, and then he pulls out a small velvet box. He hands it to his father with the gravity of a knight presenting a sword.
Wonwoo opens the box.
The ring inside is simple. Elegant. A single diamond set in a band so delicate it looks like it was spun from light. It's not ostentatious. It's not the kind of ring you'd expect from a man who used to be one of the biggest stars in the world.
It's perfect.
"Baby..." His voice is shaking now, just a little. His dark eyes are bright. "I know this is fast. I know we haven't done this the normal way. But I've spent so much of my life waiting for the right moment to do things, and I've learned that the right moment doesn't exist. There's only the moment we're in." He swallows. "And this moment—right here, in this ridiculous daycare full of folding chairs and glitter—this is the one I want. Because this is where I first saw you. This is where you first saw me. This is where everything started."
Tears are streaming down your face. You don't remember when they started.
"Will you marry me?" His voice is raw, bare, stripped of every defense. "Will you build a quiet home with me and Miguel, no matter how loud the world gets? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving that the only space that matters is the one we make together?"
Miguel tugs your hand again. "Say yes, please. Dad practiced this a lot."
A sob-laugh tears out of your throat. The room is spinning. The phones are flashing. Somewhere behind you, someone is openly weeping.
You drop to your knees.
"Yes," you whisper. And then louder: "Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. To all of it."
Wonwoo's face breaks open into something incandescent. He slides the ring onto your finger with hands that are not quite steady, and then his arms are around you, pulling you against his chest, his face buried in your hair. Miguel launches himself at both of you, his small body wedging between you, his laughter like bells.
The room erupts.
Parents are cheering. Teachers are crying. Children are jumping up and down, not entirely sure what they're celebrating but absolutely certain it's exciting. The phones are still recording, still capturing, still broadcasting this moment to every corner of the internet.
You don't care.
You press your face into Wonwoo's shoulder and you breathe. His arms are solid around you. His heartbeat is steady against your cheek. Miguel's small hand is still clutching yours, his fingers sticky with whatever snack he ate during intermission.
"So that's a yes?" Wonwoo murmurs into your hair.
You laugh, watery and giddy and utterly unmoored. "That's a yes."
"Good." He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands. His thumbs brush away your tears. "Because I already told my family."
"Jeon Wonwoo—"
He kisses you.
The cheers get louder. The phones flash brighter. But for a long, suspended moment, there is nothing but the warmth of his mouth on yours, the certainty of his hands, the quiet, unshakeable knowledge that you are exactly where you're supposed to be.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
"I love you," he says. The words are for you alone.
"I love you too," you whisper back.
And then Miguel lurches forward and demands, "Can I have a snack now?"
The laughter that bubbles out of you is bright and wild and full of joy. Wonwoo shakes his head, grinning, and scoops Miguel up with one arm. His other hand finds yours and doesn't let go.
"Come on," he says. "We have a talent show to watch."
And together—the three of you, a family in everything but name—you walk through the chaos of the daycare, through the staring parents and the clicking cameras, completely indifferent to the world watching.
Because you are finally home.
Months later.
The heavy hotel door clicks shut with a sound like an exhale.
Miguel is asleep in the room across yours, his aunt already settled in with a book and a cup of tea. A party downstairs is still going—you can hear the faint thrum of music through the floor, the distant laughter of guests who will keep celebrating long into the night. But you slipped away early, your hand in Wonwoo's, your dress trailing behind you like a white cloud.
The suite is dim. Candles flicker on every surface, their flames casting long, dancing shadows across the white rose petals scattered on the bed. The city lights glitter beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the same skyline you stared at just a few months ago, when everything was new and terrifying and uncertain.
Now, you feel nothing but certainty.
Wonwoo is standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders bowed with the weight of the day. His tie is already loosened, his jacket discarded over a chair. He's staring out at the city with an expression you can't quite read—exhaustion, maybe. Peace, maybe. Both.
"I'll be right back," you murmur.
He makes a soft sound of acknowledgment. Doesn't turn around.
The bathroom is all marble and warm lighting, just like the suite from the premiere. You slip out of your white dress carefully, reverently, letting the heavy satin pool at your feet. And then you look at yourself in the mirror.
Beneath the dress, you've been hiding a secret all day.
