I hope this message finds you and your family in good health. My name is Eman Zaqout from Gaza. I am reaching you out to seek your urgent help in spreading the word about our fundraiser. I lost both my home and my job due to the ongoing genocide in Gaza and we are facing catastrophic living conditions. 💔
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Hi, Eman! Glad you reached out. I checked your profile and want to help you spread the word.
Everyone, this is the link to the campaign. Please help Palestinians as they are trapped in a genocide. Free Palestine! 🇵🇸🍉
Dear friends, family, and compassionate supporters,
My name is Eman Za… Mazin Fakak needs your support for Help my family survive famine an
synopsis : A quiet study session with a soft-spoken partner drifts into warmth and comfort, and by the end you realize he’s been memorizing more than the textbook.
genre : slice of life, fluff, slow burn, domestic
warnings : none
author’s note : i have alot of drafts to post so those who requested will have to wait a while 😔 but i promise i will get to yall soon 🤍
word count : 1.7k
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The desk is too clean.
You’ve stacked your textbooks in a neat tower, lined your pens in perfect rows, even smoothed out the edges of your notebook so there are no curls or folds in the paper.
It feels strange—almost unnatural—because normally your desk is a battlefield of half-capped highlighters and sticky notes scattered like fallen leaves.
But today isn’t a normal study day.
Today, Hongjoong is coming over.
The thought makes you sit back and look at your desk all over again, suddenly unsure if it looks prepared or desperate.
Should you have left a few things messier? Would that have made you look more natural?
You shake the thought away, because overthinking isn’t going to help.
Hongjoong is… different. Not loud like some of your other classmates, not the type to fill silences with endless chatter. He’s quiet, steady, soft in ways that feel like he’s always halfway lost in a thought he hasn’t spoken aloud.
You don’t know him very well yet. Just enough to know he’s smart, that he always comes to class with neatly written notes, and that his handwriting looks more like tiny sketches than words.
When you asked if he could help you study, he’d blinked in surprise, lips quirking into a shy smile before nodding.
And now, he’s coming.
The knock on the door is gentle, almost hesitant.
When you open it, Hongjoong is there— shoulders wrapped in a hoodie that looks a little too big, small eyes crinkling at the corners as he offers you a polite nod. His hair is tucked under a cap, damp at the ends as though the weather caught him halfway.
“Hey,” he says softly. His voice is low, steady. The kind that doesn’t fill the room but settles into it.
“Hi. Come in.”
He steps inside, slipping off his shoes neatly by the door. You notice the way he takes a quiet second to look around—not in judgment, just curiosity, like he’s cataloging the space.
When you lead him to your desk, he hums thoughtfully at the sight of your overly organized setup.
“You prepared,” he says simply, a trace of amusement in his tone.
Heat creeps into your face. “I just… wanted it to be easy.”
He doesn’t tease, though. Just sets down his notebook and pens, arranging them with the same tidy care you did. And then, quietly, almost to himself:
“Easy’s good.”
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For the first half-hour, you try to stay focused. The two of you lean over the textbook, working through chapters together. His explanations are concise, clear, never rushed. He doesn’t speak more than necessary, but when he does, every word counts.
You expected silence to feel heavy, but with him it feels natural—like you don’t need to fill it, because he doesn’t expect you to.
At one point, though, you catch him doodling in the margins of his notebook. Not silly stick figures or dramatic sketches—just little shapes.
A line that curves into a leaf. A tiny star tucked beside the page number.
His pen moves quietly, almost absentmindedly, while you talk through a concept.
You pause. “Are you… drawing?”
His hand stills. Slowly, he lifts his gaze, small eyes wide for a second before softening. “Just a little. Does it bother you?”
You shake your head quickly. “No. I just thought you weren’t listening.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I am. I listen better this way.”
And then, to prove it, he repeats back exactly what you’d just said—every word, in the same order, voice soft but precise.
You blink. “You actually—”
“I told you,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to the page. “I’m listening.”
Something warm curls in your chest, though you don’t know what to do with it.
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Time drifts.
The rain outside starts as a soft patter against the windows, then deepens into a steady rhythm, a backdrop to the scratch of pens and the occasional flip of a page.
When you shiver slightly, Hongjoong notices.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just reaches for the folded blanket draped over your chair and sets it gently across your shoulders. His touch is light, careful, as if he’s making sure not to startle you.
“Thanks,” you whisper.
He only nods, returning to his notebook. But you catch the faint upward curl of his lips, and it lingers in your mind long after.
Later, when you frown at a particularly confusing problem, Hongjoong pushes a small packet of biscuits toward you. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just slides it into your space like it’s the most natural thing.
You glance at him. “When did you even bring snacks?”
He shrugs lightly. “Thought we might need them.”
There’s something about the way he says it—simple, unassuming, but quietly thoughtful—that makes your chest feel full.
And when you finally give in, tearing open the packet and popping one into your mouth, you catch him smiling faintly at the corner of your vision.
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It’s strange how easily time blurs with him.
You expected studying together to feel stiff, like a tutoring session, but it doesn’t. The rhythm settles into something quieter, softer—like the rain outside, constant and steady.
Every now and then, you catch Hongjoong looking at you instead of the page.
Not in an obvious way, not staring. More like his gaze drifts when he thinks you won’t notice—catching the tilt of your head when you concentrate, the way your lip tucks between your teeth when you’re unsure of an answer.
Each time, when your eyes flick toward him, he immediately looks back down, pen twirling between his fingers like it had always been his focus.
At first, you think you’re imagining it.
But then, he does it again.
And again.
“You’re distracted,” you say finally, voice light but teasing.
He blinks, caught mid-twirl of his pen. “Hm?”
“You keep looking at me.”
For the first time that night, a faint blush dusts his cheeks. His lips part, close, then part again before he settles on a quiet, “Sorry.”
You don’t know why your chest tightens at that, like you’d rather he didn’t apologize. So you shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I was just—” You laugh softly. “—wondering if there was something on my face.”
A pause.
Then, almost too softly: “No. Just… you make expressions when you think. It’s easy to tell what part you’re stuck on.”
You freeze. Something about the way he says it—simple, honest, not teasing at all—makes warmth crawl up your neck.
And then he lowers his gaze again, quietly scribbling a small sketch of a star in the corner of his notes, as though the moment hadn’t happened at all.
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After a while, you both drift away from the textbook.
Not deliberately—it just happens.
Your conversation wanders to lighter things: favorite foods, music you’ve been listening to lately, the kind of places you like to go when you need quiet.
Hongjoong doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it feels deliberate, like every word is chosen carefully.
He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it—he lets it breathe, and somehow that makes you want to lean closer, to listen harder.
At some point, you make tea.
The kettle whistles softly, the mugs warm in your hands as you bring them back to the desk.
Hongjoong thanks you in his soft, steady way, cradling the mug with both hands like it’s precious.
The rain has deepened outside, tapping harder against the glass. The lamp casts a golden glow over your shared notes, the little sketches he’s left behind in the margins.
When you glance at him, you catch the corners of his mouth curved faintly upward, as though this—the warmth of tea, the sound of rain, your quiet presence—is enough.
And for the first time in a long time, you realize studying doesn’t feel heavy tonight.
It feels… gentle. Almost easy.
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It happens when you get stuck again.
You groan, letting your forehead drop onto the open textbook. “This makes no sense. I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore.”
“You’re not.” His tone is quiet, but sure. “Your voice gets softer when you’re tired. You start frowning without realizing it. And you stop tapping your pen.”
You lift your head slowly, staring at him. “I… do all that?”
He nods once, matter-of-fact. “You’ve done it three times tonight.”
Your breath catches. Because that means—he noticed.
He’s been noticing, quietly, steadily, without you even realizing.
And then, as if to prove his point, he gently takes the pen from your hand, placing it on the desk.
“See? You weren’t even holding it anymore.”
You can only stare at him, warmth blooming in your chest, too big and too much for words.
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The night wears on.
Eventually, the rain softens, the rhythm slowing to a gentle drizzle.
Your eyelids grow heavier, and Hongjoong suggests packing up. His movements are careful, deliberate—stacking his notes, capping his pens, tucking his doodle-filled pages neatly into his folder.
At the door, he slips his shoes back on, pulling his hoodie tighter around his shoulders.
“Thanks for today,” you say softly.
He looks up at you, small eyes crinkling as he offers the faintest smile. “You did well.”
You laugh. “Pretty sure you did most of the work.”
“No,” he says gently, shaking his head. “You learned. That’s what matters.”
And for a moment, you almost expect something more. A confession, maybe, or at least something that explains the way he’d been looking at you all night.
But instead, he only pauses, gaze flicking briefly to your desk—the neat rows of pens, the scattered snacks, the blanket still draped over your chair.
His smile softens.
“I’ll come again if you want,” he says simply.
And with that, he steps out into the night, quiet as the rain.
It’s only when you sit back at your desk, staring at the tiny sketches he left in the margins of your notes—the stars, the leaves, the half-formed shapes—that you realize.
He hadn’t just been studying the textbook.
He’d been studying you.
Every word, every habit, every unspoken thing.
And somehow, it feels like the sweetest secret in the world.
I have no words except that this fic made me feel all warm and fuzzy and there's barely a single physical moment here. Prolly made for the girls who wants to be seen.
You’ve known each other since diapers—best friends for as long as either of you can remember. But now?
The signs are starting to show. They're there, light and sweet, innocent like an angel and clear as a crystal ball, but did either of you step up to say anything about it? No, not really.
If anything y'all just let it fester and fester and fester....until one day, San stopped pretending.
It started with unwavering eye contact, steady and unbothered, eyes bright with admiration he didn't bother hiding. Shamelessly, he wasn't afraid to check you out, assuring you a dozen times a day that you look beautiful despite your doubts and insecurities.
When you drift off in thought, he’d gently grip your chin to bring you back to him, waiting until your eyes meet his before giving you that small, dimpled smirk that always make your stomach twist.
Small ministrations like flicking a lash from your cheek. Wiping the excess gloss from the corner of your lip. Rubbing at your knee. Buying things that catch your eye. Cooking for you. Taking care of you without any of it being unwarranted made you realize just how attentive he really was.
But physically? He's touch starved king. He doesn't mean to be, but with you? It's kinda hard not.
Light brushes along your fingertips turned into holding hands. Holding hands turned into you looping your arm through his in crowded or unknown places. From wrapping his arm around your shoulder with you curled into him then came the hand at your lower back, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin.
At some point, keeping you close led to him holding you possessively, loving the warmth he radiates through your soul.
Late night texts became late night calls. Calls that became him wanting to see your face, hearing your voice, falling asleep to the sound of you breathing. “I wish you were here” became code for cuddles… and maybe a few soft, stolen kisses.
All those small things built into something undeniable, eventually made his feelings slip out naturally—nothing grand, just him asking hypothetical questions that were a little too specific, a little too revealing, all of them rooted in the quiet wants he’d been carrying.
And when he paused to think about your answers, you nudged him with your shoulder and teased, “So… are you gonna ask me out properly or what?”
San smirked, eyes flicking to you. “I don’t know… I have to think about it.”
You stared at him, offended and confused. “What? What do you mean you have to think about it? You ask me all these questions just to say you have to think about it?”
He only laughed, finishing his ice cream cone. After brushing the dust off his hands, he leans back on them. His legs swung lazily off the ledge as he stared off into the distance, city lights shimmering across the way.
“Saaaan~” you whined, impatience creeping in. “Just say it already.”
This time, when he looks at you, the teasing drops. His voice softens and his eyes are sincere.
“Will you go out with me? For real this time?"
“Of course I will.” you answer truthfully.
Silence settled between you for a moment before you asked, quieter, “Why'd it take you so long to say anything?”
He thought about it, then shrugged lightly. “I wanted the timing to feel right. I didn’t want to rush it or make it weird. I wanted it to be… smooth.”
You smiled at his consideration, understanding completely the more you pondered on it. Reaching up, you gently pinched at his cheek. “You’re so sweet, Sannie.” You then leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
When you pulled back, he was all shy smiles, head ducked, grinning like a high school boy who finally confessed to his crush.
“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I know.”
|genre: ex-husband! mingi. ex-wife! reader. angst.
|mentions: divorce (mingi and reader). accident. temporary amnesia. seonghwa appearance in this. it mentions a lot of rain-- aftermath of the rain.
summary: After a tragic accident, Mingi's life inexplicably rewinds six years into the past. Believing he is still living in those days, he calls out to you—his ex-wife—convinced that you're still by his side as his partner.
word count: 19.8k
Your days dragged like a snail navigating barbed wire—slow, agonizingly slow and painfully. Each moment felt stretched thin, a painful reminder of the life you used to know.
Placing your bag down on the couch as you make your way towards the kitchen and pull out the wine from the cabinet. Taking your favorite glass as you returned back to the living room.
Time had lost its meaning, blending one day into the next like an endless gray fog. Tonight was no different. You found yourself perched on the windowsill, a half-filled wine glass balanced between your fingers. The city outside pulsed with its usual rhythm—lights flickering on and off in distant buildings, traffic lights cycling from green to yellow to red and back again. It was all so mindlessly repetitive, yet you sat there, watching as if the monotony might somehow offer solace.
But it never did.
Your eyes, hollow and unfocused, stayed fixed on the scene outside as you took another slow sip. The wine, bitter and stale, barely registered on your tongue. This nightly ritual had become an empty habit—a way to pass the hours until sleep claimed you. Most nights, you didn’t even finish the glass before slipping into bed, leaving it abandoned on the windowsill like an afterthought.
Tonight was no exception. With a sigh that felt heavy in your chest, downing the last bits of your wine before you stood and shuffled to the kitchen. The sound of running water echoed in the quiet as you rinsed the glass, the coldness of the tap biting at your fingertips. It was only as you placed it on the drying rack that you heard it—the shrill, invasive ring of your phone coming from the bedroom.
Your head snapped toward the sound, your brows knitting together in faint confusion. Phone calls this late were rare, and never good. Reminding you of what happened six years ago. A simple sigh, still, you dried your hands on your pants as you made your way to the nightstand. Titling your head to read the caller.
Unknown number.
Your stomach twisted, a subtle unease creeping into your chest. With a hesitant swipe, you answered, lifting the phone to your ear. "Hello?"
Your voice sounded foreign to you—raspy, unused, and weary.
"Is this Mrs. Song?"
The words hit you like a slap. For a moment, you froze, the air in your lungs turning cold. You blink several times, clearing your throat in the process. "You must have the wrong number," you said quickly, your voice tight. "Look, I’m not in the mood—"
"Is this number 010242018?"
A chill ran down your spine. Your heart stuttered, then picked up in an erratic rhythm. "Yes... Yes, that’s my number. Who is this?" There was a pause, a moment heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—comforting, desperate, yet utterly unsettling.
"I’m sorry for the sudden call, ma’am, but we’d like to formally address this at Medic Hospital."
Your breath caught. The glassy haze of your evening shattered as your mind raced. "What? What happened? Who’s hurt?"
"One of our patients woke up just today and is asking for you. They gave us your name and number."
For a brief moment, you considered ending the call—brushing it off as a mistake or a cruel prank. But something in the caller’s tone, in the way your name had been spoken, compelled you to stay on the line.
"Who is it?" Your voice wavered, your grip on the phone tightening.
The answer came, cutting through the air like a blade, regret washes over you as soon as you heard who it was.
"Song Mingi. He said you’re his wife."
The words slammed into you, knocking the breath from your chest. Your knees felt weak, your stomach churning as if the ground had fallen out from under you. The name that haunted your dreams, the one that turned your days into an endless loop of heartbreak, was suddenly back—alive and demanding your attention.
And just like that, the numbness shattered, leaving only the raw ache of everything you had lost.
You could have told the caller that you were no longer his wife—ex-wife, to be precise. That he had remarried and moved on, leaving behind the pieces of what once was. It would have been easier, cleaner—a way to shield yourself from the storm of heartbreak you knew was waiting to engulf you.
You could have told them to call someone else his best friend since middle school, or band mates, his family—anyone who had more right than you to be by his side now.
But you didn’t.
Somewhere between the logical protests of your mind and the aching emptiness in your chest, your body betrayed you. Your feet moved, your heart thudded, and your brain chose silence over sense. Before you knew it, you were standing at the hospital’s reception desk, a name on your lips that felt foreign and bitter, like a taste you hadn’t revisited in years.
“Song Mingi,” you murmured, the syllables trembling as if they carried the weight of every sleepless night and unspoken thought. The name that brought has opened so many wounds that you have soullessly stitched back, how many times you closed your eyes and his crescent smile appeared before you, and the amount of tears you’ve cried silently that night he decided to step out of the door. Without looking back.
The nurse at the desk looked up, her face a mixture of concern and relief. She exchanged a glance with the doctor beside her before both of them rose to meet you.
“Mrs. Song…”
The title hit you like a knife, sharp and precise, cutting through whatever composure you had managed to muster. You raised a hand quickly, shaking your head as if to ward off the name. “No. No, that’s not me. I’m just… I’m just a friend.” The words felt heavy, a weak shield against the truth pressing against your ribs. “Call me Tulip.”
The nurse’s brows furrowed, glancing at the doctor as if silently questioning your response. But she didn’t pry. Instead, she nodded and gestured for you to follow.
“Let’s discuss the situation in my office, Miss Tulip,” she said, her voice calm and professional.
You followed her through the sterile hallways, your pulse pounding in your ears with every step. The name you’d chosen—Tulip—felt like a flimsy mask, a desperate attempt to separate the person you were now from the woman you had been when the name Mrs. Song was yours.
But no matter how hard you tried, the memories surged forward.
Each step toward the nurse’s office felt heavier, as if the weight of the past was dragging you down. And yet, some stubborn part of you carried on, pushing through the pain, the questions, and the overwhelming sense of dread.
Because no matter how much it hurt, you had to know.
“…So, he’s suffering from retrograde amnesia due to the impact on his brain, and his memory only stretches back to six years ago?” you repeated, your voice strained with disbelief.
The doctor nodded, adjusting her computer screen to show you the MRI results alongside the CT scan evaluation. The bright, clinical display only deepened the pit forming in your stomach.
“What about his…” The words clawed at your throat, desperate to escape yet refusing to form. Your lips parted, trembling as if even uttering the phrase would break you further. The doctor, noticing your visible struggle, finished the sentence for you, her tone gentle but firm, “His wife is still unconscious. There’s no telling when—or if—she will wake up, unlike Mr. Song.”
The room felt like it had shifted, tilting slightly, leaving you grasping for something to steady yourself. That word—wife—hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. You blinked rapidly, your throat tightening as you tried to suppress the surge of emotions rising within you.
“I see,” you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and barely audible. The phrase was hollow, void of meaning, as if saying it would distance you from the gravity of the situation.
The doctor continued to watch you carefully, her face a mask of professional composure, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy. But no amount of sympathy could soften the blow or untangle the knots forming in your chest. Unconscious. His wife. You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of those words lingering on your tongue, a cruel reminder of the distance between what once was and what could never be again.
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your forehead as the weight of the situation bore down on you. “Do his parents know about this…” You waved your hand in a circular motion, grasping for the right word. “…mess?”
The doctor let out a weary sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Yes. His parents are fully aware. They’ve asked if it would aid Mr. Song’s recovery to stay with someone familiar—someone who might help stabilize his sense of self until his memory returns.”
Your brow furrowed, and you crossed your arms, a clear ‘what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me’ expression etched on your face. Silence filled the room, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights.
The doctor took another measured breath, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk. Her eyes met yours with a seriousness that made your chest tighten. “While it’s true that his memory loss is temporary, there’s something else you need to know.”
The pause stretched uncomfortably long, and you felt the air shift—the kind of moment where you instinctively knew what was coming but still prayed you were wrong.
“He could stay with his family, it is every patient's right to choose and that would be more than enough for his recovery,” she continued, her tone careful. “But Mr. Song…” She hesitated, as though the next words would solidify an irreversible reality. “…has specifically requested to stay with you. He acknowledges his parents but insists that he needs you. His wife.”
Your heart lurched violently at the word, an invisible dagger twisting in a wound you’d spent years trying to heal.
“No,” you whispered, barely able to keep your voice steady. You clenched your fists, knuckles whitening as you tried to ground yourself. “That’s a mistake. He…he knows I’m not…” You trailed off, the word wife too bitter to say out loud.
The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver. “To him, you still are. His memory hasn’t reached the point where he remembers anything beyond that.”
You felt like the walls were closing in, the carefully constructed defenses around your heart beginning to crumble. The reality of his condition pressed against your chest, suffocating, as the doctor’s words echoed in your mind.
‘He still thinks I’m his wife.’
A low groan escaped your lips as your hands tangled in your hair, the frustration clawing its way to the surface. You had every right to feel this way. Six years ago, life had been entirely different. Six years ago, you and Mingi were a newly married couple, barely a month into your union. It was the first year of 2019, and you both believed tying the knot of a new year would make it all the more special—a symbolic start to a lifetime of shared milestones and growing together.
The memories came rushing back, unbidden and relentless. The dates that turned into adventures, the quiet evenings spent in each other's arms, and the tender, intimate moments that spoke of love deeper than words could ever convey. All of it played out like scenes from a movie you couldn't pause, set within the walls of the house he bought for both of you—a house meant to hold your dreams, your laughter, and your forever.
Now, here you were, forced to relive it all, the continuation of your adventure begins on the month of your marriage and throughout the years left such significant memories to the both of you. Every moment, every memory, was like a jagged shard piercing through the fragile layers of healing you'd painstakingly built over the years. The metaphorical scab that had formed over your wound was being peeled away, piece by agonizing piece, leaving the pain raw and exposed once more.
Your chest tightened as the weight of it bore down on you. How could something so beautiful, so filled with love, now feel like a ghost haunting you with the echoes of what you’d lost?
DAY 1:
The door clicked shut behind you as you stepped inside your small apartment, your movements heavy, like an anchor tied to your ankle. You flipped on the lights, the soft glow illuminating the modest yet warm space. Stepping aside, you gestured Mingi in, giving him room to take in his surroundings.
He lingered in the entryway, his eyes darting around the room. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he noted the simplicity of it all—cozy, unassuming, you. Yet, beneath the surface, his heart twisted, a subtle ache he couldn’t place.
“It’s… nice,” he said softly, his gaze sweeping across the room once more. His steps faltered when he realized what was missing. The walls were bare, the shelves sparsely decorated. No framed pictures of you and him. Not a single trace of the life you had built together.