The lingerie is white lace and sheer silk and utterly, devastatingly indecent. The bodice clings to every curve, plunging low in the front and lower in the back, where delicate straps crisscross over your bare skin. The fabric is so thin you can see the shadow of what lies beneath. It's the kind of thing you never would have worn before Wonwoo—the kind of thing you wore specifically because you knew what it would do to him.
You take a breath. Steady yourself. And then you push open the bathroom door.
The soft rustle of the door make him turn.
Wonwoo freezes.
His breath catches audibly in his throat. His dark eyes sweep down the length of your body, tracing the sheer white fabric, the curve of your waist, the dangerous plunge of the neckline. The exhaustion in his expression evaporates. Something else takes its place—something dark and hungry and thrillingly predatory.
He exhales. The sound is unsteady.
"Mrs. Jeon."
Two words. Spoken low, reverent, with a weight that makes your knees feel unreliable. Your wedding ring catches the candlelight, and then you feel steady and confident again.
Then he crosses the room.
Two massive strides, and his hands were against the wood of the bathroom door on either side of your head, caging you in. The heat of his body radiates through the thin lace, and when his fingers hook into the delicate fabric at your hips, pulling you flush against him, you gasp.
"You wore this under your dress all day?" His voice is wrecked. His mouth hovers a breath away from yours. "Knowing I had to sit through a five-hour reception without touching you?"
You smile, slow and wicked. "I wanted to give you something to look forward to."
A growl rumbles in his chest. Then his mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss is desperate—nothing like the gentle promises at the altar. This is hunger. This is months of public restraint and private longing and the excruciating patience of a wedding day. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you taste champagne and want.
He doesn't take the lingerie off.
Instead, his fingers find the edge of the lace and shift it aside, and then his hands are gripping your thighs, lifting you off the ground. Your back hits the door, and you wrap your legs around his waist on instinct. The heat of him presses against your core, and you moan into his mouth.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he rasps against your throat. "All week. Every time you smiled at me during the ceremony. Every time you laughed at Mingyu's terrible toast." His teeth graze your pulse point. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Maybe."
The word comes out more breathless than you intended. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face is utterly wrecked—desire and love and the wild, possessive certainty of a man who has finally, wholly, irrevocably claimed what is his.
"Tell me you're mine."
"I'm yours." You frame his face with your hands. "Your wife. Your partner. Yours."
Something breaks in his expression. Something fragile. He carries you to the bed, lays you down among the scattered rose petals, and sheds his clothes with unsteady hands. When he comes down over you, his weight supported on his elbows, his forehead pressed to yours, you feel the shudder that runs through his body.
"I love you." The words are a whisper, a prayer, a promise. "More than I've ever loved anything. More than I knew I was capable of loving."
"I love you too," you whisper back. "Now show me."
He enters you with one hard, desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.
The strokes are deep and punishingly hungry, each one driving you higher up the bed. His mouth never leaves yours—consuming your gasps, swallowing your cries, his lips moving against your own like he's trying to memorize the shape of them. His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, and you welcome the ache, welcome the marks he'll leave behind.
His breathing grows ragged, hot against your skin. The rhythm becomes erratic, the careful control he's held all day finally fracturing. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, and you feel his lips form the words against your pulse point.
My wife. My wife. My wife.
You shatter around him with a cry that echoes off the hotel walls. He follows a heartbeat later, your name a broken groan on his lips, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
The world goes quiet.
The candles flicker. The city glitters. Somewhere distant, the reception continues, but in this room, there is only the sound of your mingled breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.
He doesn't pull out. Doesn't move. Just stays there, buried inside you, his weight a comfort, his lips pressed to your hair.
"Forever," he murmurs. "You and me and Miguel. Forever."
You close your eyes and smile against his skin.
"Forever," you echo.
And outside the window, the world keeps spinning, but you are finally, completely, perfectly home.
Beyond the Shadows
Wonwoo x f! Reader | Single Dad x Teacher
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
After stepping out of the shadows and onto the red carpet at his side, you must face the blinding glare of the public eye and the true weight of belonging to him.
Part 8
You wake to the smell of cinnamon and the distant sound of Miguel’s laughter echoing through a house that isn’t yours—not yet, anyway. Wonwoo’s arm is draped across your waist, heavy and warm, his breath slow against the nape of your neck. For a long moment you simply lie there, counting the days that have passed since the black envelope arrived. Three weeks. Twenty-one mornings of waking beside him, of learning the rhythm of his household, of watching Miguel’s vocabulary expand in tiny, miraculous bursts.
Today, though.
Today is different.
The premiere.
Your stomach knots and flutters in equal measure.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Wonwoo murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep. His lips brush the top of your spine. “I can hear it.”
“You can’t hear thoughts.”
“I can hear yours.” He shifts, propping himself on one elbow. The sheet slips, revealing the lean muscle of his shoulder, the dark ink of his hair falling across his forehead. “You’re panicking about tonight.”
“I’m not panicking.” You roll to face him, and his expression is so tenderly amused that your protest dies on your lips. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“It’s nine in the morning.” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “We don’t need to leave for another two hours. Relax.”
Relax. Easy for him to say. He’s spent years navigating red carpets and camera flashes and thousands of strangers screaming his name. You’ve spent your career navigating finger paints and nap-time negotiations.
But you nod anyway, because his hand is warm and his eyes are steady, and when he leans down to kiss you—slow, unrushed, the kind of kiss that says we have time—you let yourself believe him.
The morning passes in a blur of small, necessary tasks. You help Wonwoo pack Miguel’s overnight bag while the boy himself ricochets around the living room, far too excited about his impending sleepover to stand still long enough for socks. Wonwoo’s aunt arrives just before eleven, let in by a key she’s clearly had for years, and the moment she steps through the door you understand where Wonwoo gets his gentleness.
She’s a soft woman with rounded cheeks and a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Her movements are unhurried, her voice a low, melodic hum as she kneels to greet Miguel at his level. When Wonwoo tells her that you are now his girlfriend, she takes your hand in both of hers and squeezes.
“I'm so happy you’re the one,” she says, and there’s no judgment in it, only warmth, only welcome. “He’s been smiling more lately. I wondered what changed.”
You blush. Wonwoo looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“We should go,” he says, which is the closest thing to I’m embarrassed and I love it that you’ve ever heard from him.
Miguel wraps his arms around your legs in a fierce goodbye hug, then launches himself at his father. The aunt shoos you both toward the door with laughing reassurances—she’s got this, she’ll call if anything happens, go, go, go—and then you’re in the car, and the house is shrinking in the rearview mirror, and the road to the city stretches ahead like a ribbon of possibility.
The drive takes two hours. Wonwoo handles the wheel with that same quiet mastery he applies to everything, one hand resting on your thigh while the other guides the car through highway traffic. You watch the suburbs bleed into industrial parks, then into the sharp, glittering skyline of downtown. Your anxiety spikes with every mile.
“Babe.”
“Hm?”
“Just a reminder I need to stop somewhere. A mall. A boutique. Something.” You twist your fingers in your lap. “I still don’t actually have anything to wear tonight.”
He glances at you, and a slow smile spreads across his face, the kind of smile that suggests he knows something you don’t. His hand squeezes your thigh once, reassuring. “It’s handled.”
“Handled how?”
“I have entirely everything sorted out.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, his tone rich with quiet amusement, “that you should trust me.”
You want to press further, but something in his expression, the calm certainty of it, the way he’s already thought of everything. It makes you close your mouth. Outside the window, the city rises up to meet you. Towers of glass and steel. Billboards flashing advertisements for movies you’ve never heard of. Somewhere in the distance, the theater marquee is probably already lit.
Wonwoo pulls into the underground parking garage of a hotel so elegant that you feel underdressed just looking at it. The valet greets him by name. The concierge hands over a key card with both hands and a slight bow. You’re whisked through a marble lobby, into an elevator paneled in dark wood, and deposited on the thirty-second floor before you can fully process any of it.
The suite is enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city skyline, skyscrapers glittering in the afternoon sun, the distant curve of the river, a sky so blue it hurts to look at. The bed is king-sized, draped in white linen, and the bathroom is entirely marble with a soaking tub big enough for two.
“You did all this?” you ask, turning in a slow circle.
“I made a few calls.” Wonwoo sets your bag down by the closet. He’s watching you with a quiet, private satisfaction, the way someone might watch a person open a gift they spent weeks choosing. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.” You flop backward onto the bed, arms outstretched, and stare up at the ceiling. The mattress is absurdly comfortable. “I’m never leaving.”
He laughs—a genuine, surprised sound that makes your chest tighten—and then he’s climbing onto the bed beside you, settling against the pillows with a contented sigh. His arm finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you close until your head rests against his chest.