His heart sank, and a small pout formed on his lips. “Did we move?” His voice carried a hint of sadness, as though the realization was too heavy to mask. You froze for a moment, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. Turning to face him, you forced a casual smile. “Yeah,” you lied smoothly, though your voice wavered slightly. “Yeah, we did. Work, you know? I had to relocate to be closer to the office. I’m still… in the process of unpacking.”
His brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he simply nodded, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing his face. “Oh… okay.”
The weight of his gaze followed you as you busied yourself preparing a snack. It wasn’t just the lie that gnawed at you—it was the memories. The house he had bought for both of you, the home that once felt like a sanctuary, now a distant, painful echo of what could have been.
Placing the snacks on the table, you glanced at him. He sat on the couch, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his fingers grazing the armrest absentmindedly. It was as if he was searching for a comfort he couldn’t find. You sat across from him, handing him a glass of water. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending a familiar warmth through your skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice quiet yet sincere.
“Don’t mention it,” you replied, your tone light, masking the storm raging inside you. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, searching for answers you weren’t ready to give.You focused on the small moment—sharing a quiet snack, pretending the weight of the past wasn’t suffocating both of you. It was all you could do to hold it together.
A thought hit you like a freight train once you offered to clean up (even though Mingi insisted). You only had a week. A week to help him recover, to guide him through this fragile state. After that, if it felt too much on your plate, his family would step in, as they had promised during that difficult phone call. They had been kind, their gratitude genuine, despite the invisible scars you bore from the past.
The understanding that this arrangement was temporary didn’t bring relief. It only deepened the ache in your chest.
That night marked the beginning of something fragile and undefined—day one.
You had already marinated some pork earlier, intending to have your usual samgyeopsal for dinner, the plans for yourself were last minute change on the sudden changes of event. But knowing how your landlord frowned upon cooking indoors, you decided to take everything up to the rooftop. The cool evening air would help clear your head, or so you hoped.
Mingi, ever the helpful presence, joined you in setting up. His broad hands moved with a quiet purpose as he arranged the small table and chairs beneath the soft glow of the hanging orange bulbs strung across the rooftop. The lights swayed gently in the night breeze, casting warm shadows across the space.
You took charge of the grill, laying strips of marinated pork neatly across the metal grate. Now, the pork sizzled on the grill as you placed the strips carefully next to each other. The faint crackle of fat meeting flame broke the silence, and you used a hand fan to coax the fire higher, the smell of smoky marinade already making your stomach grumble.
Behind you, Mingi moved with quiet determination. You heard the faint click of a portable speaker, and a soft melody filled the air, one that sent a shiver down your spine. It was that song. The notes carried a haunting familiarity, weaving through the moment like a thread tying you both to a time when things were simpler, happier. Your breath hitched, and for a second, the world felt suspended.
Before you could turn around to glance at Mingi, warmth enveloped you—a strong arm wrapping securely around your waist. Your heart skipped a beat as his touch pulled you back into the present.
“Careful,” Mingi murmured, his voice low and steady, as though grounding you. He was close enough that you felt the faint rumble of his words against your back. His other hand lightly grasped your wrist, stilling the fan in your hand. Your mind is clawing at you as the thought of you have to share some dinners with Mingi, cook breakfast with him— and most painfully of all, to reminisce some memories with him.
You froze, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest like a vice. The music played on, and instinctively, he began to sway, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. It was a move from the past—a small, almost imperceptible dance you once shared under different circumstances. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before.
And just like that, the melody pulled you back—back to a morning that now felt like another lifetime.
You could almost see it, the hazy sunlight spilling through the kitchen window, warm against the wooden floor. The smell of fresh coffee and burnt toast lingered in the air, remnants of an overly ambitious breakfast attempt.
Mingi had been there, standing behind you as you flipped pancakes with clumsy precision. The ache of the night before still lingered in your muscles, and in between your legs—a pleasant reminder of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. His arms had wrapped around your waist then, too, steadying you as you nearly dropped the spatula.
“You’re gonna burn them if you keep flipping like that,” he teased, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“And you’re distracting me,” you’d replied, though there was no bite to your words. Instead, you let yourself lean into him, the rise and fall of his chest against your back grounding you. When he swayed you gently in the kitchen, humming the very same song now playing on the rooftop, you laughed, swatting at him with the spatula. “Mingi, stop. The pancakes—”
“Pancakes can wait,” he interrupted, spinning you around to face him. “This? This is more important.”
The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving a dull ache in its wake.
Back on the rooftop, Mingi swayed to the music, guiding you with an ease that mirrored the rhythm of the song. His grip on your waist was steady yet hesitant, as though testing boundaries he didn’t quite remember crossing before. The orange glow of the bulbs cast flickering shadows on the rooftop floor, painting the moment with a bittersweet intimacy. You could feel his breath, warm against your neck, as he whispered softly, “This song… it feels important.”
You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest swelling as you managed a faint nod. “It is,” you replied, your voice barely audible over the hum of the music.
In that instant, it was as if time folded in on itself—past and present colliding in the tender pull of his arms and the bittersweet chords of a melody neither of you could forget.
That night, you lay awake.
How could you forget? Of all things, how could you forget that your tiny apartment only had one master bedroom? It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent months adjusting to the space—living alone, needing only one bed. Yet, here you were, stuck with the reality that you’d now have to share it with Mingi. Now, the prospect of sharing the bed with Mingi felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest.
The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows that danced eerily on the walls. You could hear the faint hum of city life outside, a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. Every creak and sigh of the building seemed amplified in the silence of the night, echoing the unease that gnawed at your thoughts.
The soft rustle of sheets beside you snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turned to glance at Mingi, who was already asleep beside you. His presence was both comforting and suffocating. Memories of your past life together flickered through your mind—late-night conversations, shared dreams, the warmth of his embrace. Each recollection was a double-edged sword, bringing both solace and pain.
You glanced at the edge of the bed, contemplating if you could somehow sleep on the floor instead. The idea quickly felt absurd. You were already here, tucked under the same blanket, with no way out. Your heart pounded in your ears as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Mingi suddenly murmured something, his voice low and muffled. Your breath hitched as you turned your head slightly to look at him. He was still asleep, his expression soft, almost boyish in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
You reached out, your hand trembling as it brushed against his arm. The contact sent a jolt through your system, awakening a longing you had tried so hard to suppress. You pulled your hand back, staring at your own reflection in the mirror across the room. The person looking back at you seemed distant, hollow, as if the vibrant spark that once defined you had dimmed. It has always since the beginning.
Sleep felt like an elusive sanctuary, slipping further away with each passing minute. You buried deeper into the pillow, hoping to drown out the thoughts that refused to let you rest. But even in the darkness, the memories lingered—fragments of laughter, whispers of love, the promise of a future that now seemed like a fragile illusion.
Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared into the void.
Your mind raced with questions and fears. How could you help someone you barely understood anymore? How could you navigate the delicate balance between compassion and self-preservation, when every moment with him felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss of unresolved emotions?
The night stretched on, each hour dragging longer than the last. The minutes seemed to crawl, each second a testament to the fragility of your existence. You lay there, torn between the desire to protect him and the fear of losing yourself in the process.
Then he whispered again, and your heart stopped.
“...Tulip,” he said, your name slipping from his lips like it belonged there.
You froze, the sound of his voice stirring something deep inside you. He hadn’t called you that in years, not since—
You shook your head, willing yourself to forget. This was all temporary. Just a week. That’s all you had to endure.
Turning onto your side, you faced away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. But the heat of his presence, the steady sound of his breathing, and the lingering echo of your name in his voice made sleep feel impossibly far away.
As dawn's first light began to seep through the curtains, you remained wide awake, staring into the new day that mirrored the uncertainty of your heart. The challenges ahead loomed large, but so did the remnants of a love that refused to fade entirely. In that fragile balance, you found a sliver of hope—a determination to navigate the storm, no matter how tumultuous the journey ahead might be.
DAY 2:
When the morning sun peeked through the curtains of your room, it painted the space with a soft, golden glow. The warmth did little to chase away the exhaustion clinging to your body, but you stretched anyway, muscles protesting against the motion.
As the blanket pooled around your lap, your gaze drifted to the figure lying beside you. Your breath caught in your throat as familiarity tugged at your heartstrings. His lips were slightly pursed in a soft pout, his hands curled into loose fists beneath the pillow. For a moment, he looked untouched by the weight of the past, his broad shoulders free of burdens.
A quiet sigh escaped you as you gently pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around his ears, recalling his playful complaints about waking up with frozen ears. "They'll fall off," he'd grumble dramatically, drawing a reluctant smile from you.
Slipping on your fluffy slippers, you padded toward the kitchen. The clink of utensils and the scent of pancakes filled the air as you worked, each flip of the spatula grounding you in the present. But the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, accompanied by the deep rasp of his morning voice.
“‘Morning, love,” he murmured, and your heart stuttered at the endearment. The grip on your spatula tightened, anchoring you back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder, offering him a small, hesitant smile. “M-Morning, Min… Mingi.”
The words felt foreign, a mix of old habits and new hesitations. You could almost smack yourself for the stumble, but he didn’t seem to notice, his expression easy and warm.
You served the pancakes in silence, the clatter of plates and the scrape of chairs filling the space. “Thank you,” he said, flashing you a grin before diving into his breakfast with his usual unhurried pace.
You couldn’t help but watch, your own plate long emptied, as he savored each bite. His methodical movements were endearing—a rhythm you had once known by heart. With your coffee cup cradled in your hands, now cool and untouched, you let the quiet moments of the morning settle over you. The hum of the ceiling fan blended with the occasional scrape of his fork against the plate. But the tranquility wasn’t enough to keep the exhaustion at bay. Your eyelids grew heavy, last night’s restlessness catching up to you.
As your head began to nod, you jolted awake, your coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“You okay?” Mingi’s voice broke through the haze, his fork pausing mid-air as he looked at you with concern. You forced a smile, shaking off the lingering fog. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep much,” you admitted softly.
He tilted his head, studying you for a moment longer than necessary, before nodding. The unspoken understanding in his gaze was both comforting and bittersweet, a reminder of the connection you once shared and the fragile peace of the moment.
“Figured,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his tone laced with quiet concern. “You kept tossing and turning. Something bothering you?”
You blinked, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Of course, he’d noticed—how could he not when you’d been forced to share the same bed? The situation felt both inescapable and unbearably awkward, every shared breath and subtle movement magnified in the silence of the night.
Your mouth opened, but the words refused to come, faltering under the weight of your swirling thoughts. "It’s been… a while, you know," you finally managed, the words stumbling out clumsily. “You’ve been in the hospital for weeks, and… yeah.” You trailed off, internally cringing at your own awkwardness, your attempt to downplay the turmoil inside you.
He nodded, his gaze softening with something that looked like understanding. Before you could process it, his hand reached out, enveloping yours in a firm but gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with sincerity.
Your breath hitched, the air in your lungs freezing as the word love echoed in your mind. That nickname—it was a relic of your past, a tender reminder of a time when everything felt whole and simple. But now, it was a cruel specter, dragging you back into memories you weren’t ready to face.
The pressure of his hand on yours felt like a burning weight, and the rising tide of anxiety threatened to engulf you. The doctor’s words surfaced unbidden, sharp and unrelenting: Mingi and his wife, their second anniversary, the plans for a getaway in the east province that had been violently interrupted by the highway accident. The knowledge clawed at you, tearing open wounds you thought had scarred over.
“I’ll clean up,” you blurted out, your voice tight as you pulled your hand away, retreating before the walls you’d carefully constructed crumbled entirely. You stood abruptly, gathering the plates in a hurried attempt to escape the suffocating moment.
Mingi was taken back by your actions but Mingi also stood up. “Nope. Sit.” He gently but firmly took the plates from your hands, his expression leaving no room for argument. “You cooked. I’ll handle this.”
“It’s really fine—”
He turned to give you a pointed look, one that felt too much like the old Mingi, the one who had always insisted on splitting chores despite your protests. “Sit,” he repeated, softer this time. You relented, sinking back into your chair as he moved to the sink. Watching him was surreal—his movements so natural, as though he belonged in this space, as though nothing had changed.
He rolled up his sleeves, his tall frame somehow managing to make your tiny kitchen seem even smaller. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the room, a strangely domestic symphony that stirred something bittersweet inside you. The gentle clatter of dishes being washed filled the kitchen, a sound so familiar it tugged at your chest like a forgotten melody.
Mingi was a whirlwind of unconscious domesticity—moving with an ease that made it painfully clear he didn’t just fit into this space. He fits into your life.
It felt wrong. It felt right.
You rested your chin on your hand, observing him. The way he washed each dish with precision, the way he hummed a tune you recognized as one of his favorites, the way he smiled to himself when he caught you staring—it was all so familiar. And yet, the reality of your situation hung heavy in the air. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that every swipe of the dishcloth brought memories flooding back. The mornings you spent together, him insisting on cleaning up while you teased him about his overly meticulous ways. The playful arguments about who made the better breakfast. The laughter, the love, the heartbreak that followed.
He didn’t remember the arguments, the pain, the long nights spent trying to piece together a marriage that had already fractured. All he knew was the version of you that existed in his mind six years ago, the version he still believed was his wife.
And the happily new married life he is in.
Your fingers tightened around your coffee cup as the weight of it all pressed down on you. Of all the people he could have chosen to stay with during his recovery, why did it have to be you? The ex-wife he didn’t even remember leaving behind.
He glanced over his shoulder, catching you staring, and his face lit up with a grin so pure, it almost made you forget how this all ended the first time.
“What?” he asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, averting your gaze.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, leaning against the counter. You forced a laugh, the sound hollow even to your own ears. “Guess I’m out of practice.”
Mingi shrugged, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you. He surveyed the kitchen again, his eyes lingering on the bare walls and countertops. “You’ve really changed things up, huh?”
You tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Just... it doesn’t feel like us, you know?” He gestured around the room, his expression a mix of confusion and longing. “Where are all the pictures? The ones from our trip to Jeju? Or the goofy ones we took on your birthday?”
You scrambled for an explanation, your heart pounding. “I... uh, have asked Seonghwa to come and bring it from your—our house,” you lied, forcing a laugh.
Mingi nodded, accepting your answer without question. “Well, don’t take too long. This place could use a bit of ‘us’ again.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, his words hit you like a freight train, and you had to look away. The difference of “us” is where the fights, the sleepless nights, the way you both unraveled until there was nothing left to hold onto unlike his is somewhere you guess is full of happiness and affection.
As he left the kitchen, whistling a tune, you exhaled shakily. Sharing your apartment with Mingi felt like stepping into a dream and a nightmare all at once—a cruel trick of fate that blurred the lines between the past and the present. Your hand trembled as you set the coffee cup down, the weight of the past and present colliding in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
So when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the city streets. The day had been a whirlwind, filled with moments that teetered between awkward and oddly nostalgic. You barely had time to process any of it when Mingi, with his boyish grin and an eagerness that made your heart ache, suggested dinner at a noodle shop.
Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him. “Why? I mean, I can cook for you—”
He raised a hand, halting your words mid-sentence with a gentle but firm gesture. “You’ve already cooked for me twice today. Why not let me treat you for a change?” He reached for your jacket, draped over the rack, and held it out to you.
You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. It had been a long time since you’d gone out—especially with him. The idea felt foreign, almost surreal.
“I—”
Before you could finish, he sighed, crossing the room to where you sat on the couch. He eased himself down beside you, the sudden proximity causing a jolt of heat to rush through your body. His warmth seeped into the small space between you, igniting a flush that climbed up your neck and settled in your ears.
“Take it as a date,” he said softly, his voice tinged with a playful charm that only made your pulse quicken. “For all the days I missed while I was in the hospital. What do you say, love?”
The nickname cut through your resolve like a whisper of the past, stirring emotions you’d worked hard to bury. Your mind raced with possibilities, weighed down by the unfairness of reliving memories you hadn’t asked to revisit. Was this wise? Could your heart withstand the bittersweet sting of nostalgia?
But when your gaze met his, every carefully constructed barrier began to waver. His eyes held the same spark you remembered—curiosity mingled with unspoken hope, as though he had just stumbled upon something new and couldn’t wait to share it with you. And then there was that smile, the one that always had the power to unravel your overthinking.
A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you felt your body relax against your better judgment. The battle between your heart and mind ended with a truce neither was happy about.
“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
His grin widened, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving only the quiet promise of a single evening.
When Mingi said that he wanted to try some noodles that he just saw some streets up where you both passed yesterday, you weren’t expecting it would be some other ramen house.
Not just any noodle shop—Home Ramen House.
The ramen house that you and Mingi frequently go to whenever he feels like it. You hesitated, the weight of the memories tied to that place pulling at you. But his excitement was contagious, and before you knew it, you were sitting across from him in the cozy little corner booth you both used to claim as your own. Mingi scanned the menu, his eyes lighting up as though discovering it for the first time. “We’ll have the spicy seafood ramen and the dumplings,” he told the waiter, his voice filled with conviction. You blinked, startled.
It was second nature to him, a detail woven so deeply into his muscle memory that he hadn’t even realized it. The smell of broth wafted through the air, stirring emotions you had buried long ago. As the waiter brought out steaming bowls of noodles and a plate of golden-brown dumplings, the atmosphere shifted. The familiar clatter of chopsticks, the hum of quiet conversation from nearby tables, the way the condensation on the glasses trickled down—it all felt like stepping into a memory.
Mingi leaned forward, inhaling the aroma with a satisfied sigh. “This smells amazing,” he said, his eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your heart skip.
You nodded, stirring your noodles absentmindedly. “It does,” you murmured, trying to focus on the present. The first bite was pure nostalgia. The flavors exploded on your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips. Mingi noticed, grinning triumphantly. “Glad you still love spicy ramens after you let me sleep on the couch for a week.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. Indeed it was true, it was the first time you tasted spicy food and it took you a lot of milk to calm down your tongue that was numb from the intense spice in it. Because of the influence of Mingi and him laughing at your red face, which he thought is cute, you told him to sleep on the couch.
Conversation flowed easily, much to your surprise. He talked about the food, his thoughts on the day. You found yourself laughing at his terrible joke about dumplings being “wrapped gifts for your stomach,” despite the ache in your chest.
You had been too focused on picking up a particularly slippery noodle, and a rogue strand of sauce had made its way onto your cheek. Mingi notices it and chuckles, without missing a beat, Mingi reaches across the table, napkin in hand. “Hold still,” he said softly, dabbing at the spot.
The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it left you momentarily breathless.
His fingers lingered for just a second too long, and you caught his eyes—warm, familiar, and filled with a fondness that felt achingly real. Your pulse quickened, and you quickly turned your attention back to your bowl, muttering a quiet “thanks.”
As the meal went on, you couldn’t shake the sensation of déjà vu. The way he teased you for eating too fast, the way you both reached for the last dumpling at the same time, the shared laughter—it was all too much and not enough, all at once.
When the bill arrived, Mingi grabbed it before you could protest, his lips curling into that familiar playful grin. “I’m your husband,” he said, his tone light but laced with a deeper emotion you couldn’t quite place. “I should be treating you to the greatest things in life.” He added a playful wink that made you roll your eyes, but the warmth in his voice lingered, disarming you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.
Deep down, it was almost too much—the familiarity of the moment, the ease with which he slipped back into old habits. It felt like walking into a dream you knew would shatter the moment you woke up.
As you stepped out into the crisp night air, the world seemed quieter, the stars scattered above like a tapestry of fragile hope. Mingi tilted his head up, his hands buried in his pockets. The glow of the restaurant’s lights illuminated his face, softening the lines of worry and regret you had grown used to seeing since his accident.
“This feels nice,” he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of wonder, as if he were rediscovering something long forgotten. “Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I lost.”
His words pierced through the fragile walls you had built around your heart. You bit your lip, the ache in your chest swelling.
You did.
It was a truth you couldn’t say out loud, one you weren’t sure you were ready to admit even to yourself. Yet in the stillness of that moment, it hung in the air between you—unspoken but undeniable.
DAY 3:
The day began like any other—quiet, unassuming, and unremarkable. You woke early, your mind preoccupied with a client meeting about revisions to a blueprint. The sharp scratch of your pen against paper and the hum of your laptop filled the air as you scribbled down notes, entirely absorbed in the task.
The faint clink of porcelain pulled your attention. A steaming mug appeared beside you, its rich aroma filling the room. Startled, you looked up to see Mingi, holding his own coffee and offering a soft, familiar smile.
“Have a coffee first, love,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to your busy thoughts.
You took the mug, fingers brushing his briefly, and nodded your thanks. The nickname rolled off his tongue effortlessly now, as if no time had passed since he last used it so freely. It wasn’t just the words, though—it was the way he said them, laced with warmth and something deeper, something unspoken.
But the kisses? Those you hadn’t quite grown used to.
There was the time, just last week, when you’d been rushing around before a meeting, juggling your bag, phone, and scattered papers. Mingi had stepped into your chaos like an anchor, hands firm on your shoulders as he steadied you. He’d kissed your forehead so gently, it left you stunned. Without a word, he handed you a brown bag of snacks and ushered you to the car, driving you to work while you sat in quiet disbelief, his thoughtfulness lingering far longer than the ride.
Now, as he left a kiss on the crown of your head and stepped out of the room, your heart did what it always seemed to do around him these days—it stumbled, tripping over feelings you weren’t ready to name.
Yet, beneath the warmth that spread through your chest, a shadow loomed. With a soft sigh, you returned back to your work.
Later, when your meeting concluded, you found yourself sprawled on the couch, half-laying and half-sitting, as Mingi flipped through Disney+. He eventually settled on an Avengers marathon. The easy camaraderie, the quiet moments together—it felt so natural, so right.
And so unfamiliar.
Just as the movie’s opening credits rolled, a knock at the door echoes. Both of you turned toward the sound simultaneously, like startled meerkats. Mingi paused the movie and moved toward the small monitor connected to the doorbell cam.
“Oh, it’s Seonghwa-hyung,” he announced. Your ears perked up. The memory of your impulsive request to Seonghwa came rushing back. After Mingi had offhandedly mentioned that the apartment did not feel like “ours,” you’d acted on instinct, reaching out to your best friend and asking him to retrieve a box of old photos from your attic.
The door opened, and there he was—Seonghwa, effortlessly chic as always, with his silver hair and the familiar box in his hands.
“Hey, babe!” he greeted, his grin infectious as he breezed in. You smiled back, leaning in for air kisses before he set the box on the coffee table.
“I’d stay and catch you up on all the office gossip,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but my baby mama’s in the ER—she’s about to give birth!”
Your eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, Seonghwa! Go, go, go!”
He chuckled, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Mingi with a firm handshake and a knowing smile. As you walked him to the door, he shot you a look—one filled with silent understanding and something unspoken. As you walk Seonghwa to the door, Mingi had caught Seonghwa’s knowing look given to you before he left.
The moment Seonghwa was gone, the apartment felt quieter, but in a strangely comforting way.
You turn around with a small smile on your lips, “Well the picture is here, let’s get started?” Mingi had helped you hang up the picture frames, most of them old photos of trips they had taken together. Mingi holding each of the frames made his hand tremble for no reason or that one reason why he suddenly had a flashback of where the same photo shattered on the ground, glass shards glinting like jagged tears in the sunlight. The arguments. The silences. The distance.
“Mingi, you okay?” Your voice, soft with concern, broke through the haze. He blinked, snapping back to the present. Forcing a smile, he nodded and placed the frame on the shelf. “Of course, love,” he said gently.
But you saw it—the flicker of something unresolved in his eyes. A shadow of a past neither of you dared to name but both still carried. You didn’t press him, though. Instead, you continued working side by side, filling the quiet with small, easy conversations. The unspoken truths could wait for another day. For now, this—rebuilding, frame by frame—was enough.
The golden afternoon light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. You were curled up on the couch beside Mingi, your head resting against his broad shoulder, the toll of the early morning meeting plus the small clean up around the apartment made you tired.
The lingering hum of your morning on-call meeting still played faintly in his mind. He had watched you work earlier, eyes fixed on your focused expression as you scribbled notes and responded to clients, your determination unwavering even through the early hours. Now, it was just the two of you, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant, as if it had been locked away somewhere far beyond the safety of your small apartment.
The silence between you wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful, almost sacred.
Beside you, Mingi shifted slightly. His fingers reached out, adjusting a photo frame on the coffee table without thinking. His gaze lingered on it—a snapshot of laughter frozen in time—before wandering toward the bookshelf by the window. The sight of the cluttered shelves, books stacked without rhyme or reason, brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips. Some of those books he recognized as ones you’d read until the pages frayed; others were strangers to him, spines barely creased.
Then, like a wave crashing without warning, the memory hit him.
The bookstore.
His hand froze, mid-movement, gripping the edge of the couch as the vivid recollection unfolded in his mind. He could feel the chill of that rain-soaked day, the dampness clinging to his skin as you guided him through the streets after picking him up from the hospital. The weight of the moment had pressed heavy on his chest—uncertainty, exhaustion, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.
You had found refuge in that tiny, unassuming bookstore. Its wooden shelves lined with worn books and the comforting smell of paper and ink offered a sanctuary neither of you had expected. You’d both lingered there, surrounded by stories belonging to others, as if searching for something in the words you didn’t yet know how to say to each other.
The memory of your hand reaching for his, tentative and warm, surfaced with startling clarity. It was a touch that had pulled him out of his own head, grounding him in the present, in you.
“Hey,” your voice now pulled him back to the room, gentle and curious. He blinked, his grip on the couch loosening as he turned to look at you. The concern in your eyes was subtle but unmistakable. You always seemed to notice when he drifted too far into himself, and for that, he was endlessly grateful.
“Just remembering something,” he murmured, his voice low but steady.
Your head tilted slightly, an invitation for him to share if he wanted to. He didn’t, not yet, but the way you leaned into him, your warmth so close, was enough to soothe the tightness in his chest.
The photo frame sat untouched on the table, a silent witness to the weight of the past and the fragile beauty of the present.
The memory of the rain, the bookstore, and your hand in his still lingered, but now, it felt less heavy. It wasn’t just a memory of pain anymore—it was one of quiet strength, of a moment where everything else had fallen away except for the two of you, finding your way back to each other in the most unexpected places.
Mingi sighed, his hand settling lightly over yours. “Thanks for being here,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your skin in an unspoken promise. The quiet sincerity in his voice hung between you, tangible and real.
Your eyes fell to his hand resting on yours, tracing the way his fingers seemed to fit so naturally. Without thinking, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of your touch sent a flutter through him, “Thank you for letting me stay,” an inexplicable yet familiar feeling, like a forgotten piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.
For a moment, the world seemed to shift, the sunlight filtering through the window growing softer, warmer, as if the connection between you had become the room’s very heartbeat. Quiet. Steady. Unbreakable.
And yet, beneath the tranquility, a faint ache lingered.
Why did he feel like something was missing?
“Do you remember the library we went to?” His voice broke the silence, soft and tentative, as though reaching for something fragile.
You looked at him, noticing the way his gaze wavered, a flicker of something unspoken glinting behind his eyes. Hesitation? Longing? It was hard to tell, but you could feel it—something pulling at him, tethering him to a memory his heart wasn’t ready to let go of.
You sat up slightly, your movements drawing his attention like a moth to a flame. His eyes followed you, searching, waiting.
“Do you want to go to the bookstore, Min?” you asked, your voice gentle, careful.
The nickname rolled off your tongue, easy and familiar, but to Mingi, it was both a comfort and a quiet reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp. The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, as his heart reacted before his mind could catch up.
He nodded, almost absentmindedly, his eyes still on you as if the answer lay in the way you moved, the way you spoke. There was a dullness in his chest, a faint shadow of the vibrant emotions he once knew, but even in its muted state, it yearned for something more.
As you stood and moved toward the bedroom to grab your things, Mingi stayed rooted on the couch, watching you disappear through the doorway. His hand lingered on the cushion where yours had been moments ago, his thoughts a quiet storm.
The memory of rain-soaked streets and the quiet sanctuary of the bookstore flickered to life in his mind, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He didn’t fully understand why the thought carried such weight, but the pull was undeniable. He exhaled softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the room. Maybe, just maybe, revisiting that moment would help him find what he felt was missing—something intangible, yet so profoundly important.
The rain caught them off guard. One moment, the sky was a dull gray, and the next, a torrential downpour had them sprinting down the street, their laughter mingling with the sound of splashing puddles. By the time they ducked into a small, tucked-away bookstore, both were drenched, water dripping from their hair and clothes.
The rain stopped a few hours ago and the blue sky was enough evidence to not bring any umbrella yet they should have still brought it. Mingi shook his head like a dog, sending droplets everywhere and earning a half-hearted glare from her as she squeezed the water from her sleeves. He grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his damp hair as he took in their surroundings.
The bookstore was charming in an old-world way—creaky wooden floors, overstuffed chairs, and the comforting scent of aged paper. His gaze wandered over the shelves, the rain outside creating a rhythmic backdrop.
“This place…” His voice trailed off as something stirred faintly in the back of his mind. “It feels familiar.” She glanced at him, her expression guarded, but said nothing.
Mingi meandered through the aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of books until one caught his eye—a worn-out copy of a novel that made his heart stutter.
Why this book?
He pulled it out and stared at the cover. A wave of warmth and nostalgia washed over him, but it was laced with something he couldn’t quite name, like trying to remember the details of a dream slipping through his fingers. Turning to her, he held up the book, a small smile playing on his lips. “Didn’t we read this together? I think I remember… something about this story. It’s special, isn’t it?”
Her eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t place, but it wasn’t the joy or excitement he expected. Instead, it was heavy, almost bittersweet. “You… you said it reminded you of us,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with a sadness she tried to mask.
Mingi frowned, his thumb brushing the frayed edge of the book’s spine. “I did?”
There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, her tone carefully neutral. “You did.”
His gaze remained fixed on her, studying the way her eyes avoided his, the way her smile didn’t quite reach them. Something about her felt different—familiar, yes, but distant. Her eyes, he realized, didn’t shine the way he remembered. There was something missing, a light he couldn’t name but that he was sure used to be there. He had always told her that her eyes were like stars, vibrant and full of wonder. Now, they were like stars lost behind clouds.
The thought sent an uncomfortable ache through his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer. She nodded quickly, too quickly, and busied herself with flipping through the pages of the book. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He wasn’t convinced, but he let it go, turning his attention back to the book. Sitting down in one of the overstuffed chairs, he motioned for her to join him. She hesitated before settling into the chair across from him, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.
The sound of rain against the windows, the scent of old paper, the warmth of the tiny space—it all felt so… intimate. As if they were stepping into a memory.
Mingi began reading aloud, his deep voice filling the space. He didn’t understand why the words felt so familiar, why they tugged at something deep inside him, but he didn’t question it. When he looked up, he found her staring at him, her expression unreadable. He grinned, holding up the book. “You always said I read too slow.”
Her lips twitched, and for a brief moment, there was a spark of something—something that reminded him of the past, of those star-like eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same guarded look.
Mingi leaned back in his chair, the ache in his chest deepening. Something was missing, something important, and it wasn’t just the gaps in his memory.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a serene stillness that seemed to blanket the world in a gentle calm. The two of them stepped out of the bookstore, the sound of their footsteps splashing against small puddles on the cobblestone street. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground and the faint aroma of nearby flowers.
Mingi glanced around, taking in the scene. The streetlights cast a warm, golden glow that reflected off the rain-slicked surfaces, making the entire place shimmer as though it were draped in a thousand tiny diamonds. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that made him feel small and yet deeply connected to the world around him.
He turned his gaze to her. She was walking slightly ahead of him, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the streetlights. The way her hair caught the light and the way her steps seemed to glide over the wet pavement—it all felt so familiar.
A tug in his chest pulled him closer to her. Without even thinking, his hand reached out, his fingers gently brushing against hers. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering, unsure if she would pull away. But then, her fingers curled around his, and Mingi felt a warmth bloom in his chest.
To him, it felt like home.
Her hand in his was soft and warm, fitting perfectly as though it had always belonged there. He squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. There was a comfort in the gesture, a sense of belonging that he couldn’t quite put into words.
For her, the touch was bittersweet. It felt like a memory, distant yet vivid, as though it were something she had dreamed of many times before. She glanced at him, her heart catching in her chest at the way he looked at her. His eyes held a softness, an affection that seemed unguarded, almost innocent.
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. Instead, it was filled with unspoken emotions, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.
The streets around them seemed to come alive in the aftermath of the rain. Raindrops clung to the leaves of the trees, catching the light and sparkling like tiny jewels. The occasional chirp of birds returning to their nests added to the tranquil ambiance. It was as though the world itself was holding its breath, watching them, waiting for something to unfold.
Mingi finally broke the silence, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way everything sparkles after the rain… It feels peaceful.”
She nodded, her eyes drifting to the shimmering reflections on the ground. “It does. Like everything’s been washed clean.”
His gaze lingered on her, a small smile playing at his lips. “You always used to say that, didn’t you? That the world looks brighter after the rain.”
She stiffened ever so slightly at his words, the smile on her face faltering for a brief moment before she quickly recovered. “Maybe I did.”
He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her expression. There it was again—that fleeting look in her eyes, as though she were hiding something. It was like a veil had been drawn over her emotions, keeping him at arm’s length.
But then, she turned to him fully, her hand still in his, and smiled softly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Home.
The word echoed in his mind, and he held onto her hand a little tighter. The apartment they were heading to didn’t feel like the home he remembered, but her presence made it feel closer to what he thought home should be. As they walked side by side, the cool breeze brushing against their skin, Mingi couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this moment than he could understand. Her hand in his, the glimmer of raindrops on the leaves, the gentle hum of the world around them—it all felt so right, so familiar, yet tinged with an unspoken melancholy.
And for her, each step they took together felt like she was walking through fragments of their past, pieces of a life they had once shared but could no longer fully claim.
The rain had stopped, but the storm within them lingered, quietly shaping the path they walked together.
DAY 4
The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the small apartment. You woke to the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the familiar sounds weaving comfort into the quiet morning. Stretching lazily, you padded out of the bedroom, your footsteps light as you made your way toward the source of the sound.
And there he was.
Your feet slowed, hesitating as your eyes locked onto his figure. For a moment, the world seemed to blur, leaving only him—the man standing in the kitchen, framed by the warm glow of morning sunlight. A wave of nostalgia hit you, so sudden and raw it almost stole your breath. Your throat tightened as memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden yet familiar. How many times have you stood right here, watching him? The way he swayed softly to the music playing from his phone, completely unaware of how the light kissed his side profile, softening his edges and making him seem almost otherworldly. Majestic, yet achingly human.
It was so vividly him. And yet, it wasn’t.
Because now, the unspoken weight of six years—years filled with pain, silence, and the harsh reality of your separation—stood between you. The barriers of divorce and his amnesia loomed like shadows, carving a chasm between what was and what could never be again.
You wanted to step closer, to reach out and shatter the invisible wall that had formed over time. But the ache in your chest reminded you that the past was no longer yours to claim, and the present...
The present felt fragile, like the sunlight itself—beautiful but fleeting, slipping through your fingers no matter how desperately you tried to hold on. And yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, watching him as if the act alone could bridge the gap between your pain and his.
You brought yourself back to reality, sighing as you made your way to the kitchen. Mingi stood at the counter, his back to you as he brewed coffee, his movements unhurried. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of sizzling eggs, creating a symphony of warmth that filled the air.
“Good morning,” you greeted softly, your voice still touched with sleep yet a hint of heaviness in them. He turned at the sound of your voice, his grin easy and familiar. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
You nodded, stepping further into the room. “I did. Coffee smells amazing, by the way.”
“Help yourself,” he said, gesturing to the counter as he flipped an egg in the pan with practiced ease. “I figured I’d return the favor this morning.”
Your heart gave a small flutter at his words, a sensation that left you momentarily speechless. Grabbing a mug, you poured yourself some coffee, the rich aroma filling your senses as you watched him move around the kitchen. There was something almost mesmerizing about the way he carried himself—calm, assured, and so at ease.
“You always wake up this early?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Old habits,” you replied, shrugging. “And someone has to make sure the coffee gets made properly.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and contagious, as he turned to set two plates on the table. “You really do make a great wife,” he said offhandedly, his voice casual yet filled with something unspoken. Your hand froze for a fraction of a second, your heart tripping over itself before you forced a small laugh. “Maybe… I did.”
The two of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing effortlessly between bites of food and sips of coffee. Mingi asked about your day, your work, and the little details you often overlooked. Yet, hearing his interest in the mundane felt oddly comforting, as though he wanted to be a part of every piece of your life, no matter how small.
When breakfast was over, you reached for the dishes, but he stopped you, his grin playful but firm.
“You cooked. I’ll clean,” he said, already gathering the plates before you could protest. Your eyebrow furrowed, “But … you cooked,” You whisper but he ignores your words and proceeds to lean against the counter, you watched as he rolled up his sleeves, his movements unhurried as he rinsed the plates. He hummed softly under his breath, a tune you couldn’t quite place but that filled the space between you with warmth.
And in that moment, something inside you tightened.
He looked so natural, standing there with soap suds on his hands and the morning sunlight catching the curve of his smile. So much like the man you remembered, but lighter now, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Yet, there was a bittersweet edge to it—a gentle ache that reminded you how fleeting these moments might be. You couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, the quiet push and pull of time and memory, weaving something fragile yet undeniably real between you.
As he turned back to you, drying his hands on a towel, his smile reached his eyes, soft and knowing. “Thanks for letting me stay,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.
You offered him a small smile, your chest tightening. “Thanks for being here.”
And for a moment, it felt like the sunlight wasn’t just streaming through the window—it was radiating from the two of you, filling the small apartment with something unspoken yet profound.
Later that day, you find yourself walking through the bustling streets with him— Mingi wanting to walk around to memorize the place— the two of you weaving through the scattered crowd. The sun shines brightly overhead, and the remnants of yesterday’s rain glisten on the leaves and pavement, creating a shimmering path beneath your feet. As you turn a corner, his gaze shifts, locking onto an elderly woman struggling to carry several heavy bags of groceries. You watch as he pauses for only a moment before stepping forward, his long strides quickly closing the distance.
“Let me help you with those,” he offered, his tone gentle and reassuring. The woman looked up at him, surprised but grateful, as he effortlessly took the bags from her. “Thank you, young man. I didn’t realize they’d be this heavy.”
Mingi carried the groceries to her car, his movements easy and practiced. It was as though helping others was second nature to him, something he didn’t even have to think about.
You watch from a few steps away, your heart aching at the sight of him.
He’s always been like this—fiercely kind, endlessly giving. It’s one of the things you loved most about him. Memories flood back unbidden: the countless times he’d gone out of his way for you, fixing a broken appliance late at night, or carrying you in his arms when you sprained your ankle during that unforgettable hike. His kindness was a constant, a thread woven through every moment of your shared life.
When he returns to your side, his smile is radiant, his mood seemingly lighter. “Ready to go?” he asks, his tone so casual, so familiar.
You nod, forcing a smile. But as you fall into step beside him, the bittersweet ache in your chest deepens. The man beside you feels like a dream you once lived in—a beautiful, fleeting thing you can’t quite hold onto anymore.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks suddenly, his brows furrowed in confusion.
You blink, startled. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with concern. “Is something wrong?”
The words catch in your throat. You hesitate, searching for a response that won’t betray the truth. “No, it’s just… you remind me of someone I used to know.”
He tilts his head, a teasing grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Someone as charming as me?”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes, lightening the heaviness in the air for just a moment. “Maybe,” you reply, shaking your head.
But as the two of you walk on, your smile fades. Watching him help the elderly woman had stirred something deep within you—a longing for the man he used to be, and for the love you once shared. To him, it was just another act of kindness. To you, it was a glimpse of the man you still love, even if the cruel truth of reality says he’s no longer yours to love.
Later, the afternoon sunlight pours through the apartment window, painting everything in a soft, golden glow. He sits cross-legged on the couch, flipping absently through a magazine he picked up from the bookstore. Across the room, you busy yourself at the kitchen counter, organizing the groceries, keeping your hands moving so your mind doesn’t linger too long.
“Can I ask you something?” His voice cuts through the comfortable silence, startling you.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Of course.”
“Back there, when I helped that woman… You looked at me like I’d done something surprising,” he says, his tone light but his gaze steady, searching.
You set down the box of tea bags, turning fully to face him. “I guess I was just reminded of how naturally kind you are,” you say carefully. “You’ve always been like that—helping people without expecting anything in return.”
He tilts his head, his expression softening into something you can’t quite decipher. “I don’t think that’s anything special. Isn’t that what anyone would do?”
You move toward him, settling on the couch beside him. “Not everyone,” you reply, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You’ve always had a way of putting others first, even when you didn’t have to. It’s… one of the things I admire about you.”
He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, but neither of you says more. You wonder if he feels the weight of what you’ve left unsaid. Or if the truth, the one you’ve been carrying alone, will shatter the fragile peace of these moments when it finally comes to light. He watched her carefully, the faintest hint of a frown tugging at his lips.
“You talk like you’ve known me forever. Like we’ve been married for a long time.”
Her breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. Because honestly, it was true—every single word. Way back then, when your love was untainted by time or circumstance, the two of you had been inseparable. Two years of dating felt like an eternity and yet not nearly enough, as if every moment was still just the beginning.
Mingi had been everything—your best friend, your partner, your home. He had this way of looking at you, like you were the answer to every question he didn’t even know he was asking. And on your third anniversary, he did the one thing that solidified the depth of his love.
He proposed.
It wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was perfect. The way his hands trembled, holding the ring box, his eyes shining with a mixture of nerves and joy. His voice cracked when he said, “Across all these universes, may my soul search for yours, destined to find you, to love you in every single one.”
He used to say your love was stronger than gold. To him, it wasn’t just a sentiment; it was a promise. He saw a future so vivid, so tangible—one filled with laughter, shared dreams, and the quiet comfort of growing old together. He had been excited to spend his life in your arms, to build something lasting and unbreakable.
And yet, here you were now, standing in the fragile ruins of what once was. The man who once held your world in his hands now looked at you with the same hopeful eyes, completely unaware of the truth that would break him.
The truth that your love, though still stronger than gold in your heart, had been twisted and reshaped by time. That his future, the one he envisioned so clearly, now belonged to someone else.
The ache in your chest grew unbearable, your breath hitching as the memory of that proposal flashed behind your eyes like a cruel echo. How could something so beautiful, so full of life, turn into this? How could you bear to look at him, knowing what you know?
And yet, you smiled, hiding the storm raging inside you, because this wasn’t about you anymore. This was about him, his recovery, his healing. The sacrifice of pretending, of playing your part, weighed heavily on your soul, but you’d carry it for as long as he needed.
Even if it meant breaking your own heart in the process.
DAY 5
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the weight of yesterday’s conversation still lingered in the air. You moved about the small apartment with a practiced rhythm, avoiding looking at Mingi too directly. He seemed more pensive than usual, his usual chatter subdued, as if he were trying to process something just out of reach.
The knowledge that he’d be returning to his family in just three days gnawed at you. The purpose of his stay was clear—these days together were supposed to help him recover before transitioning back to the care of his parents. But your heart ached at the thought of him leaving, even as your brain screamed at you to protect yourself, to not let him back into the fragile pieces of your heart you’d painstakingly put together after the divorce.
“I’m going for a walk,” Mingi announced suddenly, breaking the stillness of the afternoon.
You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.
“Do you want some company?” you asked before you could stop yourself. He paused, his boyish grin spreading across his face in a way that sent a pang through your chest. “Always.”
You had come to terms with yourself, silently agreeing that this moment might be your only chance to recreate a life you once cherished. It was fleeting, you knew, but being with this version of Mingi again—so unburdened, so much like the man you had fallen in love with—made you feel like the person you had been six years ago. Even if it tore at your heart, the thought of reliving those moments, even for a little while, was worth the pain.
The two of you wandered through the lively streets, the world around you a gentle hum of activity. The buzz of conversation from passing strangers, the distant laughter of children playing, the occasional bark of a dog—it all blended into a comforting symphony. At first, the silence between you was tentative, but as the minutes passed, it softened, giving way to something familiar.
Mingi seemed more relaxed, his long strides unhurried as he pointed out little details that caught his attention—a street performer playing a wistful tune on a violin, a quirky storefront painted in bold, mismatched colors, the way yesterday’s rain sparkled like diamonds on the leaves of a tree. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself smiling, your heart lighter than it had been in days.