You lie like that for a long while. Room service arrives with lunch—fresh salads, delicate sandwiches, a plate of fruit arranged like art. You eat cross-legged on the bed, trading bites, talking about nothing important. Miguel’s latest obsession with sea creatures. The way the stylist you haven’t met yet apparently once made Wonwoo wear a suit entirely covered in sequins for a music video. He tells the story with such dry, self-deprecating humor that you nearly choke on a strawberry.
It’s easy. It’s so easy with him.
The afternoon sun shifts, gilding the skyline in amber, and you feel the hours slipping toward the thing you’ve been trying not to think about.
Then the knock comes.
Three people sweep into the suite like a warm front. A woman with razor-sharp cheekbones and pink-streaked hair, and two men who move with the effortless elegance of people who have spent decades making other people beautiful. They are Wonwoo’s old industry stylists, and the moment they see him, they descend.
“Look at you!” The woman, Jiah, pulls Wonwoo into a tight hug, her laughter bright and genuine. “Hiding away in the suburbs, growing out your hair, looking like a professor. We missed you.”
“We absolutely did not,” says one of the men, but he’s grinning as he claps Wonwoo on the shoulder. “The drama. The stress. The late nights. My blood pressure is so much better now.”
“Your blood pressure is terrible because you drink too much coffee,” Jiah fires back. She turns to you, her sharp eyes softening. “And you must be the plus-one.”
Wonwoo’s arm slides around your waist. “My girlfriend,” he corrects, and his voice is steady and proud and leaves absolutely no room for doubt.
The word lands in the center of the room like a stone dropped into still water. The stylists exchange glances—quick, meaningful, the kind that speak volumes—and then they’re beaming at you, all three of them, their welcome so warm you feel heat flooding your cheeks.
“Well,” Jiah says. “Let’s get started.”
They set up by the window, taking advantage of the natural light. You’re guided into a chair, and Jiah’s hands are immediately in your hair, combing, twisting, murmuring to herself about texture and hold and the exact shade of your complexion. The makeup artist, one of the men, unpacks an arsenal of brushes and palettes, his expression intensely focused.
“You have incredible bone structure,” he tells you, tilting your chin toward the light. “Don’t move.”
You don’t move.
For an hour, you sit in a haze of powder and pigment, of cool brushes against your eyelids and warm fingers working magic through your hair. Somewhere behind you, Wonwoo undergoes his own transformation—quicker, lighter, just a touch-up to sharpen features that were already devastating to begin with. You catch glimpses of him in the mirror: the crisp line of his jaw being dusted with powder, the way he closes his eyes when they brush something across his brow, the quiet patience in his posture.
When Jiah finally steps back and says, “Done,” you barely recognize yourself.
The woman in the mirror has sleek, soft waves cascading over her shoulders. Her eyes are luminous, her lips a subtle rose, her skin glowing like she’s been lit from within. You blink, and she blinks back.
One of the men—the one whose name you didn’t catch, the quieter one—gestures toward the bathroom. A garment bag hangs from the doorframe, sleek and black and promising. He guides you inside with a gentle hand on your elbow.
The bathroom is all white marble and warm lighting. The stylist unzips the garment bag with a flourish, and your breath catches.
The dress is pastel yellow. Delicate. Form-fitting, with a high neckline and a skirt that pools just above the floor. The fabric is covered in the faintest shimmer—not gaudy, not loud, just a whisper of sparkle that catches the light when you move. And the back.
The back is open. Low. Dangerously, breathtakingly low.
“He picked it himself,” the stylist says as he helps you step into it. His voice is soft, almost reverent. “Wonwoo-ssi. He looked at dozens of options, and the moment he saw this one, he said—’That’s the one. That’s hers.’”
Your throat tightens. You can’t speak.
The dress slides up your body, the fabric cool and impossibly smooth. The stylist zips you with careful, precise movements, then steps back to examine his work.
“Perfect,” he declares. “Go. He’s waiting.”
You step out of the bathroom, and the world stops.
Wonwoo stands by the window, his back to you, silhouetted against the blazing orange sunset. He’s in a black suit that fits him like it was stitched directly onto his body. Sharp shoulders, narrow waist, long, elegant lines. His hair is swept back from his forehead, and without his glasses, his features are striking in a way that makes your knees feel unreliable.
He turns.
His eyes find you.
And for a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His gaze travels down the length of your body, the shimmer of the fabric, the bare expanse of your back visible in the mirror behind you, and something in his expression fractures and reforms into something raw.