Then, as you passed a photo booth bathed in colorful neon lights, he stopped abruptly.
“Oh!” His exclamation startled you, his face lighting up with a mischievous sparkle that made him look impossibly young. “Let’s do it!”
“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion as he tugged at your hand.
“The photo booth,” he said, already pulling you toward it. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”
You barely had time to protest before you were crammed together inside the tiny booth, your knees brushing against his as the screen flickered to life.
“Pose!” Mingi commanded, throwing up a ridiculous face that made you burst into laughter.
The countdown began, and for the next few minutes, the two of you dissolved into pure, unfiltered joy. Silly faces, exaggerated poses, and moments of shared laughter filled the air. You forgot everything—the pain, the truth, the weight of what you were hiding. For a brief, blissful moment, it was just the two of you, exactly as you had been.
As the timer ticked down to the final shot, Mingi’s laughter faded, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss.
It wasn’t rushed or hesitant—it was tender and full of longing, as though the six years that had separated you had never existed. Your mind reeled, your heart hammering in your chest. The world outside the booth seemed to vanish, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, soft yet insistent, familiar yet new.
It was the same as the first time he kissed you—the same warmth that spread from your chest, the same dizzying sensation of the world tilting on its axis, the same undeniable certainty that this was where you belonged.
The flash went off, its light momentarily blinding, but you barely noticed. Your world had narrowed to the feel of his hands and the taste of the kiss that lingered, soft yet searing. Your fingers had moved instinctively, gripping the fabric of his jacket, as if holding onto him could stop time, could keep him from slipping away again. His fingers lightly cupped your jaw, grounding you, pulling you closer as if he, too, was afraid to let go.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips. His eyes, soft and searching, met yours, and in them, you saw everything you had once known—love, hope, and the promise of forever.
But the ache in your chest only deepened. He looked at you as though no time had passed, as though the years of separation hadn’t carved out pieces of your soul. Yet here you were, on opposite sides of a chasm you’d helped create.
He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering, filled with an almost unbearable tenderness. It made your heart ache—an ache that spread through your whole being, a longing to pour out the words that had been locked inside you for so long.
You wanted to tell him how much you regretted signing the papers, how you had spent countless nights replaying every moment that led to that decision. You wanted to confess that you should have fought for what you had, that you should have held on tighter when everything was falling apart.
But everything was too late. Six years too late.
You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill, forcing a fragile smile as the photo booth’s mechanical hum brought you back to reality. And as the moment passed, slipping through your fingers like sand, you realized that some wounds, no matter how much time passes, never truly heal.
The booth fell silent except for the faint hum of the machinery spitting out the photo strip. Your emotions were a whirlwind—confusion, longing, hope, and a pain so sharp it was almost unbearable.
Mingi’s eyes searched yours, his expression soft yet unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
“For what?” you whispered, your voice trembling.
“For forgetting,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “For making you carry this alone after the accident.”
Your breath was caught in your throat, some tears threatened to spill in the corner of your eyes. The accident. Not the divorce, not the heartbreak you thought he meant. His words held the weight of sincerity, of regret for memories stolen rather than choices made.
Your heart clenched, the ache deepening as you realized he was apologizing for something entirely out of his control. “Mingi…” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady.
The machine beeped softly, a sound that felt louder in the confined space, breaking the spell of shared laughter and fleeting joy. Mingi turned slightly, retrieving the freshly printed photo strip from the slot. As his eyes scanned the series of images, a small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips, a mix of nostalgia and something unspoken shimmering in his expression.
“Look,” he said, his voice soft as he held the strip out for you to see.
Your breath falters as your eyes fall on the final frame. It wasn’t a silly pose or a playful expression like the others. Instead, it was a moment you hadn’t expected—a soft, unplanned kiss. His lips touched yours, the emotion behind it was unmistakable.
It was hauntingly familiar, a mirror of a moment from years ago—the tender kiss that sealed your vows on the altar. The memory crashed over you like a wave, unearthing a rush of feelings you thought you had buried.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air felt heavy, charged with a mix of longing and heartbreak. His thumb traced the edge of the photo strip absently as though trying to etch the memory into his mind.
“Mingi…” you began, your voice trembling. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something—perhaps understanding, perhaps forgiveness. “I don’t know why,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But this… it feels like something I should never have forgotten.”
His words hung between you, pulling at the threads of your carefully guarded heart.
For now, you let him fold the photo strip and tuck it into his pocket. As you stepped out of the booth, the cool air hit your face, grounding you. Mingi walked beside you, his boyish grin returning as he pointed out a street performer nearby, as if nothing had changed.
But something had.
As you walked back home, the atmosphere felt quieter, almost solemn, as if the world had slowed just for the two of you. The rain from yesterday had left everything glistening, tiny droplets clinging to the edges of leaves and the curves of streetlights. The golden afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that felt almost too perfect for a moment like this.
Without warning, Mingi reached out and took your hand.
His fingers laced through yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent a ripple through your chest. You glanced at him, startled, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, a slight furrow in his brow as though he were lost in thought.
“It feels right,” he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind. The words settled between you, simple yet profound, leaving you unsure whether he was speaking to you or to himself. Your steps faltered slightly, but his hand tightened, a gentle reassurance that he wasn’t letting go—not now, not yet.
The warmth of his touch lingered as the two of you continued down the glistening path, your heart a conflicted mess of emotions. You wanted to pull away, to keep your walls intact, but the pull of his presence was undeniable.
That night, as the city outside settled into its usual hum, you lay awake, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the ceiling.
The memory of his hand in yours, the quiet conviction in his voice, echoed in your mind. The fifth night had come and gone, and still, your thoughts revolved around one question.
Was this fleeting comfort worth the risk of reopening wounds that had never fully healed?
Day 6
The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.
As you finished tying your shoes near the doorway, you glanced at him hesitantly. Mingi was standing by the window, a book in his hand as his eyes skimmed on the letters inside, the golden morning sunlight casting a warm glow across his face. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers tapping lightly against the spine of the book.
“I’m meeting Seonghwa for coffee,” you said softly, your voice careful, testing the waters.
He turned to you, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he said simply, his tone gentle but distant.
You blinked, surprised by the lack of resistance. “Okay?”
Mingi’s gaze softened, his hand snapped the book close as he walked toward you. “Okay,” he repeated, and for a moment, you thought that was the end of it.
But then he stopped in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of it made your breath hitch, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.
“Be safe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “And enjoy your time with Seonghwa-hyung.”
You stared up at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. The warmth of his touch lingered long after he pulled away, leaving you standing there, feeling as though the ground beneath you had shifted.
“I… I will,” you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He offered you a small, boyish smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still carried a trace of the man you once knew. And as you stepped out the door, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on your back, a silent tether that refused to let you go.
The tension from the previous day clung to you like a second skin, heavy and unshakable. It had been impossible to look Mingi in the eye that morning, his boyish charm and newfound tenderness pulling at strings you thought were severed long ago.
You were desperate for clarity, for a sense of balance, which was why meeting Seonghwa now felt so vital. As you slid into your usual seat at the café, your chest tightened, and the weight of everything threatened to pull you under.
Seonghwa arrived moments later, his presence as steadying as it was piercing. His warm gaze swept over you, concern evident in the slight downturn of his lips.
“Hey,” he said softly, sitting across from you. His voice was gentle, but it carried an edge—a readiness to say what you weren’t ready to hear. You forced a smile, wrapping your hands around the warm coffee cup in front of you. “Hey.”
The soft hum of the café enveloped the quiet between you, but Seonghwa didn’t let it linger. He leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table, his fingers grazing yours with a touch that sent sparks up your arm. His voice was steady, yet his gaze carried the weight of unspoken truths. “Are you doing this for yourself, or for what you think you could have saved?”
His words hit like a jolt, unraveling the fragile composure you had carefully held together. Your pulse raced as you turned away, pretending to find solace in the rain-streaked window. “Seonghwa…” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the soft patter of rain.
“I’m not mad at you, babe,” he interrupted, his voice faltering on the last word, betraying the calm facade he was trying so hard to maintain. His eyes shone with a mixture of anguish and desperation as he leaned forward. “But I’m terrified. Terrified that you’re tying yourself to the past again, to him, when it nearly destroyed you the first time.”
The sharpness of his tone cut through you like a blade, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your chest tightened as you fought to steady your breathing, to keep the tears threatening to spill at bay. “It’s not like that,” you whispered, though the tremor in your voice gave you away.
“Then what is it like?” he pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. The air between you crackled with unspoken truths and heavy silences. “You could’ve told the truth—” He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as if bracing himself for the storm his words would unleash.
He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet pain that made your heart shatter. “The truth that his wife is now conscious in that hospital room. Why didn’t you?”
The night after you and Mingi shared a quiet walk under the stars, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from the doctor—the one who had delicately outlined Mingi’s condition, her words laced with a cautious hope that had felt fragile but comforting.
"Mingi's wife has regained consciousness. She’s currently in surgery, slowly recovering from the head trauma."
The words blurred as your eyes scanned them again, your breath catching in your throat. At first, they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s story. But then, the meaning sank in like a weight dropping in your chest.
Mingi’s wife.
The words struck you like a lightning bolt, jolting you into a reality you had somehow let yourself forget. His wife—the legal wife. The woman whose place you could never fill, no matter how fleeting the moments you shared with him had been.
Your heart plummeted as the realization hit you with earth-shattering clarity. For days, you had let yourself sink into the illusion of being close to him, of stepping into a role you had no right to play. And now, like heaven and earth colliding, you were reminded of the truth you had buried so deeply.
Mingi was never yours and no longer yours.
The thought tore through you, an ache blooming in your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. The walls of the room seemed to press in, the space shrinking with every passing second. Relief warred with despair, confusion tangled with longing, and you could barely grasp at the threads of your own emotions. Somewhere, the rational part of you knew this was how it was supposed to be—that Mingi would return to her arms, to the life he had built with someone else. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.
The question struck like a hammer to your chest, robbing you of breath. You turned your head away, your eyes squeezing shut as if that could block out the weight of his words. The ache of emotions you had buried deep within clawed its way to the surface, and you felt the sting of suppressed tears.
“Because…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and broken. “Because he needed someone.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He woke up not knowing anything, Seonghwa. Not even himself. How could I just leave him to that kind of emptiness?”
His jaw tightened as he searched your face, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his frustration and fear. “And what about you?” he asked, his voice trembling, barely holding together. “What about your emptiness? What about the nights you couldn’t breathe, the times I had to hold you together because you couldn’t stand on your own? What about everything you’ve been through?”
You couldn’t answer. The words lodged in your throat like shards of glass, too sharp to speak.
He reached out, his hand hovering near yours before retreating, his fingers curling into a fist. “How do you think this ends for you?” His voice cracked, and the vulnerability in it made your chest tighten further. “Do you think this fixes anything? Or are you just breaking yourself all over again for someone who might not even give a second look the moment they remember?”
Tears brimmed in your eyes as you met his gaze, his expression so raw, so full of love and worry, it almost undid you. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice barely a whisper. “But he’s not the same, Seonghwa. He’s… different. He doesn’t remember the fights or the divorce. He doesn’t remember why we fell apart. He only remembers me—us. And it’s…” You trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of unsaid words.
“It’s what?” Seonghwa prompted, his hand reaching across the table to hold yours, grounding you.
“It’s killing me,” you confessed, the tears spilling over now. “To see him like this, to see him not remember the life we had—or the pain that ended it. It’s like I’m living in this cruel, beautiful lie.”
Seonghwa inhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hand. “You’re not responsible for fixing him,” he said firmly, though his voice trembled with emotion. “You’ve already given so much of yourself to him. I’m scared you’ll lose what’s left.”
The rawness in his voice shattered something inside you, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of his words.
“I just…” You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I needed to be there for him. Even if it’s only for now.”
The weight of the unspoken hung heavily between you and Seonghwa, a reminder of the ticking clock counting down the days until he would leave. You tried to ignore it, burying the ache deep within, but it clawed relentlessly at the edges of your resolve.
Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed against the table, the sound jarring in the heavy silence. You glanced down and froze when you saw Mingi’s name flashing on the screen.
Seonghwa’s eyes flicked to the phone, his expression calm but his jaw tight. “Answer it,” he said softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.
With trembling hands, you swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Mingi’s voice came through, warm and familiar. For a moment, it felt like coming home. But there was an edge to his tone, a weight you couldn’t quite place. “I was just thinking about you. Can we talk when you get back?”
Your heart clenched at his words, his longing bleeding through the line. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice thick with unspoken emotions.
When you hung up, Seonghwa was watching you, his dark eyes searching yours. “He remembers you,” he said quietly, each word measured. “But not the pain. Not the fights. Not the divorce.”
You nodded, your fingers trembling as you wiped at the tears threatening to fall. “And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
Seonghwa reached out, his hand finding yours again. His thumb brushed softly against your knuckles, grounding you in the present even as the past threatened to overwhelm. “I’ll support you, no matter what,” he said, his voice steady but laced with quiet anguish. “But promise me, if it gets too much, you’ll walk away. You deserve a future—not a life trapped in the shadows of what could’ve been.”
You nodded, but the promise felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. “I’ll try,” you whispered.
His gaze softened, though the worry lingered in his eyes. “That’s all I ask.”
“A drive?” you repeated, startled. On the way back home and after bidding goodbye to Seonghwa, your nerves were everywhere, anxiety rising as to what Mingi wanted to talk about. Your mind races with many thoughts and one of them were the conversations you just had with Mingi and dread washed over you.
“Yeah,” he said, already standing. He was already in his sweater and jeans, the keys juggling in his palm, “It’s been so long since I’ve just… gone somewhere for no reason. You in?”
The logical part of you wanted to decline, to keep the boundaries clear, to protect your heart. But the part of you still tethered to him—the part that had never quite let go—nodded. “Okay.”
The car hummed softly as it came to life, the familiar sound filling the quiet. Once you hit the open road, Mingi rolled down the windows, letting the cool night air rush in. It carried the scent of damp asphalt and distant pine, and for a moment, you felt like you’d stepped back in time. He fiddled with the radio, flipping through stations until a familiar melody filled the car. A smile spread across his face. “Remember this?”
You nodded, the song tugging at memories you thought you’d buried. It was your song—the one that played on countless late-night drives, the soundtrack to a thousand shared moments.
Mingi’s grin widened as he sang along, his voice exaggerated and dramatic. His arms gestured wildly, just like he used to, and you couldn’t help but laugh. The sound bubbled up, surprising even you, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest.
“Your turn,” he said, glancing at you with a teasing smile.
“I don’t sing,” you replied, shaking your head.
“Your voice is my favorite song,” he said, the words slipping out so naturally they caught you off guard. Your laughter faded, replaced by a quiet ache. You turned your gaze to the window, watching the darkened trees blur past. “I hope you still do.”
The miles stretched out beneath you, the city lights fading into quieter, darker roads. The wind whipped through your hair, wild and untamed, but you didn’t bother to fix it. For a fleeting moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—just the open road, the music, and him.
But the memories crept in, unbidden and sharp. The countless nights spent in this very seat, his hand brushing yours on the gearshift. The shared dreams, the unspoken promises, the way you’d believed you were untouchable.
“Mingi,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the engine’s hum.
He turned to you, his expression curious.
“Why did you want to go for a drive?”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the road ahead before answering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do remember, this is our sweet grand escape.”
You nodded, your throat tight. “It is.” And in that moment, with the road stretching endlessly ahead, you wondered if you’d ever truly move forward—or if some part of you would always be here, caught between what was and what could have been.
The road ahead stretched out in silence, the hum of the engine blending with the soft whispers of the wind. By the time you turned back toward the city, the air had grown colder, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The stars above were scattered like fragments of light against the inky blackness, their brilliance mirrored in your quiet longing.
Mingi reached over, his hand finding the console between you. His fingers brushed against yours—light, tentative, as if testing the boundaries of something fragile. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, and your breath hitched before you could stop it.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter the delicate moment. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability etched into his profile.
“But being with you…” he continued, his words catching slightly, as though they carried more than he could say. “It feels like I’m home. Like I’ve been away for a long time, and now I’m finally back where I belong.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, seeping into every crevice of the space between you. Your chest tightened, the ache blooming anew. You wanted to hold onto his words, to let them wrap around you like the warmth of his touch, but they carried a bittersweet weight that was impossible to ignore.
You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting out the window as you struggled to steady the storm of emotions inside you. The city lights glimmered in the distance, but they felt impossibly far away—like the future you’d once dreamed of with him, now nothing more than a faint glimmer on a distant horizon.
He took a quick look at you, his eyes held so much love— like he was carrying the entire aurora borealis in his eyes, “You’re my home.”
Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. You wanted to tell him the truth, to let him know that this wasn’t his home anymore—that you weren’t his home anymore. But the words refused to come.
Instead, you let your hand slip into his, your fingers intertwining as naturally as they always had. And for the rest of the drive, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that you could still be his home.
Day 7
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” You nudged Mingi gently, your voice soft but insistent, fingers brushing against his arm. He stirred, blinking up at you with groggy confusion. “What time is it?”
You gave him a soft smile, “Just get up.” He groaned but sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Without protest, Mingi followed you, the two of you making your way out into the quiet stillness of the world before it woke; yet the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on your chest.
Last night had been a sleepless one. After the late-night drive, you had returned to the stillness of your shared space, the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence lingering in the room like a ghost of the past. But the peace you so desperately wanted to hold onto eluded you. Instead, your mind raced, caught in a storm of emotions that refused to settle.
The entire week with him had felt like an unraveling—his presence a salve to old wounds that had never fully healed, yet at the same time, it had torn open scars you had worked so hard to seal. Being near him again, feeling his touch, hearing his laugh—it was everything you had once dreamed of. Everything you had wished to return to, even when you told yourself it wasn’t possible.
But the truth loomed over you, undeniable and inescapable. Mingi deserved to know it, deserved to have the clarity you had ignored for so long. As the hours dragged on and sleep remained a distant hope, you had spent the night removing the shards embedded deep in your heart, one by one.
The memories were sharp, cutting with each recollection: the way he looked at you with those eyes full of unspoken longing, the touch of his hand brushing yours in the car, the sound of his voice when he said you felt like home. Every moment was a reminder of what you had lost—and what you could no longer pretend to have.
Your tears had soaked into the pillow as you wrestled with the decision, the battle between selfishly holding onto these fleeting moments and doing what you knew was right. You couldn’t let him live in the illusion any longer. He deserved the truth, even if it shattered the fragile connection you’d rebuilt.
The air was crisp, carrying the biting chill of dawn that made you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. Above, the sky remained a canvas of deep navy, stars beginning to dim as the first strokes of orange and pink teased the horizon. The world felt suspended in a quiet hush, the stillness amplified by the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze.
You led Mingi to a secluded hill overlooking the city, the spot you’d discovered during one of your solitary escapes. It was a place of solace for you, where the sprawling cityscape seemed small and far away, swallowed by the vastness of the sky.
Neither of you spoke as you sat side by side on the damp grass. The cold seeped through your clothes, grounding you in the reality of the moment. The faint hum of distant traffic mingled with the melody of birds waking to the light. Slowly, the darkness began to yield, giving way to the soft warmth of the approaching sunrise.
Mingi’s breath fogged in the air as he spoke, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful.”
You nodded, your gaze fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight painted the edges of the sky in hues of gold and pink, chasing away the night. “I thought it’d be a good way to end things.”
He turned to you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “End things?”
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Mingi’s heart thudded unevenly in his chest, a gnawing sense of unease creeping through him. Your tone wasn’t cold—it was resolute, distant in a way that felt unfamiliar and wrong. He opened his mouth to respond, to ask what you meant, but the words tangled in his throat.
His mind raced, flooded with fragments of emotions and half-formed thoughts. What’s happening? Why does it feel like something’s slipping away? He searched your face, looking for answers in the curve of your lips, the downward tilt of your gaze.
Is this why you’ve been so quiet? Why your smiles seemed forced? He thought of the past week, the stolen moments of warmth that felt almost too fragile, too fleeting. His chest tightened. Were those memories or just illusions of something we used to have?
Were those moments we shared just days ago … were my memories?
And then there were the flashes—images that didn’t make sense but stirred something deep and aching within him. Your tear-streaked face, eyes red and swollen, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing you cry. The ghost of your voice, trembling with words he couldn’t quite grasp.
Mingi wanted to ask, to demand why this felt like goodbye when he wasn’t ready for it. But fear held him back, rooting him in silence. What if asking makes it real? What if I lose you all over again?
You exhaled slowly, breaking the silence. “Mingi… you’re going back to your family tomorrow. This…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This was temporary. A way for you to heal. But it’s not real. Not anymore.”
His breath hitched, and he turned his gaze back to the horizon, unable to meet your eyes. His thoughts screamed against your words, but his voice refused to cooperate. The truth loomed like a shadow he wasn’t prepared to confront, a storm he couldn’t outrun.
The sunlight began to spread, illuminating the city below in soft, golden light. Mingi clenched his fists against the damp grass, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that it was real, that you were his anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
“I love you…” he said suddenly, his voice soft yet firm, like a whisper of truth he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hand finding yours, squeezing it as if telling you to stop joking yet none of your eyes says that you were.
It felt like a dam had broken within you. The walls you had so carefully built to protect yourself crumbled, and the flood of emotions hit with brutal force. Your shoulders trembled, a sharp inhale escaping you as your head shook, denying the reality of his words. You fought with everything you had to stay composed, but your heart betrayed you, a painful ache spreading through your chest.
“No…” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you had buried deep inside. It was more than just the words, more than just the confession— it was everything you couldn’t say, everything that had been left unsaid for far too long.
Tears brimmed in your reddened eyes, threatening to spill, but you willed yourself to hold them back. Every part of you screamed to push him away, to refuse him, but a deeper part of you— the part that remembered the love you once shared, the tenderness and joy— fought against the words that had already formed in your throat.
“No, you don’t.”
The words left your lips in a breathless rush, the weight of them heavier than anything you had ever spoken. Your chest tightened with the unbearable pressure of it all, a battle raging inside you. The pain, the confusion, the loss.
Mingi tilted his head, confusion clouding his expression as he tried to make sense of it all. “But I’m married to you.”
A bitter laugh escaped your lips, sharp and hollow. It was a sound of disbelief and pain, born from the weight of everything that had happened. Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands—a fragile semblance of connection in a world that had shattered between the two of you.
You pulled away with sudden resolve, the movement decisive. It felt like a necessary break—like something had to give for you to survive this moment.
“Was,” you corrected softly, your voice trembling but steady. “I was married to you—before we divorced.”
The words hit the air between you like an invisible force, heavy and unrelenting. His mouth opened as if to argue, to hold onto something that didn’t belong to either of you anymore, but you stopped him before the denial could take form.
The quiet strength in your voice broke through his confusion. “You left me, Mingi.”
Your tone softened, the bitterness giving way to something raw, something vulnerable. The weight of years—of heartbreak, of unanswered questions—had finally found their voice. “You said you didn’t feel the love between us anymore. That you found it with someone else. And now…”
Your voice faltered, breaking like the tender thread of a once-beautiful memory. You balled your hands into fists at your sides, trying to hold onto what little strength you had left. “You already belong to someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”
The silence stretched between you as the sun climbed higher, its golden rays casting light on his face. But the clarity in his eyes wasn’t there—only the raw confusion, the hurt that mirrored your own. He struggled to process your words, his fingers twitching as if to reach for you, but they stopped short, hanging in the air with unspoken regret.
“I don’t remember that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the pain in his tone cutting deeper than anything before.
You nodded slowly, your heart aching as the tears you had tried so hard to hold back slipped down your cheeks. “I know,” you whispered back, the sorrow in your voice thickening with each breath. “And that’s why I wanted to do this—because I needed to let go. I needed to find closure—for the both of us.”
Mingi stared at you, his eyes locking onto yours as if searching for the pieces of himself that had slipped away, hoping they were hidden somewhere inside your gaze. His lips parted, but no words came out at first. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, as if trying to reconcile the weight of his feelings with the reality of what had been lost.
“But I feel it,” he said finally, his voice breaking with desperation. “I feel like I love you— No! I love you, you’re my home. How can that not be real?”
The words—those words—shattered the last vestiges of your composure. You smiled through your tears, the smile that came from a place of bittersweetness—an expression that was both tender and laced with pain.
“Because sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep something whole,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.”
The finality in your voice hung in the air like a heavy fog, and the truth of it sank in, sharp and undeniable. You were letting go. You were finally releasing everything you had tried so hard to hold onto.
You looked at him one last time, your gaze lingering, as if you were trying to memorize every detail—his mole on the left side of his cheek, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his eyes crinkled into that crescent-shaped smile that always made you feel like the world had melted away. In that instant, you allowed yourself to drown in the present, to feel the weight of everything that had once been yours.
But it was fleeting. Too fleeting.
This—this moment—was all that was left of him, the man who had once been everything to you. The man you loved so fiercely, so completely, and yet, whose love had faded as quickly as it had come.
As you stood there, watching him in all his vulnerability, you finally allowed the tears you had been holding back to fall freely. There was no more hiding, no more pretending. This was the end. The closure you had been yearning for was finally here.
“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the weight of your words took hold of your chest.
The name—his name—felt like a dagger, sharp and bittersweet, as it slipped from your lips. You closed your eyes for just a moment, and in that second, the rush of memories hit you like a wave. The laughter, the tenderness, the warmth that used to fill every space between you two. But as quickly as the memories came, they were replaced by the painful reality that this was no longer your life. He wasn’t yours anymore, and you weren’t his. Not in the way you once were.
“I love you, Tulip,” he whispered, his voice breaking like shattered glass, his hand reaching for yours with a desperate kind of tenderness.
But you pushed his hands away, the motion sharp, your heart aching at the rejection you had to force upon him. “Stop, Mingi,” you said, your voice trembling with raw emotion, your bottom lip wobbling as tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. “I’m no longer your wife.”
The words fell like a gavel in a silent courtroom—final, undeniable. They echoed in the small space between you, shattering whatever fragile illusion of reconciliation had lingered in his hopeful gaze.
Mingi stood there, frozen, his hand still hovering mid-air as if waiting for a different outcome, one that would never come. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed he might argue, might plead, might try to close the gap between you. But then he saw the anguish in your eyes, the pain you carried, and it stopped him in his tracks.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice laced with confusion, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as though searching for answers that didn’t exist. “I feel it, Tulip. I feel this love—so real, so strong. How can you say that we’re not—”
“Mingi.” Your voice cracked as you interrupted him, your tears falling faster now. “The love is there. I know it is. But it’s not enough anymore. It died six years ago.”
His shoulders slumped as if the weight of your words had finally crushed him, the realization dawning painfully slow.
“I don’t remember the fights,” he said quietly, his tone almost childlike in its confusion. “The hurt, the divorce… I don’t remember any of it. All I know is what I feel now. And it feels real. It feels like I love you— No! I love you and I’ve always loved you.”
Your breath hitched, the raw vulnerability in his words cutting through you like a knife. You reached up, covering your mouth as a sob escaped.
“It’s not about what you remember,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s about what we’ve both lived through. The pain, the betrayal, the breaking of something so beautiful—we can’t just erase that. We can’t rewrite the past, no matter how much we want to.”
His eyes filled with tears as he took a tentative step closer. “But Tulip…”
You shook your head, the motion small but resolute. “You might not remember the scars, but I do. They’re a part of me now. A part of us. And I— We can’t keep living in this unfair nostalgia, holding onto something that’s already gone.”
Mingi’s face crumpled, his tears finally spilling over as he stared at you, helpless. “So that’s it?” he whispered, his voice breaking. You looked at him for what felt like the last time, your gaze lingering on every detail of the man you once called your everything. His mole on his left cheek, the sharp bridge of his nose, the way his crescent-shaped eyes still managed to smile even through the tears..
Your hand reached out, trembling, to settle on his cheek. He leaned into your touch without hesitation, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment. Your breath caught in your throat, a lump of sorrow and love you couldn’t swallow.
Maybe untying the fragile, fraying knot that held together your broken strings would set you both free—free to be bound to something stronger, something whole.
“I’ll miss you, Min,” you whispered, your thumb catching some of his tears, the words so soft they almost dissolved into the air, but their weight carried the entirety of your heart. Mingi’s lips parted, his gaze snapping to yours, as though he wanted to protest, to hold you there with him forever. But no words came. He simply stood, frozen, as you turned away.
He watched you walk away, each step you took feeling like it carved pieces out of him. The silence between you was deafening, each footfall heavier than the last.
The words weren’t just a goodbye—they were a love letter to the life you had shared, the dreams you had built, the memories you would carry forever. The unfair nostalgia lingered in the air between you, thick and suffocating, a reminder of what once was and what could never be.
Summary: He swears he's listening. He just keeps getting distracted by your eyes and everything he's been trying to tell you.
A/N: Inspired by this song I'm so obsessed with. Just a cute and fluffy little piece to keep y'all entertained while I work on San's By Order of the Black Pirates chapter. Also, happy Seonghwa day!🥹💕
ATEEZ MASTERLIST
The first thing he noticed was your eyes.
It wasn't intentional—at least, that's what your boyfriend told himself. He had meant to greet you properly, to say good morning like a normal person, maybe ask about your night like he always did.
Instead, he just… stopped.
"Did you sleep all right, princess?"
The question came out a beat too late, like he was catching up to his own body. You nodded, answering him easily, your voice soft in the quiet calm of a Sunday morning. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting everything gold—your hair, your skin, the faint curve of your smile.
Your eyes.
He didn't hear your answer. Not really.
Seonghwa tried, he really did. He watched your lips move, tried to piece together the words, but they blurred somewhere between you and the way your eyes crinkled just slightly when you talked.
"…Hwa, baby? Are you listening?"
He blinked. "Oh—yeah. Of course I am."
He absolutely was not.
A flicker of suspicion crossed your expression, but it melted quickly into something softer, fond. You were used to him like this: quiet, attentive, always looking. You'd just... never quite realised how much he was looking.
He leaned his chin into his hand, elbow propped on the table as he watched you continue talking beside him. About something small. Something ordinary.
It might've been about breakfast.
Or maybe your plans for the day.
He didn't know.
Because your eyes—
God, your eyes.
They caught the light in a way that felt unfair, like something out of a dream he hadn't realised he was having. There was warmth in them, something so unguarded and real that it made his chest ache.
He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.
"Hwaaa… you're staring again," you whined softly in a mumble, a little embarrassed now, glancing away.
"I am," he admitted immediately, a soft grin tugging at his lips as he finally gave in, pulling your chair closer to his in the cosy corner of the café. A small squeal left you as he wrapped an arm around you, pressing soft, teasing kisses to your cheek, then your neck, just enough to make you squirm.
When you settled again, his words caught up to you. "Wait… you are?"
"Mm."
There was no teasing in his voice, no playfulness, just quiet honesty. The kind that made your heart trip over itself.
You laughed it off, shaking your head as you tucked yourself into your safe place, the crook of his neck. "You're so weird."
Maybe.
But he kept looking anyway. His hand came up to cup your face, gently guiding you to look at him again, his thumb brushing slow, absentminded strokes against your cheek. Because he'd been trying to tell you. In small ways. In soft confessions tucked between jokes, in lingering glances, in the way he sometimes chose the seat across from you just so he could see you properly.
"I wasn't ignoring you earlier," he said suddenly.
You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his touch. "Hm?"
"When you were talking, princess." He adjusted his hold on you, gaze unwavering. "I just… got distracted."
"By what?"
He almost laughed. "By you."
You scoffed, rolling your eyes—those same eyes—and it hit him all over again, that dizzy, helpless feeling. "You're impossible."
"No," he murmured, softer now. "Just… honest."
A pause settled between you.
The air shifted, just a little.
You looked at him properly this time, searching his face like you were trying to decide if he was joking, if this was just another one of his quiet, strange moments.
It wasn't.
"I mean it," he said, voice gentle but steady. "I like looking at you. A lot."
Your breath caught, just barely. Even after years of dating, he never failed to make your heart flutter like it did in the beginning.
Maybe it never really stopped.
"And your eyes…" He exhaled softly, something almost shy tugging at his lips. "I don't think you realise how pretty they are. How pretty you are... I really am the luckiest bastard in this world, am I not?"
You blinked.
That was new.
You'd heard compliments before, about your smile, your laugh, your style, but this…
The way he said it, like it mattered. Like it was something he'd been holding onto for a long time.
"…Hwa," you whispered.
He shook his head lightly, like he was reassuring you, or maybe himself. "I'm not just sweet-talking you," he continued. "I don't think I ever have. I just—"
He hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he looked at you again, right into your eyes, like he couldn't do anything else. "…I think I love you."
The words settled between you, quiet but heavy. The L word. It was the first time he'd ever said it.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze, steady now. Certain. No hesitation. No distraction.
Just you.
"I mean… I've been trying to tell you," he added, a little sheepish. "I just didn't think you'd—"
"I didn't," you interrupted softly.
He blinked. "Didn't…?"
"Understand."
A small smile spread across his face, soft, relieved, a little in awe. "Yeah," he murmured. "That sounds about right."
A quiet breath left you as he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to your lips. It lingered, gentle, unhurried, as you kissed him back. When he pulled away, it was only by a fraction, your lips still brushing, his gaze still locked on yours. Like neither of you quite wanted to let go of the moment.
"Stop staring at me like that, silly," you mumbled, cheeks warm.
Seonghwa tilted his head slightly. "…I can't, princess."
You groaned softly, hiding your face for a second before peeking back at him.
He was still looking. Of course he was. Completely, hopelessly, utterly— "Infatuated," he finished quietly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "That's how I am with you."
And maybe, just maybe, when you met his gaze this time without looking away, you understood.
"I love you too, Hwa."
I AM ALIVE. I swear San's chapter is coming, it's already 14k words in, and you can probably expect it sometime this month or the next (I can only work on it during weekends… you know how it is SOBSSS). In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this little delulu piece.
As always, thank you for sticking around and reading! <3
synopsis : A general puts duty before his family, believing he has time to make up for it. When loss comes, he realizes too late that his love was never shown when it mattered most.
genre : slice of life, romance, fluff, historical au, no comfort, angst, tragedy, hurt, drama
warnings : death
author’s note : since another wanteez episode is coming out tmr (getting my tissues), here’s a oneshot based on san’s ‘past life’ 😋
word count : 1.3k
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
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You are married to a man the whole kingdom reveres.
They call him brave. Unyielding. A sword that never dulls, a shield that never breaks.
His name carries weight in the royal court, in the barracks, in whispered stories told by lantern light.
General Choi San.
Your husband.
But to you, he is a man who rarely comes home.
The first time you see him, he is not yet a legend.
Just a young soldier standing in your family courtyard, dust clinging to his robes, eyes sharp but uncertain. He bows too stiffly when your father speaks, hands clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together.
You remember thinking.
He looked lonely.
The marriage is arranged quickly.
Efficiently.
Without love.
You are told he is honorable. Loyal.
A man who will rise high.
A good husband.
And he is.
In all the ways that can be measured.
He provides. He protects.
He never raises his voice at you, never speaks cruelly.
But he is… distant.
Like a mountain you can see, but never touch.
On your wedding night, he sits across from you, still in his formal robes.
The candlelight flickers between you.
“I will not mistreat you,” he says.
His voice is steady. Practiced.
“I will fulfill my duties as your husband.”
You nod.
Because that is what wives are meant to accept.
Duty.
Not love.
But still, you had hoped.
Just a little.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Years pass.
And San becomes exactly what everyone said he would.
A general.
War calls him away more often than not.
The palace summons him at dawn, at dusk, at hours when the sky itself feels uncertain.
You learn not to ask when he will return.
Because the answer is always the same.
“I do not know.”
At first, you wait for him.
You sit by the door long after the lanterns burn low, listening for footsteps that never come.
You keep his meals warm.
You prepare tea that goes cold.
When he does return, it is always quiet.
The door slides open. Boots step inside.
And there he is—
your husband.
You greet him with a small smile.
“You’re home.”
He nods.
“I am.”
And that is all.
No embrace. No warmth.
Just… presence.
Still, you try.
“Did you eat?” you ask one evening, carefully placing dishes before him.
“I ate with my men,” he replies.
A lie.
You can see it in the way his chopsticks hesitate, in how quickly he finishes everything you’ve made.
But you don’t call him out. You simply refill his bowl.
Because loving him means learning the language he does not speak.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
When your son is born, something in you shifts.
Hope blooms again, fragile but persistent.
San stands beside you, holding the child awkwardly in his arms.
He looks… unsure.
Like he’s afraid he might break something so small.
“It is a boy,” you whisper, smiling weakly.
He nods.
“A strong one.”
You wait.
For more. For something softer.
Something that belongs to you, not the battlefield.
But it doesn’t come.
Though you see the way he lingers just a moment longer before handing the baby back.
The way his gaze follows the child as you cradle him.
It’s small.
But it’s there.
So you hold onto it.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Your son grows quickly.
Too quickly.
“Appa!”
The child runs through the courtyard, laughter ringing through the air.
San has returned early—rare, unexpected—and for once, the house feels alive.
Your son throws himself at him.
And for a moment, San freezes.
Then, slowly, he kneels.
Awkwardly placing a hand on the boy’s head.
“You have grown,” he says.
It’s not what the child wanted.
Not what you hoped for.
But your son beams anyway.
Because children don’t yet understand the weight of what is missing.
You watch them from the doorway.
Heart aching.
“He drew something for you,” you say gently later, handing San a piece of parchment.
Crude lines. Uneven ink.
A family of three.
San looks at it.
Really looks.
“It is good,” he says.
But he sets it aside.
Later.
Always later.
You stop waiting by the door eventually.
Not because you don’t care.
But because it hurts less when you don’t expect anything.
But you still leave a lantern lit.
Every night.
Just in case.
One evening, you gather the courage to speak.
“I waited,” you say softly, fingers tightening around your sleeve.
San doesn’t look up from removing his armor.
“I told you not to.”
The words land harder than he intends.
You know that. You always know that.
But it doesn’t make them hurt any less.
“I only wished to share a meal,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper.
Silence stretches between you.
“I am tired,” he says finally.
And that is the end of it.
You bow your head.
Because you have learned— love, for him, is something unspoken.
Something buried beneath duty.
Something that never quite reaches the surface.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Years pass like this.
Quiet. Lonely. Endless.
Until the day everything breaks.
Your son falls ill.
It starts small.
A fever. A cough.
Nothing alarming.
But it worsens. Quickly. Relentlessly.
You send word to San.
Again.
And again.
But the kingdom needs him.
The war does not wait.
“I tried calling for you…”
Your voice trembles when he finally arrives.
Too late.
He stands in the doorway, breath uneven, armor still on.
“I was in a important meeting,” he says.
You nod.
Of course he was.
“He kept asking for you,” you whisper.
San’s expression cracks.
Just slightly.
But it is enough.
He rushes to the bedside.
Takes the small, fragile hand in his own.
“I am here,” he says.
And the first time, his voice breaks.
But your son does not respond.
The silence is unbearable.
San falls to his knees.
And suddenly—
all the words he never said come pouring out.
“I should have come sooner.” “I am sorry.”
“I love you.”
Too late. All of it.
You sit beside him. Tears falling quietly.
You don’t blame him.
You never have.
But something inside you—finally—gives way.
After that, the house becomes unbearably empty.
San is there more often.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because the one who waited for him the most is gone.
One night, you find him sitting alone.
Holding that old drawing.
The one he said was “good.”
His hands are shaking.
“I did not know how,” he says.
To no one.
To you.
To himself.
“How to love without losing everything else.”
You sit beside him.
Quiet.
“You did not have to choose,” you whisper.
But he did. He always did.
Duty over love.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until there was nothing left to choose.
───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
─────────
Years later, when illness takes you too—
San stays by your side.
He does not leave.
Not once.
He holds your hand.
Like he should have done all those years ago.
“I will stay,” he says.
You smile faintly.
“You always did,” you whisper.
“Just… not in the ways I needed.”
His grip tightens.
“I loved you,” he says, voice breaking.
You nod.
“I know.”
And that is what makes it hurt the most.
Because love was never the problem.
Only the silence of it.
The absence.
The later.
And when you close your eyes for the last time, San is still there.
YEOSANG has always been kind to you. he listens when you talk, remembers small details you mention in passing, and always smiles at you. but being nice and sweet is apparently the problem. you like him, have been crushing on him for a couple of months, and everyone, but him knows.
“you look really good today,” you tell him one afternoon, trying to sound casual as he walks into the room. the man pauses, surprised, before his lips curl into that soft smile you’ve memorized.
“thank you,” he says sincerely, then, without hesitation, “you too.”
you stare at him, as wooyoung snorts loudly from across the room. it’s enough to make you want to slam your head into a wall. yeosang doesn't try to get the meaning behind your words or your behaviour at all.
at first, you thought maybe he was just shy, or that he needed time. so you stayed near him, laughed at his jokes first, saved him a seat next to you, let your hand or knee brush accidentally against his. he never pulled away, but he never leaned in either.
and eventually, it becomes exhausting, so you stop hoping he’ll suddenly wake up and see you the way you see him. because confessing feels pointless when the other person doesn’t even realize what's going on. you don’t avoid him, but you don’t try anymore. he notices how you are one idea more distant, as he doesn’t fully understand why.
you laugh less around him, leave rooms earlier, or talk with someone else instead. you don’t look at him like you used to, and he doesn’t know why, but something about it leaves a strange feeling in his chest. wooyoung notices too, and he, unlike yeosang, is not dense. so later, when they’re alone, he just says it.
“you know she likes you, right?”
“what?” yeosang blinks at him, once, twice, not processing what was just said.
unimpressed, the cherry haired man stares at him. “(name) likes you.”
“i like her too,” he says, “she’s a very good friend.”
wooyoung exhales in disappointment, rubbing his temple. “yeosang, not like that.” the blonde just looks at him, face slightly frowning in confusion, “she likes you romantically, silly.”
“oh.”
“oh?” wooyoung watches the realization hit him, as he raises an eyebrow.
“oh…” yeosang says again, quieter this time. because suddenly, memories replay differently in his mind: the compliments, the way you looked at him, how you laughed at everything he said. the way you always stayed close, and where there for him.
wooyoung smirks slowly, actually proud for helping his best friend come to his senses. it's been so long, and everyone should be glad it's going to be over soon, with a happy ending, of course.
so the next time yeosang sees you, his heart is beating faster than usual. his palms feel warm, a little sweaty, showing how nervous he is. you smile politely when you see him. he swallows, fights the instinct to retreat into his comfort zone, but he steps forward instead.
“are you free this weekend?” he asks, and you tilt your head, “i am, why?”
“would you like to go on a date with me?”
and for the first time since he’s known you, yeosang realizes he doesn’t want to be just nice. he wants to be yours, and by how fast the spark returned to your eyes, he for sure will be, just as you will be his.
synopsis ; you and san were like a moth to a flame, always drawn to each other, but it only led to destruction. however, when san shows up at your doorstep at three in the morning, you can only let him in.
pairing(s) ; ex!san x f!reader
☆ ── wc. ; 1.8k
☆ ── genre ; angst w/ minimal comfort, slightly suggestive
☆ ── tw. ; mentions of a breakup, shouting, crying, cussing, self-loathing, petnames (love...), kissing, lmk if I missed anything!!
⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI
It was maybe a quarter after three in the morning when you were rudely awoken by a series of banging on your front door. At first, you just grumbled and rolled over, hoping that if you just ignored them, they would leave and let you sleep in peace.
You thought it had worked because the knocking died down, but not even a few moments later, they returned and louder this time, if possible. Cussing at whoever it was, you threw off your blankets and grabbed the hoodie from your desk chair, since you were wearing only a sports bra and shorts. Throwing the piece of clothing over your head, you walked out of your bedroom, running your fingers through your hair.
“I’m coming, damn!” You called out when the time between knocks grew shorter, and they were almost continuously banging on your door.
Far too annoyed to even check who it was first, you unlocked the door and ripped it open, ready to tell the person off for waking you up at the crack ass of dawn; however, those words got lodged in your throat when you saw who exactly it was that was standing at your door.
“San…?” You asked in disbelief, refusing to actually believe that he was standing in front of your house right now, in the rain, much less. This had to be some sick and twisted dream, one that your mind was torturing you with.
“Y/n…” San breathed out as if he couldn’t believe that you were standing right in front of him.
Blinking a few times, you tried to clear your mind, “What are you doing here?”
“I—” He trailed off, trying to find the answer, but he found himself asking the same question.
What was he doing here?