“Baby.” Spoken like a prayer.
You manage a shaky smile. “Hi.”
He crosses the room in three strides. His hands find your waist, spanning the curve of it, his thumbs pressing into the fabric like he’s afraid you might dissolve. Then his gaze drops—to his own chest, to his tie.
Pastel yellow. The exact same shade as your dress.
“You matched me,” you whisper.
“I’m not hiding tonight.” His voice is low, fierce, certain. “Not you. Not us. Not anymore.”
The stylists pack up and leave in a flurry of final adjustments and breathless compliments. The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the suite is very quiet and very still.
You find yourself standing before the floor-length mirror, staring at the stranger in the yellow dress. She looks like someone who belongs at a premiere. She looks like someone who knows what she’s doing. She looks nothing like the daycare teacher who spends her days covered in paint and glitter glue.
Your hands tremble.
Wonwoo appears behind you. His reflection slots into place beside yours. Dark suit, sharp jaw, steady eyes and his large hands settle on your waist with a weight that grounds you.
You meet his gaze in the mirror and the truth spills out before you can stop it. “My heart's beating so fast. I'm nervous.”
His chin drops to your shoulder. His breath is warm against your bare skin. “I know.”
“What if I trip? What if I say something stupid? What if they look at me and think I don’t belong there?”
His hands tighten on your waist. “You belong everywhere I am.”
He presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, a soft peck, a whisper of reassurance.
And then his voice drops, darker, lower. “If it’s too much... if you want to stay here, just the two of us, no cameras, no noise, say the word. We don’t have to go. I’ll call Mingyu. He’ll understand.”
The offer hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. The suite. The bed. The city glittering below. Him. You. Hours of uninterrupted quiet.
It’s tempting. God, it’s tempting.
But you think of Mingyu, his boisterous laugh, his easy charm, the way he’d looked at Wonwoo when he handed over that black envelope. His big night.
You turn within the circle of Wonwoo’s arms, your bare back brushing the mirror, and press your palms flat against his chest. The fabric of his suit is cool beneath your fingers. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong.
You rise on your toes and kiss him firm, lingering, a promise.
“Mingyu is expecting you,” you murmur against his lips. “We can’t bail on him.”
And also you don’t say this part, but you feel it, you don’t want to hide. Not anymore. Not when he’s standing here in a suit that matches your dress, looking at you like you hung the moon.
Wonwoo exhales slowly. His forehead drops to yours. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He kisses you once more, shorter this time, sweeter. And then he straightens, offers you his arm, and guides you toward the door.
The car is sleek and black and smells of leather and something faintly floral. The event provided it, part of the VIP package, and the driver navigates the evening traffic with practiced ease. The theater is only ten minutes away. Ten minutes of your heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your temples. Ten minutes of Wonwoo’s hand covering yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles.
And then the car stops.
The door opens.
The noise hits you like a physical force.
Blinding camera flashes. Roaring screams. Thousands of voices chanting his name—Wonwoo! Wonwoo! Jeon Wonwoo!—in a wave of sound so overwhelming it vibrates in your chest. The red carpet stretches ahead like a river of crimson, lined on both sides by photographers and fans and security guards in black suits.
You step out, and the world explodes.
Cameras swing toward you. The paparazzi are shouting, their voices overlapping into an incomprehensible din, but one question cuts through with startling clarity.
“Who’s the lady?”
Another voice: “Is that his date?”
Another: “Who is she?”
You freeze.
Wonwoo is beside you in an instant. His hand finds yours and doesn’t let go. He tugs you gently, firmly, until you’re pressed against his side—no distance, no ambiguity, no room for speculation.
And then you’re moving down the carpet together, his arm a solid anchor at your waist, his body angled slightly toward yours like a shield. The cameras keep flashing. The fans keep screaming. But the chaos feels muted now, filtered through the steady rhythm of his steps beside yours.
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. “Should I tell them exactly who you are?”
You look up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of mischief in his dark eyes. And a wild, reckless thrill surges through your chest. A camera flashes directly in your face. You smile, bright and unguarded, and whisper back.
“Keep them wondering.”
He laughs, a low private sound that no one else can hear over the roar. He squeezes your hand. You pose together, his thumb stroking the curve of your hip, his expression serene and faintly smug. For the first time in years, Jeon Wonwoo is being photographed. And he is not hiding.