After a few moments of silence, you cleared your throat, finally able to tear your eyes away from his figure and off to the side.
“It's three in the morning, San. I have work in the morning, so if you don’t need anything, then you should just go.” You told him even if your heart was screaming at you to not let him leave again. To ask him to come in. To ask him to stay…
“Wait!” He quickly stopped you as you were getting ready to shut the door, and you looked up at him again, “I just got into town, and nothing is open. You were the first person I thought of.”
You blinked a few times as your mind registered what he was getting at, and you so badly wanted to laugh, “Did you really forget what happened the last time you were here?” The words came out a lot more bitter than you intended, and San’s jaw clenched tightly as he looked off to the side.
“Look, I know it's a lot to ask, especially when things ended the way they did, but I have nowhere else to go.” He explained, looking back down at you with the same soft eyes that you have fallen for time and time again. The same eyes you told yourself that you would never fall for again, but yet here you were… falling for them yet again.
“Fine,” You conceded, stepping back to allow him into your house.
San took a tentative step into the house, water dripping from his clothes and forming a puddle beneath him. You sighed softly before stepping away and flicking the hallway light on, engulfing the area in light.
Blinking harshly to accommodate the new lighting, you pointed at the male, “Stay there, I’m going to get a towel.”
San did as told and stayed put, but his eyes searched the area at his discretion, seeing that most of the pictures you once had up had been taken down or changed. Reaching over, he made a grab for his phone that was sitting in his pocket, but stopped short when he caught sight of a pair of rings that were sitting in a small bowl. Forgoing his phone, he reached over and grabbed the rings, running his fingers over the smooth metal before turning them and looking at the inside of the band.
‘San & Y/n est. 03/19/2019’
He sighed deeply after realizing that they were the couple of rings that he had gotten for both of you for your first anniversary. The same rings that both of you had worn, even after the fights both of you had. That was until the last fight that you had, the one that ended with him chucking the ring to the ground and leaving you there completely heartbroken.
“I should’ve gotten rid of those.” Your voice made San jump, dropping the ring back into the bowl before turning to look at you. “Here, you can take a shower too. I found some of the clothes you left.” You handed him the towel before turning and walking back down the hall without another word.
San hated it. Hated that you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Hated that you barely said a few words to him. But most of all, he hated that he still felt this way even after a year and a half.
Exhaling sharply, he slid his shoes off his feet before drying some of the water from his clothes and making his way towards the bathroom as if it were second nature.
—
When San walked out of the bathroom, he found you crouched down by the door with a towel, cleaning up the water. His bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he felt a pang of guilt seeing you cleaning up the mess that he made.
Hearing the door shut, you looked over at him before quickly looking back down at the ground in front of you. San felt as if he could scream, growing more and more frustrated with the fact that you would barely spare him a single glance. But he knew he had no room to be upset about it, after all, he was the reason you wouldn’t in the first place.
“There are blankets and pillows on the couch.” Your voice brought him back down to reality, but instead of moving to the living room, he stepped towards you.
“Let me,” He spoke softly, afraid that if he spoke too loudly, you would run off and disappear.
You looked up at him, confused, “What?”
“The mess,” He pointed down to the heap of towels that had been created from you cleaning up the water, “I made it, so let me clean it.”
You sniffed, nose twitching slightly, which was something that San had always adored. Something that he would tease you about because you always did it unintentionally when you pouted at him. Seeing it now brought back all of the feelings he had tried so hard to throw away.
“It’s fine.” You spoke coolly before turning to continue what you were doing, but was quickly stopped when San bent down, grabbing the cloth from your hand, “San I said it was fine.” Quickly snatching the towel back, you looked up at him, “There’s cocoa on the counter. I’m sure you’re cold, so just go.”
“Why are you pushing me away?” He didn’t mean for the question to slip out, especially when he knows he has absolutely no room.
All of your movements halted, fingers tightening around the towel in your hand as his question seeped into your soul. Throwing the towel down, you turned towards him with a glare, one full of so much hate, so much… hurt.
“Why am I pushing you away?” You asked bitterly, standing to your feet and pointing towards the door, “You come out of nowhere after disappearing for over a year and a half without so much as a word, and you’re asking why I’m pushing you away?!” Tears started to build the more you thought about everything, “You come back here, expecting everything to be okay! Well, guess what, San? It’s not okay, because I was doing so well without you! So why show up now? Why?”
Tears were now streaming down your face at this point, your chest so tight that it felt like someone had a hold of your lungs and was just squeezing. San stood to his feet, his eyes never leaving your form, even though it hurt his heart to see you like this.
“Y/n—”
“I thought I had finally gotten over you, Choi San, but I haven’t. I never did, and as much as it pains me to say it, I never will. That… that is what hurts the most.” You started spewing word after word, “I thought that maybe if I just forgot about you, the feelings would fade, and I thought they did, but now? Now I know I was just playing myself a fool.” Pain shot through your chest as you choked back a sob, eyes boring into San’s.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will,” San spoke softly, reaching over to cup your face in his hands, and despite yourself, you leaned into his palm, a familiar warmth flooding your body. “I will hurt you, y/n.” He explained, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his own tears at bay, “We will only continue to burn each other until the other is burned alive.”
You sniffled, grabbing his wrist with a shaky hand, “but what if we don’t burn alive? What if we just burn for each other?” A hiccup tore through your lungs as you stared up at him, “Isn’t that a possibility too?”
“Oh, love,” San released a breath before leaning down, pressing his forehead to yours, watching your eyes flutter closed. “We both know that’s not possible.”
“Then…” You swallowed thickly, hands reaching up to grab his face, thumb rubbing softly against his cheek. “Can we at least pretend for tonight?”
You knew that it was the worst idea that you had ever had, knowing that it was only going to end one way. In heartbreak. But you couldn’t help it, you had gone so long without his warmth, without his scent, without him. So even if you knew that it would hurt you later, you just wanted to live in the moment for right now.
“Y/n—” He started, but you quickly covered his mouth with your fingers.
“Please?” Your eyes pleaded with him, and San could feel his resolve crumbling, the promise of never hurting you again slowly drifting away with the wind.
For one last time, he wanted to be selfish and keep you all to himself. To pretend as if everything was the way it was those years ago.
So, removing one hand from your face, he grabbed your wrist, pulling it away from his mouth, and you felt dread fill your senses, believing that he was going to tell you no. However, when you felt his soft, plump lips on yours, all of those thoughts flew away.
The kiss was nothing short of longing and need as San pushed you back until your body was pressed between his and the wall. His lips trailing from yours and down your jaw before finding that one spot on your neck that left your head spinning.
‘Just for tonight.’ That’s what you told yourself, just for tonight, everything can go back to how it was…
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ warnings: mentions of sex & alcohol, making out, suggestive, nudity
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ length: 3.3k words
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ not proof read
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ contents: fwb to lovers, no actual smut, accidentally catching feelings
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary: it was supposed to be casual. that was the deal after the first hookup. but then they spent more nights together. one day, she left her toothbrush. he sent her a message about it. turns out, her stupid toothbrush was the downfall of it all.
’Baby, you don't have to rush. You could leave a toothbrush at my place, at my place.’
masterlist
WHEN agreeing to the small party, y/n never thought that she’d end up where she is today, stuck in this weird… thing with Yunho.
After all, the party was supposed to be a small get-together. But everyone bought a plus one, people piling into the small apartment right after each other.
y/n didn’t mind that. It wasn’t an overwhelming amount of people. Besides, she was quite a party person. Anything to get her out of the house and be with her friends.
The last thing she expected was to end up naked in bed with a stranger by the end of the night.
She didn’t notice him when he walked through the front door.
She was too busy catching up with old friends and mixing drinks like always. It was a party ritual for her and her friends at this point. Arrive and catch up while mixing drinks because apparently, no party had actual good beverages.
The shift was instant.
It happened in the middle of listening to one of her friends, Hana, about some story from her first job after they all graduated high school. Her best friend, Megan, perked up when two figures entered the kitchen, the group’s laughter dying down eventually.
“Hey! You two made it!” she exclaimed, abandoning her red solo cup on the edge of the counter.
Megan embraced the blonde stranger, his hair long, bangs falling into his eyes gently. He smiled as he returned the hug. y/n glanced up at the greeting, eyes landing on the two. Her brow furrowed slightly at the scene, not recognizing the man her best friend seemed to.
His features were delicate but sharp. Feminine and soft, depending on the expression he wore.
The two pulled apart and Megan instantly turned back to y/n. “Oh, this is y/n!” she introduced her to the guy who had now wrapped an arm around her.
Y/n’s brows raised at the display in surprise before smoothing that back down. She sent him a warm smile as she extended her hand to shake his. He reciprocated, the handshake firm. “So, you’re the infamous y/n. Seonghwa.”
Oh, so this was the guy Megan had been seeing.
“Guess so. Nice to meet you.” y/n responded with a quiet laugh, her hand retrieving back to her side.
“Nice to meet you as well.”
Before Seonghwa could get another word in, Megan spoke up excitedly again, gesturing towards the other figure who y/n hadn’t noticed. “This is Yunho, by the way.” she introduced him to everyone.
Yunho raised his hand for a small wave, greeting everyone in the room. y/n had to admit, he was handsome. His features were soft, dirty blonde hair falling over his forehead softly. He was tall too, his figure lean and clearly taken care of.
He definitely caught her attention. Even just a little.
The drinks were mixed and the group dispersed around the apartment, drinking, dancing and joining a few games at some point. The atmosphere was cozy surprisingly, people finding their respective groups. Bodies danced around the room, couples and old friends lingering in corners. Snacks and drinks were scattered all around the house. y/n was glad it wasn’t her apartment the party was held at.
The bass of the music thumped throughout her entire body. It was a nice way to relax even just a little from work and responsibilities that awaited her back at home. It was nearing midnight, but she had no intention of going home anytime soon.
Glancing down at her drink, she noticed her cup was nearly empty. Needing another refill, she excused herself from the group and entered the kitchen to mix herself another drink.
Yunho watched as she walked away from across the room. He sat on the couch talking to some people he barely knew. Seonghwa was busy with Megan and everyone else was a stranger to him.
There was something about y/n. He rarely felt such attraction to someone, let alone a person he has never met before tonight. Her name was the only thing he knew. And that her drink mixing skills are way better than expected.
He laughed at whatever the guy next to him had said. Automatically. Unsuspicious.
His mind was still clouded by y/n, though.
The way she laughed, head tilted back occasionally. When she laughed, really laughed, she covered her smile with her hand as if she didn’t want anyone to see. Like it was some sacred part of her. She fidgeted with her rings subconsciously whenever she was listening to others speak.
y/n probably didn’t even notice these things about herself.
Yet here he was, deciding whether to follow her into the kitchen or stay seated, engaging in conversations he had grown tired of at least 30 minutes ago. If not more.
At the end, he got up with a quick muttered excuse, making his way towards the kitchen. He really hoped she was alone.
The universe must’ve heard him. There she stood at the counter, some colorful alcohol bottle in hand as she refilled her cup. Perfect excuse, he thought.
He placed himself right next to her, casually, but maybe still too close for strangers. He made a mental note to just blame it on his tipsiness. “Hey.” his voice was loud enough to be heard over the music.
y/n looked up, lips turning up into a smile at the sight of him. “Hi. Yunho, right?”
Yunho nodded. “Yeah. y/n?” he asked, pretending that he was trying to remember her name. It suited her.
Her hum of confirmation left him smiling before he gestured towards her cup. “Making another drink?”
“Had to get a refill. Otherwise, I’d probably be at home by now.”
Yunho let out a quiet, breathy laugh at her words. He couldn’t blame her. “Fair enough.” he agreed. Silence fell over them, y/n continuing to refill the red plastic cup. He waited until she was done.
He carefully passed her his cup on the counter.
y/n looked up at him, trying to bite back a smile. “Didn’t know I was going to be a bartender tonight.” she pointed out.
“Well, you shouldn’t be so good at mixing drinks then. Saving my night honestly.” he added, his eyes not once leaving hers.
A soft laugh escaped her. He wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t for their close proximity. “Happy to be of service.”
Another wave of silence washed over them. Comfortable yet fragile. Its direction unknown. But the tension was clear as day.
Yunho didn’t break eye contact with her. And he wasn’t going to. Not until she decided to break it.
Instead, she stepped closer, breath gently tickling his cheek. He could feel her fingers inching towards his on the counter, teasing. His eyes flickered once. Then back to her.
Tension increased by the minute.
“Ask me.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“What?”
Her expression didn’t falter.
Bodies stumbled through the front door, messy, uncoordinated and loud. Keys jingled as the door was kicked close, a small bang echoing throughout the apartment complex.
Soft sighs filled the air with the occasional noise made in the back of their throats. Hands explored, gentle yet hungry. His hands were warm against her skin as they got rid of her coat and slipped under the thin material of her shirt almost immediately. Her hands cradled his face, keeping him close as she let his tongue slip past her lips, meeting hers.
She knew this was a bit reckless. Intoxicated, ditching the party only to hook up with Yunho.
After their encounter in the kitchen, the two stayed close the rest of the night. Talking, drinking, dancing. All of it.
Even when they were separated, his gaze lingered. So did his touch. Whenever they stood close, his hand was somewhere on her. Whether it was to balance himself while laughing too hard. Or stepping closer, placing his hand on the small of her back when someone stood too close for comfort.
The chemistry was obvious.
Megan and Seonghwa both noticed, eyeing their friends the whole night suspiciously. They laughed it off, letting them do their own thing. They weren’t opposed to the idea of them. It was just sudden during the party.
Her back hit the mattress, causing a breathy laugh to leave her mouth. She watched as Yunho climbed over her, settling himself between her legs. He didn’t let her verbalize what she was planning on to, leaning down and placing his mouth on hers. She responded without a second thought, letting out a sigh.
Clothes were progressively discarded, carelessly scattered around the floor. Sheets tangled around them as they impatiently explored one another.
It was all supposed to be a one-night thing. They both agreed on that.
But then the second time happened. Then the third. Fourth.
By the fifth time, it was obvious that it was definitely more than just a one-night stand.
Was it good? Absolutely. Is he gorgeous? Absolutely.
Did she want a relationship right now? No. And apparently, neither did he.
So, they exchanged numbers. The occasional text was sent, the other already on their way. And it always ended the same. Sex, relax, leave. It was always like that.
Neither of them ever stayed over. No dates, no getting invested emotionally, no getting to know each other on a deeper, more emotional level. Things were kept strictly physical.
They obviously joked around and were friends. Somewhat. Though, they never hung out together alone. Only with other people. Even then, the two didn’t interact a lot, staying with the people that felt the most comfortable.
So, when y/n accidentally stayed the night for the first time, it caused a crisis within her.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But it was hard not to when his warmth seeped into her, grounding her. The way his fingers tangled in her hair, twirling strands before massaging her scalp. His cold blankets were a nice contrast against her still warm skin.
Everything was just too comfortable. Her eyes closed without permission.
Next morning she woke up to the weight of his arm around her, his breath tickling her forehead. Safe to say, she panicked internally.
’This was never supposed to happen.’ she said.
But then Yunho started asking her to stay. Clung to her until she gave in.
“Literally five more minutes.” he whined like a child, tightening his grip on her waist.
“Yunho.”
He groaned, letting his head fall back on her chest. y/n couldn’t say no to that.
She sighed, annoyed with herself for giving in and letting him have his way again. The thought of this being way over line lingered in her mind constantly in moments like these. But his breaths hitting her bare chest, grip never faltering, how comfortable he felt with her - it melted her heart.
Her fingers found their way to his hair, gently scratching at his scalp.
“You’re a literal angel.” he mumbled, already half asleep.
y/n’s heart stopped beating for a split second once the words registered. The scratching faltered, breath catching in her throat. Yunho was too gone to catch it.
Megan walked back to their table with their coffees and a plate of brownies. y/n looked up and sent her a small smile. She took her cup and took a careful sip of the hot liquid.
“Don’t burn your tongue again, please.” Megan warned the girl, making her roll her eyes.
“I’m not that dumb.”
“That’s what you said the previous two times.”
y/n waved her off. She plucked a brownie off the plate, letting the chocolate flavor melt on her tongue. The two fell easily into conversation, their closeness letting the topics flow freely.
It was nice to finally spend time with Megan, especially because of everything surrounding Yunho. Megan wasn’t aware of all of it, y/n avoiding the topic of him whenever his name came up in any way. Mainly due to what has been happening lately.
They started texting more. Not just to call each other over because they’re pent-up and in the mood. Random facts throughout the day, checking in, reminders once every few hours.
And they stayed over. After each hookup.
Maybe way longer than necessary.
Obviously, none of that was supposed to happen, y/n made that very clear to both Yunho and herself. Somewhere along the lines though, those stupid rules blurred and faded into nothing.
He cooked her breakfast now. It started with cups of coffee after he found her sipping on one the following morning. She was sitting in the kitchen, knees drawn up to her chest. Hair messy yet somehow neat. Her thin pyjama shirt hung off one shoulder. She didn’t even bother with actual pants that morning, her lacy underwear on display.
Something changed within Yunho that morning.
Megan was in the middle of telling some story from work when y/n’s phone lit up with a buzz. Her eyes flickered down to her phone on the table. A message from Yunho.
yunho: you left ur toothbrush here btw
yunho: letting yk before the panic hits
Her lips twitched upwards as she read the messages quickly. Deciding to ignore it for now, she turned her phone off. She’ll pick it up on her way home from the café.
When averting her attention back to Megan, she was surprised to find her fully quiet. Her brows furrowed. “What?”
“You’re leaving your toothbrush at his place now?” she asked, biting back a smile. “I thought you two were just a ’friends with benefits’ thing.”
“We are.” y/n confirmed. Her voice didn’t sound sure of it.
Megan let out a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
y/n rolled her eyes, scoffing at the ridiculous question that just came out of her best friend’s mouth. “We’re still just hooking up.”
“With broken rules.”
“No feelings.”
“Are you sure?”
That shut y/n up. She wanted to say no. But could she, really?
Megan noticed the internal battle. It was clear as day on her face. Sighing, she reached over and grabbed her hand, hoping to comfort her in some way. “Okay, truthfully, we all saw this coming.”
y/n gave her a look.
“But!” Megan continued. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“How can it not be a bad thing, Meg? If he doesn’t like me, I’m fucked.” y/n reminded her of the situation.
“Knowing Yunho, he’s probably going through the same shit as you with this.” she deadpanned.
Leaning back against her seat, she popped a brownie into her mouth with a shrug. “I don’t understand why you guys didn’t get together immediately after the first hookup. The chemistry is clearly there.”
“We weren’t ready for a relationship.”
“Girl, it’s been two months since then.”
y/n sighed. Her fingers found the hem of her sleeve, avoiding eye contact. She knew Megan was right. Of course she was.
That made accepting her feelings harder. Because it made them true. Real.
Random reels filled the silence in Yunho’s kitchen as he ate his breakfast peacefully. Honestly, he had forgotten about his earlier messages to y/n which were left unanswered. So, the sound of the doorbell echoing throughout the apartment caught him by surprise.
He abandoned his toast and eggs at the table, quickly wiping his hands on his sweatpants. He looked through the peephole just in case, met with the sight of her standing there.
The door creaked open, a small smile appearing on his face upon seeing her. “Here for the toothbrush?”
“Yes.” she simply said with a smile before pushing her way inside. She immediately went to the bathroom, not stopping to pay attention to anything else.
Clearly here for the toothbrush.
Yunho followed after her, his feet tapping against the hardwood floor. He leaned against the doorframe, watching as she grabbed her purple toothbrush and put it in her bag. She turned to leave but stopped when she saw him.
“You didn’t respond. Could’ve told me you were coming, I would’ve prepared a bit.” he teased, that stupid smile never leaving his face.
y/n walked closer, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “I was with Megan. And I’m seriously here for the toothbrush only.”
Yunho pushed himself off the frame, stepping closer, the distance between them shrinking. “Yeah? Only for the toothbrush?” his hands found their way to her hips.
She sighed. “Yunho.”
“Come on.”
“I gotta get home.”
“And do what?” he asked, genuinely.
y/n couldn’t come up with anything, because she truly didn’t have anything to do back at home.
Next thing she knew, Yunho buried his face in the crook of her neck, placing soft kisses on the sensitive skin there. Her head fell back without permission. “Yunho.” she tried again, but it didn’t stop him.
Who was she kidding? She didn’t want him to stop.
“It can wait.” he murmured against her skin. His kisses continued, hands now gently exploring.
“You’re an asshole.”
His sheets were always a comfortable cold after sex. The cooling effect felt nice against her warm, sweat-slicked skin.
Heavy breathing was the only thing heard in the room. Maybe the occasional rustle of sheets and the city sounds from outside.
It was different this time.
Maybe she was overthinking. Overanalyzing every touch and every word of his. Maybe she thought too much about her feelings towards him during their time together.
But it definitely affected it.
It was gentle. Loving. Careful.
Just perfect and way too emotional for a hookup.
She was conflicted.
His hand against her skin made her flinch slightly. She opened her eyes, glancing down at his hand on her arm before looking up at him.
He was way too beautiful.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, afraid to break the fragility of the moment.
His voice was soft.
She nodded, a small, tired smile on her face.
He reciprocated, watching her. He stayed watching her for a moment before he shifted. Closer.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her into him. Rather inviting her.
She accepted of course.
y/n moved around in his grip until she felt comfortable enough. Her head laid on his chest, legs tangled beneath the sheets.
It was comfortable. Familiar.
His fingers tangled in her slightly damp hair as they let themselves relax in the embrace. Her body was practically limp against his.
He smiled against her hair, pressing a soft kiss to the spot.
“I wouldn’t mind it if you left your toothbrush here more often.”
Her body shook against his gently with the quiet laugh she let out. “Of course you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even be surprised if you planned this, actually.”
“Didn’t plan it, but thanks for the idea.” he joked, their laughter filling his bedroom.
Silence fell over them for a moment, the two simply enjoying each other’s presence.
“Are you staying over?”
She hummed in response.
“Good.”
Her stomach flipped at his simple response. It was now or never.
“Yunho?” she sounded fragile. It even scared her.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is how friends with benefits act.” she pointed out, her fingers absentmindedly tracing random lines on his bare waist.
Yunho’s heartbeat picked up. He just hoped she couldn’t hear it. “Yeah, not really.”
“Fuck the benefits part?” she asked, hopeful.
“Fuck the friends part, y/n.”