The cinema swallows you into cool darkness. Heavy velvet doors swing shut behind you, muffling the chaos into a distant hum. The theater is opulent—red velvet seats, gilded balconies, a ceiling painted with constellations. Ushers guide you to your seats near the front, and you sink into the plush cushion with a shaky exhale.
Wonwoo’s fingers lace through yours on the armrest.
The lights dim.
The screen flares to life.
And Mingyu appears, larger than life, commanding the screen with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He is good. Genuinely, astonishingly good—not riding on charm or looks alone, but inhabiting his character with a depth that draws you in and refuses to let go. You watch him move through scenes of heartbreak and humor, of quiet vulnerability and explosive rage, and you understand why he’s here. Why this premiere matters. Why Wonwoo had to be in this seat tonight.
When the credits roll, you’re wiping your eyes.
Wonwoo glances at you. Says nothing. Just squeezes your hand.
The VIP crowd is flooded of designer gowns and champagne flutes. You navigate it with Wonwoo’s hand steady on your lower back, his presence parting the sea of industry professionals and celebrities with an almost gravitational force. People stare. People whisper. No one dares to approach—not yet.
Mingyu is surrounded by a cluster of well-wishers near the exit, his exhaustion visible even through his radiant smile. When he sees you and Wonwoo approaching, the weariness lifts. His face breaks open into pure, unguarded delight.
“You came,” he says, pulling Wonwoo into a hard embrace. “Both of you. You actually came.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Wonwoo murmurs, and there’s a thickness in his voice you’ve only heard once before—when he told you about the night Mingyu sat with him until dawn.
Mingyu pulls back, blinking rapidly. He turns to you, and his grin is wide and wet. “And you. Stunning. Absolutely stunning. What are you doing with this old man?”
“Old man?” Wonwoo arches an eyebrow.
“You’re almost forty, hyung. That’s ancient.”
“I’m not ancient.”
“Ancient.”
Before Wonwoo can retort, the photographers descend. They swarm around the two men—the best friends, the legends—cameras clicking in a frenzy. You step back to give them space, but Wonwoo’s hand snags your wrist and pulls you right back in. You stand at his side, his arm around your waist, as the shutters fire and the questions fly.
This is the photo that will run tomorrow. The one they’ll use. The one that says, Jeon Wonwoo is back. Jeon Wonwoo is here. And he is not alone.
You skip the afterparty.
Instead, you end up in the hotel’s upscale restaurant on the ground floor, still fully dressed in your premiere attire, ordering late-night pasta and a bottle of wine you can barely pronounce. The dining room is elegant and dimly lit, all candle glow and white tablecloths, and the moment you walk in, the hum of conversation drops by several decibels.
Every eye turns.
You feel the weight of their stares. Curious, assessing, hungry. Whispers ripple through the room like wind through grass. Wonwoo guides you to a corner table with absolute composure, his expression serene, his posture relaxed. He holds your chair for you. Pours your wine. Touches your hand across the table as if no one else exists.
“Does the attention bother you?” you ask quietly.
“I stopped noticing it years ago,” he says. “But I notice you. That’s enough.”
The heavy hotel room door clicks shut.
For a heartbeat, there is only silence. The soft glow of the city through the windows. The distant hum of the air conditioning. The faint, lingering scent of your perfume woven into the fabric of your dress.
Then Wonwoo moves.
His hands find his pastel yellow tie that matches your dress, a deliberate declaration. He yanks it loose in one sharp motion. The silk whispers through his collar and drops to the floor. His jacket follows, discarded over the armchair. His gaze never leaves you.
“Do you know,” he says, his voice low and rough, “what it was like? Watching you on that carpet? Under those lights? Everyone looking at you?”
You swallow. Your back meets the door.
He advances slowly, predatory, deliberate, his eyes dark with an intensity that makes your breath catch. His fingers find the zipper of your gown, hidden along the side seam, and tug it down with excruciating slowness. The fabric loosens. Cool air kisses your spine.
“I had to stand there,” he continues, “and smile for the cameras. While you—” The dress falls. Pools at your feet in a shimmering puddle of yellow. “—were the most beautiful thing in the room. And I couldn’t touch you. Couldn’t kiss you. Couldn’t do this.”
His mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss is desperate, consuming. Nothing like the gentle reassurances from earlier. This is hunger. This is hours of restraint finally snapping. His hands are everywhere: cupping your face, sliding down your neck, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against the hard plane of his chest. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you taste the wine from dinner, the familiar warmth of him.
He walks you backward toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours. When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, you fall together onto the sheets—lush and white and impossibly soft.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to stare down at you. His tie is gone. His shirt is untucked. His expression is utterly wrecked.
“All night,” he rasps. “All night I forced myself not to touch you. And now—”
His mouth trails down your throat. Across your collarbone. Lower. His hands shape your breasts, his thumbs stroking slow, maddening circles that make your back arch. He kisses the hollow between your ribs. The dip of your waist. The curve of your hip.
“Now,” he murmurs against your skin, “I’m going to take my time.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs with deliberate patience. The cool air of the room meets your bare skin, and then his mouth is on you—hot, hungry, reverent—tracing a path down your stomach, across your inner thigh.
You gasp. Your hands fist in his hair.
“Wonwoo—”
He looks up at you, his dark eyes blazing. “Dessert,” he says, the word a growl against your most intimate flesh. “You were the main course all night. This is mine.”
And then he feasts.
The world narrows to sensation: his tongue, his lips, the scrape of his stubble against your thighs, the sounds he makes—low and greedy and utterly undone. Your back bows off the mattress. Your fingers twist in the sheets. Time dissolves into a long, aching stretch of pleasure, building and building until you shatter against his mouth with a cry that echoes off the hotel walls.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, gentler now, until your trembling subsides. Then he’s crawling up your body, his weight settling over you, his forehead pressed to yours.
“I love you,” he breathes. The words are raw, unpolished, falling from his lips like something he’s been holding for a very long time. “I should have said it before. I should have—”
You kiss him. Pour every unspoken word into the press of your lips.
“I love you too,” you whisper against his mouth. “Now show me.”
He entered you with deep, hungry strokes, driving into you with a raw intensity that left you gasping for air. His large hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin.
He never stopped until both of you came and are panting, gasping for air.
Later—much later—you lie tangled together in the afterglow. The sheets are a wreck. The city glitters beyond the window. Your body hums with the kind of deep, bone-deep satisfaction that makes everything feel soft and distant and perfectly still.
Wonwoo’s arm is draped across your stomach, his breathing slow and even. You think he might be asleep.
Then your phone buzzes on the nightstand.
You fumble for it, squinting at the screen. A text from a close friend. The preview makes your stomach clench.
GUUUURL! You are trending number one oh my god are you okay???
Ice floods your veins.
You sit up, the sheet pooling around your waist. Wonwoo stirs beside you, his hand finding your thigh.
“What is it?”
“I’m... apparently, trending???”
He groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Don’t look. Never look.”
But curiosity is a sharp, insistent thing. You open the forums with trembling fingers, bracing for the worst—the insults, the comparisons, the inevitable cruelty of strangers who think they know something about your life.
Instead, you find this:
Who is the mystery woman? She’s gorgeous. They look incredible together.
I’ve been a CARAT for twelve years and I have never seen him smile like that. Ever.
I don’t care who she is. He’s happy. He finally looks happy.
She makes him want to be seen again. That’s everything.
The comments scroll on and on—curiosity, admiration, celebration. Longtime fans posting old photos of Wonwoo from his idol days, side by side with tonight’s red carpet shots, marveling at the transformation. At the way he’s holding you. At the way he’s looking at the camera like he’s no longer afraid of it.
Your eyes sting.
Wonwoo plucks the phone from your hand. He skims the screen silently, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small at first, then wider. Delighted. Thoroughly, deeply satisfied.
“They know,” he murmurs. “The world finally knows.”
He sets the phone aside and pulls you back down into his arms. His lips press against your hair, and you feel his smile against your skin.
“Mine,” he says, and the word is no longer a question. It’s a fact. A declaration. A headline written in every corner of the internet.
Outside, the city keeps glittering. Inside, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.
The Spring We Borrowed
jeon wonwoo × fem!reader (as Sarang)
Two strangers hiding behind fake names fall deeply in love during one unforgettable spring. Just as their story begins, fate cruelly tears them apart, leaving only memories and unanswered questions. Years later, destiny brings Wonwoo and Sarang face-to-face once again—but this time, the truth of who they really are can no longer stay hidden. As old feelings resurface and long-buried secrets come to light, they must decide if love is strong enough to overcome the lies that first brought them together. Will they rewrite their story, or let their second chance slip away?
genre ➠ stranger to lovers, secret identity au, angst to comfort, slow burn romance