She picked her head off his chest, looking at him with an excited smile. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
She just leaned in, closing the remaining distance between them. The kiss was soft. Careful in a way, none were previously.
y/n couldn’t help but smile into it, a laugh escaping her. “That was probably the corniest thing you’ve ever said, by the way.”
“I was literally quoting you.” he shot back with a laugh of his own.
“Still.”
“Shut up.”
And he kissed her again.
The toothbrush was just the beginning of it all.
⊹ ࣪ ˖🫐ᝰ.ᐟ 𝙈𝘼𝙀 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝘼𝙆𝙎
— finally locked in and finished this. my eyes are closing. hope u guys like it tho!!🥹
I got no words for this except that it's amazingly written and Im only hearing soft love songs in my ears when I read it. Yunho not denying the husband energy allegations sighhhhhh
synopsis : A pirate caught stealing from the crown crosses paths with a princess bound by duty, forcing them to choose between the safety of a crown and the freedom of the sea.
author’s note : requested by @fluffypuddingatz 🤍 im gonna say this before anyone comes after me 😔 one of my moot has an ongoing series that is the same trope and genre. i’ve checked it wif mine and it does NOT have the same storyline/plot at all. once again having the genre and trope doesn’t mean plagiarism so don’t even THINK of bothering me about it again 🫵 im tired of people accusing me of copying when i spent hours staring at my gg docs just to cook up a short story
word count : 4.9k
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The first thing you notice is that he isn’t afraid.
Chains bite into the man’s wrists as the guards drag him across the marble floor, iron scraping loudly enough to echo up the cathedral ceilings of the throne room.
Blood stains one corner of his mouth—fresh, careless—but his spine stays straight, chin lifted, eyes sharp and laughing in a place where no laughter should exist.
A pirate, they say.
A thief.
A man caught with his hands inside the royal treasury.
And yet, when he looks up—when his gaze cuts through the room like a blade—you have the strangest, most unsettling thought of all:
He looks like he chose this.
Your father’s voice booms from the throne, thick with fury. “You dare steal from the crown and walk into my kingdom as if you own it?”
The pirate’s lips curve, slow and sinful. “Didn’t walk,” he says lightly. “Sailed.”
A murmur ripples through the court. A guard strikes the back of his knee with a spear, forcing him down—but even on one knee, even in chains, he does not bow.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
You’ve seen nobles grovel. You’ve seen men beg. You’ve seen fear twist even the proudest into something small and desperate.
But this man?
He kneels like a king waiting to be crowned.
“You will show respect,” the guard snarls.
The pirate lifts his eyes again—and this time, they land on you.
It’s wrong, the way the world narrows.
Wrong, the way the noise fades until there’s only the steady drum of your pulse and the weight of his gaze, dark and knowing, like he’s just uncovered a secret you didn’t know you were keeping.
“Ah,” he says softly, as if amused. “And that’s a jewel worth stealing.”
Your heart jumps.
“How dare you speak to my daughter,” your father snaps.
The pirate smiles wider.
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he says, voice smooth as sea glass. “Didn’t realize she was off-limits.”
Something dangerous sparks behind his eyes. “Though I’ve never been good with boundaries.”
You should look away.
You don’t.
He’s beautiful in a way that feels unfair—salt-tangled hair tied back with a strip of faded red cloth, sun-kissed skin marked with scars that tell stories no court historian ever could.
There’s ink peeking out from beneath his torn sleeve, resting on his bicep like it belongs there.
Confidence written into flesh.
And suddenly, the jewels glittering in the velvet-lined tray at your father’s feet feel… dull.
“You will be executed at dawn,” the king declares. “For theft. For treason. For mocking the crown.”
Gasps echo.
You feel cold all at once.
The pirate tilts his head, considering this. “That’s it?” he asks. “No interrogation? No dramatic dungeon monologue?”
The guard punches him hard enough to split his lip properly this time.
You flinch.
The pirate laughs.
It’s quiet. Rough. Real.
When his gaze flicks back to you, something changes—just a fraction. The humor softens, turns curious.
“You’re not like them,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.
Your fingers curl into your skirts. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I’d like to.”
The king rises. “Take him away.”
As the guards haul him toward the doors, he twists just enough to look back at you one last time.
“Enjoy your pretty cage, princess,” he says gently. “The sea’s much kinder.”
The doors slam shut.
Silence crashes down around you.
You should feel relieved.
Instead, your heart feels like it’s been crushed.
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The dungeon smells like salt and damp stone.
You shouldn’t be here.
That thought follows you down the spiral steps, echoes with every soft footfall of your slippers against the cold floor.
Your guards stop at the bottom, uncertain, glancing at one another like men who know they’ve crossed an invisible line but aren’t brave enough to stop you.
“It’s all right,” you murmur, lifting your chin. “I’ll only be a moment.”
They hesitate—then unlock the iron gate.
He’s sitting on the floor when you see him.
Back against the wall, legs stretched out, chains slack between his wrists like they were put there more out of habit than necessity.
One knee is bent, arm draped lazily over it, as if this were a tavern corner and not a cell meant to break men.
He looks up before you speak.
“You came,” the pirate says, voice roughened by stone and thirst—but unmistakably pleased.
You freeze.
He hasn’t told you his name. You hadn’t either.
Hadn’t offered a single kindness. And yet he speaks like he expected this, like the path of the world bent inevitably toward this moment.
“I shouldn’t have,” you say. “If my father knew—”
“He does,” he replies easily. “Kings always know more than they pretend.”
His eyes rake over you, slower this time, more deliberate. Not hungry. Not crude. Just… attentive.
“You look different without the court watching,” he adds. “Still a crown on your head, though.”
You swallow. “You mock me again, and I’ll leave.”
“Ah.” His mouth tilts. “There it is. The bite.”
You hate that warmth blooms in your chest at his words.
You step closer despite yourself.
The torchlight flickers, catching on the dried blood at his lip, the faint bruise darkening his cheek. Your stomach twists.
“They hurt you,” you say quietly.
He shrugs. “I’ve had worse welcomes.”
“You’re sentenced to die.”
He meets your gaze. Holds it.
“Are you here to watch?” he asks softly.
“No,” you say too quickly. “I— I wanted to know why.”
“Why steal from a king?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He considers this, then shifts, chains clinking. “For the thrill,” he says first. Then, more honestly, “Because he hoards what the sea gives freely.”
You frown. “The jewels—”
“Were never meant to sit in velvet trays,” The man interrupts. “They were torn from shipwrecks. Graves. Storms that swallowed entire crews.” His eyes darken. “Your father calls it treasure. I call it ghosts.”
Silence stretches between you.
You’ve been raised on stories of noble conquest, of divine right and righteous rule. No one ever spoke of ghosts.
“And you?” he asks suddenly. “Why come here?”
You hesitate.
Because when the doors closed behind you earlier, something inside your chest had screamed. Because the throne room felt smaller without him in it.
Because for the first time in your life, someone had looked at you and seen more than a role.
“Because you weren’t afraid,” you admit.
His expression softens—just a little.
“Fear’s a luxury,” he says. “Men like me don’t get it.”
“You will tomorrow,” you whisper.
He leans forward then, chains pulling taut, eyes sharp and searching your face. “Would that bother you, princess?”
“Yes,” you say.
The answer surprises you both.
The pirate exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself against something dangerous. “That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs. “Because now I’m starting to care.”
Your heart stutters.
“You shouldn’t,” you say. “I belong to the crown.”
He smiles sadly. “That’s what worries me.”
Footsteps echo above. The guards shift, restless.
You step back, suddenly afraid—not of him, but of how easily you want to stay.
“Rest,” you say, unsure what else to offer.
“I don’t sleep in cages,” Hongjoong replies gently.
As you turn to leave, his voice follows you, low and sure.
“Princess?”
You pause.
“When dawn comes,” he says, “remember this.”
You look back.
“I could have escaped already.”
Your breath catches.
“But I didn’t.”
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You don’t sleep.
The palace settles into its usual midnight hush—tapestries still, torches dimmed, servants retreating like ghosts—but your mind refuses to follow.
Every time you close your eyes, you see him instead.
I could have escaped already.
The words lodge beneath your ribs.
You rise before you can stop yourself.
This time, you don’t bring guards.
The dungeon greets you like a held breath. The same damp stone, the same iron bars—but he’s standing now, back straight, head tilted as if he felt you coming before your footsteps ever reached him.
“Took you long enough,” he says softly.
Your heart stumbles. “You were certain I’d return.”
“Certain enough,” he replies. “People who don’t come back don’t look the way you did.”
“And how did I look?” you ask.
Like you were already gone, he almost says.
Instead, he smiles. “Like a storm pretending to be a sunrise.”
You grip the edge of your cloak. “You said you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze sharpens—not playful now, not teasing. Honest. Bare.
“Because you looked at me like I mattered,” Hongjoong says. “And men like me don’t forget that.”
Silence presses in.
“I can help you,” you whisper.
His brow lifts. “You plan to fight the crown with a whisper?”
“No,” you say, stepping closer to the bars. “With a bargain.”
He studies you carefully, as if weighing the truth of your bones. “I don’t bargain with royalty.”
“I’m not my father,” you say. “Not tonight.”
The torchlight flickers between you. Close enough now that you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest, the tension coiled in his shoulders like a tether pulled too tight.
“What do you want?” he asks.
You swallow.
“To understand you,” you say. “And in return… I’ll delay the execution.”
His eyes widen—just a fraction.
“That’s treason,” he murmurs.
“So is theft,” you reply. “We’re already standing on the same edge.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, but there’s something dangerous beneath it now—something reverent.
“Careful, princess,” the man says. “If you keep choosing me, there won’t be a way back.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, you reach through the bars and touch his wrist.
The contact is brief. Chaste. Electric.
He stills completely.
“I don’t want back,” you say quietly.
For a moment, he looks like a man who has lost his footing at sea.
Then his hand closes gently around your fingers—not pulling, not trapping. Just holding.
“Then listen,” he says, voice low. “Tomorrow at dawn, they’ll expect me to beg.”
You shake your head. “You won’t.”
“No,” he agrees. “Because tonight, you’re going to unlock these chains.”
Your breath catches. “I—”
“You won’t free me,” he continues softly. “Not yet. You’ll just loosen them. Enough.”
He leans closer to the bars, forehead almost touching yours.
“And when the time comes,” he whispers, “you’ll decide who you really belong to.”
Your pulse roars in your ears.
“I’m Hongjoong, by the way.”
“Hongjoong,” you say—his name tasting like a secret on your tongue.
He smiles, slow and devastating.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “So I know this isn’t a dream.”
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The first lie slips from your mouth easier than you expect.
“Postpone the execution,” you tell your father over breakfast, voice steady despite the way your fingers tremble around your teacup. “The court will want a public trial. It will make an example.”
The king studies you over the rim of his goblet.
“Since when do you concern yourself with pirates?” he asks.
You meet his gaze, calm and dutiful, the way you’ve been trained since childhood. “Since one humiliated the crown inside its own walls.”
That does it.
Your father nods sharply. “Three days,” he says. “No more.”
Three days.
It feels like both mercy and a sentence.
That night, you return to the dungeon with the key hidden in your sleeve, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain the guards must hear it.
But the corridors remain empty. Silent. Waiting.
Hongjoong is sitting exactly where you left him.
“You came back,” he says, not surprised at all.
“I bought you time,” you whisper. “Only days.”
He watches as you kneel, hands shaking as you fit the key into the lock around his wrist. The iron clicks open—just enough for him to move more freely, not enough to run.
You pull back quickly, breath uneven.
“That was foolish,” he says softly.
“I know.”
He flexes his hand, eyes never leaving your face. “You’re changing.”
“So are you,” you reply.
His smile fades. “Don’t mistake calmness for surrender, princess.”
“I don’t,” you say. “I just don’t want you to die.”
The words hang between you, fragile and real.
He steps closer, chains slack now, stopping just short of you. “If I walk free,” Hongjoong murmurs, “your world will burn.”
You lift your chin. “Then let it.”
For the first time, he looks afraid—not of death, not of the king—but of you.
Above ground, the court begins to whisper.
The pirate doesn’t beg. Doesn’t rage. Doesn’t break.
Instead, he waits, eyes always flicking to the shadows when you pass, like he knows you’re there even when he can’t see you.
And your father watches you more closely now.
“The crown suits you,” he says one evening, fingers heavy on your shoulder. “Don’t forget what it cost to place it there.”
But when night falls, and you stand at your window overlooking the dark sea, you realize something terrible and beautiful all at once:
You’re no longer wondering if you’d choose him.
You’re wondering when.
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The trap is set at noon.
You know it the moment the court gathers without announcement, the way armored guards line the walls instead of ceremonial ones, the way your father’s voice carries just a little too far as he announces the trial.
“The pirate will speak,” the king declares. “Let the court hear what sort of man dares defy the crown.”
Your stomach drops.
You meet Hongjoong’s eyes across the hall as they drag him in, chains back in place, wounds cleaned just enough to make him presentable.
He looks… different today. Straighter. Sharper.
Like he’s bracing for something worse than death.
He catches your look—and gives the faintest shake of his head.
Don’t.
The realization hits you like cold water.
This trial isn’t for justice.
It’s bait.
“State your name,” the king commands.
Hongjoong lifts his head. The room stills.
“Kim Hongjoong,” he says clearly. “Captain of the Black Dawn.”
The court erupts.
Whispers ripple like fire—that ship, the one that vanished entire fleets, the one sailors swear answers only to storms.
Your father’s eyes narrow. “A captain admits to piracy, then.”
“I admit to survival,” Hongjoong replies calmly. “To taking back what was stolen first.”
“And what was stolen?” the king snaps.
Hongjoong turns—slowly, deliberately—and looks straight at you.
“People,” he says.
The word lands heavy.
“My parents worked royal trade routes,” he continues. “They died when your taxes forced captains to sail through storms they couldn’t outrun. My crew? Runaways. Orphans. Men your laws forgot.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I steal from crowns,” Hongjoong says, “because crowns never miss what they take.”
Silence crashes down.
Your father rises. “Enough. You’ll hang at dawn.”
You stand before you can stop yourself.
“Father,” you say, voice cutting through the hall. “You promised a trial.”
The king turns slowly. “Sit.”
“No,” you say—and the word feels like freedom. “If he is to die, then let him die as what he is. Not a spectacle.”
Hongjoong’s eyes widen.
Your father studies you for a long moment. Then, coldly, “Escort the princess to her chambers.”
Hands grip your arms.
As you’re dragged away, Hongjoong’s voice follows you—steady, unafraid.
“Don’t do this for me,” he calls. “Do it because you’re better than him.”
The doors slam shut behind you.
That night, the sea roars louder than you’ve ever heard it from the palace walls.
And for the first time, you understand what he meant when he said your world would burn.
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They lock you in.
Not a dungeon—never that. Your chambers, still silk-draped and candlelit, still smelling faintly of roses and ink. But the guards outside the door don’t pretend anymore. You are not being protected.
You are being contained.
The sea is restless tonight. You hear it even through stone walls, waves crashing hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. Wind claws at the curtains like it’s trying to get in—or trying to get you out.
Dawn, your father had said.
You don’t change out of your gown.
You pace. You think. You break apart quietly and put yourself back together again.
Then you move.
The passage behind the bookshelf opens with a familiar click. A secret meant for kings and heirs, carved into the bones of the palace long before you were born.
You’ve only used it once before, as a child, running from lessons you didn’t want.
Now, you run toward something you do.
The dungeon is chaos when you arrive.
Shouts. Steel. The clang of alarms ringing too late.
Smoke curls through the corridor—and there he is.
Hongjoong stands in the middle of it, chains gone, blade in hand, blood on his knuckles that you know isn’t all his. He looks wild like this. Unleashed. Like the sea finally remembered his name.
He freezes when he sees you.
“What did you do,” he breathes.
“I woke up,” you say, stepping over a fallen guard. Your voice doesn’t shake. “You said you stayed. I’m not asking you to anymore.”
His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
“You could lose everything.”
You lift your chin. “I already have.”
For a moment, the world narrows to the space between you. Smoke. Firelight. The sound of boots pounding somewhere far away.
Then Hongjoong does something that shatters you.
He steps away.
“No,” he says hoarsely. “I won’t take you from this.”
“I’m not asking you to take me,” you reply. “I’m asking you to stop leaving me behind.”
The words land. Hard.
He stares at you like you’ve struck him.
“You don’t belong in my world,” he says. “It’s blood and storms and graves without names.”
You step closer anyway. “Then let me choose it.”
The silence between you hums—dangerous, electric.
Finally, Hongjoong exhales, long and shaky.
“You’re cruel,” he murmurs. “Do you know that?”
You smile, small and sad. “You taught me.”
He reaches for you—not rough, not hurried—fingers brushing your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Once we run,” he whispers, “there is no crown. No palace. No return.”
You close your eyes.
“I don’t want one.”
He nods once.
And then he grabs your hand and runs.
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Outside, the Black Dawn waits like a promise.
The sea explodes beneath moonlight, sails snapping, crew shouting your name like they already know you belong.
Hongjoong pulls you aboard just as arrows strike the water behind you.
You look back once.
The palace stands bright and terrible against the cliffs—your old life watching you leave without a word.
Hongjoong’s coat settles around your shoulders, heavy and warm.
“Are you still afraid?” he asks quietly.
You lace your fingers through his.
“No,” you say. “I think I’m finally free.”
The ship turns toward open water.
And for the first time, the sea answers you back.
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Life at sea is not kind to you.
It doesn’t care that you once slept on feather beds or learned to dance before you learned to run.
The deck is hard, the wind unforgiving, the nights cold enough to bite straight through bone. Your hands blister. Your muscles ache in places you didn’t know existed.
And still, you’ve never felt more awake.
Hongjoong doesn’t coddle you. That surprises you at first.
He teaches you instead—how to tie knots that won’t slip when the waves turn violent, how to read the sky’s temper by the shape of clouds, how to stand your ground when the ship bucks beneath your feet.
But at night, when the crew sleeps and the sea quiets into something almost gentle, he sits with you at the bow.
“You don’t regret it,” he says one evening. Not a question.
“No,” you answer. “Do you?”
He watches the horizon for a long time. “I regret that the world made you choose.”
The Black Dawn becomes a living thing around you. The crew warms—slowly, cautiously.
They call you Captain’s Shadow at first, half-mocking, half-curious. Later, it softens into something else.
Something earned.
But freedom is loud. Too loud.
By the third week, the sails of a royal frigate slice the horizon like a blade.
Hongjoong sees it instantly.
“Below deck,” he orders.
You don’t argue. Not because you’re afraid—but because you trust him.
The chase is brutal.
Cannon fire shatters the water around you.
The Black Dawn is fast, but wounded ships bleed speed. A lucky strike splinters the mast. Another tears through the stern.
They board you at dawn.
Steel clashes. Shouts fill the air. Smoke burns your lungs.
Hongjoong fights like a storm given hands—but storms can be surrounded.
When they drag him to his knees, you scream his name before you can stop yourself.
Your father steps onto the deck.
Older. Colder. Furious.
“I warned you,” the king says, eyes never leaving you. “Crowns do not forgive.”
Hongjoong lifts his head, blood in his teeth, defiant even now. “Let her go.”
The king laughs. “Still stealing what isn’t yours?”
You step forward.
“Take me,” you say. “Spare them.”
Hongjoong twists violently. “No—”
Your father considers. Then smiles.
“A fair trade,” he says. “A princess for a pirate.”
Chains snap around Hongjoong’s wrists.
You meet his eyes as they pull you away.
“This isn’t the end,” you whisper.
He shakes his head, voice breaking for the first time. “It can’t be—not like this.”
But the sea doesn’t argue.
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The palace feels wrong when you return.
Too clean. Too quiet. Like it’s holding its breath around you.
They dress you again in silks and jewels, as if fabric can undo what the sea carved into you.
As if the lace can erase the memory of rope burns on your palms, of salt in your hair, of Hongjoong’s coat heavy and warm around your shoulders.
Your father does not raise his voice.
That frightens you more than anger ever could.
“You embarrassed the crown,” he says calmly, standing at the window that overlooks the harbor. The Black Dawn is gone—confiscated, broken apart, reduced to lumber and memory. “You ran with a criminal. You made yourself small.”
“I made myself honest,” you reply.
He turns slowly. “Honesty is a luxury of those without responsibility.”
You think of Hongjoong, chained again. Bruised. Still standing tall.
“You’re going to execute him anyway,” you say.
The king’s mouth curves—not quite a smile. “No. Death would make him a legend.”
Your blood runs cold.
“He will rot,” your father continues. “Where no sea can reach him. Where no one remembers his name.”
That night, you don’t scream. You don’t cry.
You sit at your desk and write.
The first letter is short, because your hands shake too badly for poetry.
I am still here. I am still yours.
The sea hasn’t taken me yet.
You don’t know if he’ll ever read it.
You write anyway.
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Days pass. Weeks.
They keep you close now—always watched, always escorted. But they underestimate you, the way men always underestimate women who have learned to survive quietly.
You listen. You learn.
You memorize guard rotations, corridors, names whispered too carelessly near doors. You smile at councilmen and let them believe you’re broken, repentant, softened back into place.
At night, you dream of waves and wake up tasting iron.
And somewhere beneath the palace—deep, deep below—Hongjoong counts time by the sound of dripping water and refuses to forget your face.
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The cell is smaller than before.
No torch this time. No audience. Just stone and shadow and a chain bolted so deep into the wall it might as well be part of the earth itself.
Hongjoong sits with his back against it, eyes closed, breathing slow.
He doesn’t pray. He remembers.
The way you stood your ground on his deck.
The way you said you don’t regret everything you decided to do.
The way your hand felt in his when the world was burning.
They beat him when he refuses to answer questions. Starve him when he laughs. Leave him alone for days, then return just to see if he’s cracked.
He doesn’t.
Because hope—real hope—is a dangerous thing.
And you left it inside him like a blade.
Sometimes, when the guards are careless, he hears singing from far above. Court music drifting down stone corridors it was never meant to reach.
He knows it’s you.
Not because he hears your voice—but because the song is wrong. Too sad. Too brave.
He presses his forehead to the cold wall and whispers your name like a vow.
“I’m still here,” he tells the dark. “I’m still yours.”
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The plan takes months.
It has to.
You arrange marriages that never happen. Redirect funds. Convince your father that certain ports are no longer worth guarding. You become indispensable—sharp, obedient, terrifyingly competent.
And slowly, the crown loosens its grip.
On the night you move, the palace is celebrating.
A treaty. A victory. A distraction.
You descend alone this time, wearing no jewels, no silk—just a simple cloak and a knife hidden at your thigh.
The guards don’t expect you.
They never do.
The door opens with a groan that sounds too loud in the silence.
“Hongjoong,” you whisper.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then he looks up.
Thinner. Bruised. Alive.
He stares at you like he’s seeing the sea for the first time.
“You’re real,” he breathes.
You cross the cell in two steps and drop to your knees in front of him, hands shaking as you fumble with the lock.
“I told you,” you whisper, tears finally spilling. “I don’t leave things unfinished.”
The chain falls.
He pulls you into him so hard it knocks the air from your lungs, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he murmurs, broken and reverent all at once.
You smile through tears. “You taught me how to escape.”
Above you, the sea waits.
And this time, you’re taking something back.
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You don’t run right away.
That’s the first thing that nearly gets you killed.
Boots thunder somewhere above. The palace is alive tonight—drunk on celebration, careless with its safety. Still, time is a blade at your throat.
“Can you walk?”
He nods once. Then, softer, “If it’s with you.”
You help him up. He stumbles, catches himself, straightens like the man you know him to be—still captain, even stripped of his ship, his crew, his freedom.
You lead him through corridors you memorized by heart. Secret turns. Old passages. Doors meant for kings fleeing wars they swore would never reach them.
At the final gate, you hesitate.
Beyond it: the sea.
Behind you: everything you were.
Hongjoong watches your face carefully. “Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll go alone.”
You turn to him, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth.
You push the gate open.
The water is black and alive beneath the cliffs, waves smashing against rock like they’re furious you waited so long.
A small ship waits below—nothing like the Black Dawn. Modest. Fast. Loyal to coin and silence.
You climb down first. Hongjoong follows, muscles screaming, jaw clenched against pain he refuses to show.
The moment his boots hit the deck, the wind shifts.
He exhales like the sea has finally let him breathe again.
But freedom is loud.
Arrows cut the air.
“DOWN,” Hongjoong shouts, pulling you hard against him as steel bites into wood where your head had been a second before.
Torches bloom along the cliffs.
Your father’s voice carries over the water—furious, betrayed, echoing with the weight of a crown that is finally slipping.
“COME BACK,” he roars. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”
You stand.
Hongjoong grabs you. “Don’t.”
You shake your head gently, prying his fingers from your sleeve.
“I was never his,” you say.
Then you turn to the cliffs and speak—not loudly, but clearly.
“I choose the sea.”
The sails snap open.
The wind surges like it’s been waiting for you.
The palace fades behind you—not destroyed, not conquered—just left behind, which somehow feels worse.
Hongjoong watches until the cliffs are nothing but shadow.
Then he turns to you.
Slowly. Carefully. Like this moment matters more than escape.
“You gave up everything,” he says hoarsely.
You shake your head. “No. I kept what mattered.”
He pulls you into him—not desperate now, not frantic. Steady. Certain.
The kiss that follows is not fireworks.
It’s recognition.
Salt and blood and tears and promise. A vow made without words.
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─────────
It takes time to rebuild.
The sea doesn’t hand back what it takes without asking for payment.
You sail under a borrowed name. Hide in coves. Gather crew one soul at a time—runaways, survivors, people who recognize Hongjoong not as a thief, but as a captain who never abandons his own.
They whisper when they realize who you are.
A princess who chose exile.
A woman who broke a crown and didn’t look back.
The Black Dawn is gone—but something new rises in its place. Smaller. Sharper. Built not on legend, but on loyalty.
Hongjoong watches you claim your place among them with quiet awe.
“You belong here,” he tells you one night, sitting beside you on the deck as the sea stretches endlessly and calmly.
“So do you,” you reply.
He smiles then—the real one. The one you fell for in chains.
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Years later, sailors tell stories.
Of a pirate captain who steals only from crowns.
Of a woman beside him who once wore one—and chose to stand beside him instead.
Of a ship that never sinks, because it carries something heavier than gold.
Love.
And sometimes, when the sea is calm and the moon is generous, Hongjoong presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs.
pairing : mafia boss’s son! wooyoung x fem! reader
synopsis : You hide your identity to survive the mafia and end up sharing a safehouse with a mafia boss’s son who grows dangerously attached to you.
genre : slice of life, mulan au, fluff, mafia au, angst, comfort, romance, little comedy, cross dressing, slow-burn
warnings : violence, blood, swearing
author’s note : im assuming the anon who tried to accuse me of plagiarism was lying so imma just drop the matter (unless they respond) 🤠anywaysies idk if i did this genius idea justice 🥲but it was super fun to write so i hope yall enjoy it 🥹🩷
word count : 3.6k
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You learn early that the mafia doesn’t care about excuses.
It doesn’t care that your father’s hands shake too badly to pull a trigger anymore, that the debts he accrued were never meant to be permanent, that the men who now own his life speak in calm voices and smile when they threaten to take fingers instead of money. The mafia only cares that someone pays.
So you do what you have to.
You cut your hair in a bathroom mirror with shaking hands, watching dark strands fall into the sink like pieces of your old life.
You bind your chest until breathing becomes something you have to consciously remember. You pick a name that sounds ordinary enough not to be questioned.
You lower your voice. You straighten your shoulders. You practice walking like you’ve never once been afraid.
And when they ask for a son, you show up as one.
They don’t question it. Why would they? Girls don’t survive in this world.
Girls aren’t stupid enough to try.
You’re assigned a shared apartment three weeks after initiation — a concrete block tucked above a closed bar that smells like smoke and old liquor.
Safehouse, they call it. A place for trusted members who’ve proven they won’t talk.
Your roommate arrives late.
You’re halfway through unpacking when the door swings open without a knock, boots heavy against the floor, presence filling the space instantly.
“Oh. They finally gave me one,” someone says.
You turn.
The man standing at the door is exactly the kind of man the mafia rewards.
Pretty in a dangerous way. Sharp-eyed. Loud smile. Relaxed posture that screams he knows how to kill someone and sleep just fine afterward. His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled up, knuckles scarred like he’s stopped bothering to hide them.
He looks you up and down.
“You’re small,” he says.
You freeze for half a second too long.
Then you shrug, forcing a careless grin. “Guess that’s my tragic flaw.”
He laughs, bright, effortless, and drops his jacket on the chair. “Relax. I don’t bite. Much.” He sticks out a hand. “Wooyoung.”
You shake it. His grip is warm.
Firm. Confident.
You give him your fake name.
“Nice to meet you, hyung,” he says automatically, already accepting the lie as truth.
That word sits heavy in your chest.
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─────────
Living with Wooyoung is… a nightmare.
Not because he’s cruel — if anything, he’s infuriatingly kind in a way that doesn’t belong in this line of work.
He steals your food but replaces it with something better. He complains nonstop but always shows up first when things go wrong. He hums while cleaning his guns like it’s a normal chore.
He also has no concept of personal space.
He walks around the apartment shirtless like it’s his God-given right, hair damp from the shower, towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He steals your hoodies. Your hoodies.
And then has the audacity to say, “Wow, hyung, this looks better on me.”
You sleep fully dressed, door locked. You learn to shower only when he’s gone. You learn to hide every flinch.
Wooyoung notices everything.
“Why don’t you drink much?”
“Why do you always volunteer for lookout instead of close combat?”
“Why do you sleep like someone’s gonna stab you?”
You shrug. You deflect. You joke.
He narrows his eyes sometimes, studying you like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet.
But he never pushes.
Instead, he grows… protective.
When senior members bark orders at you, Wooyoung steps in. When you’re bruised after training, he wordlessly hands you ice. When other guys get too curious, Wooyoung slings an arm around your shoulders and grins like you’re his.
It’s confusing.
Worse. It’s dangerous.
Because somewhere between shared takeout boxes at 3 a.m. and patching each other up after missions, you realize something has shifted.
Wooyoung looks at you like you matter.
And you look at him like you’re forgetting who you’re pretending to be.
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You learn the sound of his footsteps.
The way he kicks his shoes off without using his hands. The habit he has of tapping twice on the counter while waiting for the kettle to boil. The way he hums when he’s relaxed — soft, absent-minded, like he forgets he’s dangerous.
The first time you catch him staring, it’s over something stupid.
You’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch, cleaning your gun. Sleeves rolled up. Focused. You look up because the silence stretches too long.
Wooyoung’s leaning against the doorframe.
“What?” you ask, forcing your voice lower.
He blinks. “You always do that.”
“Do what.”
“That thing with your hands.” He gestures vaguely. “You’re really… careful.”
You shrug. “Keeps me alive.”
He studies you for another second before grinning. “Cute.”
You choke on air.
“Don’t… don’t call me that.”
“Why?” He pushes off the frame, sauntering closer. “You blush like you’ve been caught stealing.”
“I do not.”
He laughs, loud and bright, and for a second you forget you’re surrounded by people who would kill you without hesitation if they knew the truth.
Then he flops onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees touch.
Too close.
You freeze.
Wooyoung doesn’t notice—or pretends not to. He stretches, arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to expose skin. Your eyes snap away immediately.
“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Why don’t you ever bring anyone over?”
You stiffen. “What?”
“Everyone does.” He shrugs. “Girls, mostly. Guys sometimes. Whatever.” He smirks. “You’re not exactly ugly.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“I’m not interested,” you say quickly.
“In anyone?”
“No.”
He hums. “Weird.”
You force a laugh. “Guess I’m boring.”
Wooyoung turns his head, eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache. “Nah. Just… different.”
That word follows you for weeks.
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The mafia doesn’t ease up just because you’re good.
If anything, it pushes harder.
You’re useful — quiet, observant, willing to take orders without complaint. You don’t drink too much. You don’t talk too much. You don’t make enemies. People underestimate you, and you let them.
Wooyoung doesn’t.
During training, he positions himself where he can see you. During meetings, he sits close enough that his knee presses into yours under the table. During missions, he checks on you constantly.
“You good?”
“Watch your six.”
“Stay behind me.”
One night, after a particularly bad run, you come home with bruises blooming across your ribs.
You don’t think he’s noticed until there’s a knock on your bedroom door.
You hesitate, then open it just enough.
Wooyoung’s eyes drop immediately.
“Sit,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Something in his tone makes you obey.
He crouches in front of you, hands gentle as he lifts your shirt just enough to see the damage. You hold your breath, praying the bindings stay hidden.
His jaw tightens.
“They shouldn’t have put you that close,” he mutters. “You’re not built for taking hits like that.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
He tapes your ribs himself, fingers warm, careful. Too careful. He avoids your eyes the whole time.
When he’s done, he lingers.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.
Your laugh comes out brittle. “Leaving what?”
“All of this.” He gestures vaguely. “Running. Starting over.”
You swallow. “People like us don’t get that.”
He looks at you then — really looks.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe not.”
But something in his expression says he’s thinking about it anyway.
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The line blurs somewhere along the way.
It’s late nights on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, exhaustion stripping away pretense. It’s Wooyoung falling asleep mid-conversation, head tipping onto your shoulder like it belongs there.
It’s you freezing, heart racing, afraid to move, afraid to want.
You start memorizing him in ways you shouldn’t.
The scar under his collarbone. The way his laughter sounds different when it’s just the two of you. How gentle he is when he thinks no one’s watching.
One night, he wakes up from a nightmare.
You hear it through the wall — a sharp intake of breath, a muffled curse. You knock before you can stop yourself.
“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”
He nods too fast. “Yeah. Just— yeah.”
You sit with him anyway.
He doesn’t talk about it. Just lets your presence ground him. At some point, he leans forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
“You’re… safe,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.
You blink. “What?”
“You make things feel less heavy.” He exhales. “Don’t know why.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Wooyoung laughs weakly. “Don’t get weird about it.”
You smile. “Too late.”
He bumps your shoulder. “Idiot.”
You think — distantly — that if things were different, you might love him.
That thought terrifies you.
By the time the rain-soaked mission is announced, everyone knows you and Wooyoung are inseparable.
That’s why you’re paired together.
Wooyoung grins when he sees your name next to his. “Told you. We’re a team.”
You force a smile.
Something in your gut twists.
As you gear up, he tightens the strap on your vest for you, fingers brushing your collarbone.
“You nervous?” he asks.
“No,” you lie.
He smirks. “Good. I’d hate to have to babysit.”
But when you step into the rain, he walks half a step ahead of you — shield without saying the word.
You don’t know yet that this is the last moment you’ll get to keep your secret intact.
You don’t know that the bullet waiting in that warehouse is about to take more than blood.
And Wooyoung…
Wooyoung has no idea he’s about to learn the truth in the most brutal way possible.
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The night everything starts to unravel, it’s raining.
The kind of rain that turns the city slick and reflective, lights blurring into something almost beautiful. The mission is supposed to be simple — retrieve a stolen shipment, intimidate the idiots who thought they could resell it, leave.
Wooyoung insists on being paired with you.
“Relax,” he says, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
You don’t know how to tell him that’s exactly the problem.
The warehouse smells like metal and oil. Things go wrong fast. Too many men. Bad intel.
A gunshot rings out sharp and deafening.
And pain explodes through your side.
You barely register the blood until Wooyoung swears.
“Hey. Hey—look at me.”
His hands are on you, steady, grounding. You try to stand. Your legs give out.
“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re hit.”
You shake your head instinctively. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
He half-drags, half-carries you behind cover, firing back with terrifying precision. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.
When it’s over—when the threat is neutralized and backup is on the way—Wooyoung doesn’t let go of you.
Not once.
“You’re not dying,” he says, voice low and furious. “Don’t you dare.”
Your vision blurs.
The last thing you hear before everything fades is him calling your name — your fake one — like it’s real.
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When you wake up, you’re in your apartment.
On the couch.
Your shirt is gone.
And Wooyoung is kneeling in front of you, hands red with blood, eyes wide with something that looks terrifyingly close to heartbreak.
“You—” His voice cracks. “You’re—”
He stops. Looks at you.
At the bindings. At your body.
At the truth laid bare between you.
“…What the fuck,” Wooyoung whispers.
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The apartment is silent except for the rain thrumming against the windows.
Every drop feels louder than it should, like the world is magnifying the moment. You’re on the couch, blood still warm against your skin, shirt half undone from his frantic care.
Wooyoung is kneeling in front of you, hands trembling as they hover over your wound, eyes wide and dark with something you can’t immediately name.
He swallows hard.
His voice is low, ragged, like he’s trying to force himself to speak without shattering. “You—”
You flinch, expecting anger, disappointment, even disgust. But the words don’t come. He’s frozen, staring.
And in that look is something more dangerous: fear.
Fear of losing you. Fear of how close he came. Fear that he never truly knew you.
“I…” you breathe, voice small. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean?” he repeats sharply. His hands curl into fists, resting on the edge of the couch. “You’re telling me all this time… you weren’t who you said you were. You were lying to me. And I—” He stops abruptly, jaw tight. His usual playful confidence is gone, replaced by something raw, exposed, human.
Your stomach twists. “I had to. I—”
“You had to?” he snaps, and you flinch at the intensity, the sharpness of it. “You had to hide from me? From me? Do you know what I’d do if you—if I lost you today?”
You can’t speak. Your throat is too tight. Your hands curl in your lap, gripping each other until your knuckles ache. You’d imagined this moment a thousand times in your head—coming clean—but never like this, with him so close, so raw, so scared.
Wooyoung exhales, shaking his head. “…God, I can’t—” His hands drop to your sides, gentle now, tentative. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to—” Your voice cracks. “…I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t want you to see me like this, weak, vulnerable, lying. I thought… I thought you’d hate me.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares, as if trying to burn the truth into his memory.
And then he does the only thing he can: he grabs your hands, holding them against his chest. His touch is strong, insistent, desperate. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, voice raw with emotion. “Do you understand me? I—God, I thought I lost you today. You think I care about lies right now? You’re alive. You’re here. And that’s all that matters.”
Your chest tightens. Relief and guilt swirl together, heavy and sharp. “But—”
“No buts.” He leans back slightly, fingers still gripping yours. His eyes search yours like he’s memorizing you. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me. Not ever.”
The rain drums harder against the window, a chaotic echo of your racing hearts. You want to tell him everything, to spill your fears and regrets, but words fail you. Instead, you simply let him hold your hands, let his warmth seep into you, grounding you after the storm.
A long silence stretches, neither of you needing to speak. The lie is gone. The secret is exposed. And yet, somehow, you feel closer than ever.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs finally. “…Please.”
You nod, unable to trust your voice. The weight of the world, the mafia, the danger outside — it doesn’t matter in this small apartment, with him, with your truth laid bare.
And for the first time in months, you don’t have to pretend.
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The rain has stopped by morning, leaving the streets slick and quiet.
Light filters weakly through the blinds, casting stripes across the apartment floor. You wake on the couch, wrapped in one of Wooyoung’s hoodies, his jacket draped over your shoulders.
It smells faintly of him — sweat, soap, and something else you can’t name.
Your side aches, but the pain is duller now. The wound is bandaged, the worst of the bleeding stopped. You glance toward the kitchen and see him moving around, quiet for once, humming softly as he makes coffee.
He glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You awake?”
You nod, voice hoarse. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he says, setting a mug on the table for you. The aroma of strong coffee fills the room, comforting and grounding. “Drink this. You need it.”
You accept the mug, fingers brushing his as you take it. The contact makes you flinch slightly, and you notice him watching, patient, careful not to push. It’s strange — familiar, but different.
He’s always been loud, teasing, impossible to ignore. Now… he’s soft, protective, steady.
His hands wrap around his own mug. “About last night… I’m sorry if I scared you.”
You shake your head. “No. I needed—” You pause, searching for the right words. “I needed you to see the truth.”
He nods, eyes intent. “And I needed to know. You don’t have to pretend with me anymore you know.”
The weight of those words presses against your chest. It’s simple, but it carries everything: trust, relief, and the unspoken bond that’s been building between you for months.
For a long moment, you just sit there, sipping coffee in silence, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. Then Wooyoung leans back, stretches, and smirks — his old teasing self bubbling to the surface, though softer, gentler.
“You know,” he says, “you make a terrible ‘hyung.’”
You glare at him, but a laugh escapes despite yourself. “Oh, shut up.”
“Seriously,” he continues, voice playful but warm, “all that acting, all the sneaky habits… I’ve been dying to see who you really are. And now I know. You’re still… trouble.”
You roll your eyes, but the corners of your lips twitch. “Glad to disappoint.”
“No,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “I like it. You. All of you.”
Your heart stutters. “Wooyoung—”
He holds up a finger, teasing but insistent. “Shh. Just… let me be dumb about this for a second.”
You do. Because there’s safety in this — in the apartment, in him, in the honesty you’ve finally shared. You let him exist in this space with you, without pretense, without lies.
Later, he’s behind you on the couch, arms draped over your shoulders, fingers tracing idle patterns on your arms. You lean into him, letting the warmth sink in. It’s quiet. Domestic. Ordinary. And in a world of bullets, blood, and lies, it feels like a miracle.
“You’re staying, right?” he murmurs against your hair.
“Always,” you whisper back.
“And no more secrets,” he says softly. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You tell me everything.”
“I will,” you promise.
He grins, tugging you closer, playful again but tender. “Good. Because I don’t do well with mysteries. And honestly… I don’t think I ever want to.”
He leans down, brushing his lips lightly against yours, a tentative kiss that carries everything: relief, care, longing, and promise. You respond instinctively, pressing closer, letting the warmth of this fragile, battered world surround you both.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, you feel like you can breathe.
Like maybe — just maybe — surviving this world isn’t about pretending anymore. It’s about finding someone who’ll stand by you, no matter what.
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Weeks have passed since the warehouse mission.
Your side has healed, the bruises fading into pale memories, and the sharp sting of bandages replaced by the soft ache of muscle soreness.
The apartment feels… alive again.
Not in the chaotic, adrenaline-filled way of missions or gunfire, but in small, ordinary ways: the smell of coffee brewing, the low hum of the fridge, the faint tapping of Wooyoung’s boots as he walks from room to room.
He’s become impossibly domestic.
One morning, you stir awake to the sound of clattering pans.
Groaning, you peek over the edge of the bed. Wooyoung is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour. “Eggs, pancakes, and your favorite coffee,” he announces without looking up. “I’m basically a chef now. You’re welcome.”
You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’ve turned into a housewife mafia boss.”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Housewife? Nah. More like personal bodyguard-slash-domestic god. Big difference.”
By the time you stumble to the kitchen, he’s plating the food with a pride that makes you laugh despite yourself. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like a golden retriever waiting for approval. “Sit. Eat. I said I’d make sure you don’t starve, didn’t I?”
You do, and he doesn’t leave your side. He teases, he fusses, he watches you drink coffee, waits until you laugh at one of his dumb jokes before allowing himself a small smile.
After breakfast, he sprawls next to you on the couch, tossing a blanket over your shoulders. “Mission prep tomorrow,” he says casually, but there’s no edge to his voice. Just routine. “But today? Today we chill. You, me, maybe that ridiculous action movie you like.”
You rest your head against his shoulder. “Do you ever stop?”
“Stop caring about you?” he says, mock offense in his tone. “Never.”
The city outside hums, indifferent as always. But inside, the apartment is warm. Safe. Yours.
At night, he curls around you, the apartment dimly lit, rain drumming gently against the windows. “You know,” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing, protective all at once, “I could get used to this. Waking up with you here, seeing that you’re okay, not having to fight every day just to keep each other alive…”
You press a soft kiss to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “We’ll survive. Together.”
He grins, a lazy, content smile. “Good. Because I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Ever.”
And as you drift to sleep, wrapped in warmth, safety, and trust, you realize that surviving the mafia, surviving the lies, surviving the world outside — it was never about being strong alone. It was about finding someone who’d stay.
Someone who’d protect, tease, and love you fiercely, unconditionally.
Wooyoung’s lips brush your forehead, soft, light, and certain. “Sleep well, trouble,” he whispers.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, you do.
Because in this small apartment, with him by your side, nothing else matters.
It has been quite a while since I last walked on tumblr and I think this is one of the best things I've ever read given the fact that the writer chose to cover all the themes I liked which are 1) mafia, 2) action, 3) slow (not really) burn, 4) dark themes, and 5) everything wooyoung AHAHAHAHAH
