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Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Chapter Five (final)

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and the moment you stepped into Seokjin’s penthouse, you felt the air shift. It was spacious, modern, every surface gleaming with quiet wealth. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city stretched beneath you, glittering like a sea of stars. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood, clean and understated, just like him.

You turned slowly, taking it all in. “So this is where you live,” you murmured, awe threading your voice.

He slipped off his jacket and hung it neatly on the rack by the door. “Feels too big most days,” he admitted. “But it has a good kitchen.”

That last part made you laugh softly. Of course it was the kitchen that mattered most to him.

As you walked further inside, something caught your eye. A snow globe perched on a glass shelf, its base a little worn. You froze, your breath catching. “You still have this?”

Seokjin followed your gaze, and his lips curved into a quiet smile. “Of course. You gave it to me.”

You stepped closer, fingers brushing the glass. Inside was the tiny figure of a boy standing under falling snow, holding a lantern. Ten years ago, you had saved up tips from your part-time job to buy it for him, handing it over with a shy smile. For when you get lost in your dreams, so you always find your way back.

You hadn’t expected he’d keep it. Not after everything.

Your eyes moved across the room, catching on something else propped against the wall. His first guitar. The same one you both had stumbled upon in a little shop near campus, where he had strummed clumsily at the strings until the shopkeeper laughed.

“You still have that too?” you asked softly.

“Mm.” He walked over, crouching to adjust the stand. “Remember how long I stared at it through the window?”

You laughed, the memory bubbling up. “You stared at it like it was a lost love.”

“And now look,” he said, his tone half-teasing, half-sincere. “I kept it, but it’s been a long time since I played.”

He cleared his throat then, breaking it. “Come on. You should sit. I’ll make dinner.”

You settled onto one of the sleek bar stools at the counter, watching as he rolled up his sleeves and began pulling ingredients from the fridge. The movements were sure, confident—the gestures of a man who knew his craft, who had grown into the role you always knew was waiting for him.

“Every time I see you cook,” you said, your voice softer now, “I think about the meals you used to make for me. Remember the one with just noodles and eggs and… I think soy sauce packets you stole from the convenience store?”

His laugh was warm, unguarded, and it filled the space like music. “That was gourmet back then. Don’t insult it.”

You smiled, leaning your chin into your hand. “Even back then, I knew you’d be successful one day. You had that look in your eyes. Like the kitchen was home.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, the years seemed to fall away. He was the same boy who used to stay up late with you, sleeves rolled, hair a mess, insisting that one day he’d have a place of his own.

“You believed in me more than I did,” he said quietly, his hands steady as he chopped vegetables. “That mattered. More than I think you knew.”

The words sank into you, heavy and tender. You looked at him, and it hit you just how much calmer he seemed now. How different he was from the tense, guarded man you had seen these past few months. This Seokjin was closer to the one you remembered ten years ago. The one you fell in love with.

The smell of garlic and herbs filled the air, rich and warm, wrapping around you like a memory. You found yourself leaning forward, voice barely above a whisper. “I missed this. Just… being here. Watching you.”

He paused mid-motion, the knife still in his hand, and when he turned his gaze on you, his eyes were softer than candlelight. “I missed it too.”

The words hung there, unshaken, like the first snowflake before a storm.

Dinner slowly came together, each clink of the pan and simmering sound a backdrop to the conversation that kept flowing between you. The past was here in this kitchen—woven into the snow globe, the guitar, the meals shared long ago. But so was something else, something fragile and new, waiting just beneath the surface.

The plates between you were mostly empty now, the remnants of the meal carrying the soft glow of memory as much as flavor. The penthouse was quiet except for the hum of the city outside, the faint rush of traffic muted by glass and distance. Seokjin had dimmed the lights, leaving only the golden warmth of the chandelier above and the flicker of a single candle.

You leaned back in your chair, cradling your glass, and studied him across the table. He was still the same in ways that mattered—the curve of his smile, the way his shoulders relaxed when he cooked—but there was also a steadiness in him now, a confidence earned from years of battles you hadn’t witnessed.

“You’ve really made it,” you said softly, gesturing at the room, the food, all of it.

He followed your gaze, but instead of pride, there was a small, almost boyish shrug. “It’s different. But sometimes I wonder if it’s really… better.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

He set his fork down carefully, his fingers brushing the edge of his plate as if grounding himself. “I built everything I thought I wanted. But success is loud. And when the noise fades, it’s quiet. Too quiet.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache. You understood that silence. You had lived in it, too.

“I got engaged,” you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could soften them.

His eyes flicked to yours, steady, waiting.

“He cheated,” you continued. “For half the relationship. And I stayed because I thought if I loved him harder, it would fix everything. But it didn’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was weighted with care. His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice, when it came, was gentle. “You didn’t deserve that. Not even for a second.”

You swallowed hard. “It taught me something, though. That I can survive what I thought I couldn’t.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “You were always stronger than you believed. Even back then.”

The way he said it, like he had never stopped seeing that version of you, nearly unraveled you. You looked away, focusing on the curve of the wine glass in your hand, the flickering candle.

“What about you?” you asked, your voice quieter. “Ten years… surely there was someone.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “A few. But nothing serious. I think… I never let it be.”

“Why?” The words came out softer than a breath.

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he gave a half-smile, the kind that revealed more than words. “I told myself I was too busy, too focused. But maybe I just wasn’t willing to start over with someone else.”

The air felt heavier then, not suffocating, but thick with unspoken truths.

You reached for your glass, needing something to do with your hands. “Do you remember when you used to cook with whatever was left in our fridge? Cabbage, a single egg, instant noodles—and somehow, it still tasted good.”

His laugh was soft, warm. “Student survival meals. If you could eat it without complaining, I considered it a success.”

“I never complained,” you said with a small smile. “Because even then, I knew you’d be great. You had this… way of putting care into everything you made. Like it was love on a plate.”

The compliment seemed to disarm him. He looked down briefly, then back at you, his expression gentler now. “You remembered that.”

“Of course I did,” you said, voice steady. “Those nights, in that tiny kitchen… they’re still some of my happiest memories.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside continued—cars passing, lights flickering—but here, in this space, it felt like time bent back on itself, allowing you to sit in that memory while still facing who you had become.

Finally, Seokjin broke the silence, his voice lower now. “Thank you. For being here tonight. For letting me… have this with you again.”

You met his gaze, your chest tightening. “I wanted to be here.”

Something passed between you then, unspoken but undeniable. Not a confession, not yet, but a shift—a bridge forming between the years you lost and the moment you now shared.

The night stretched on gently, conversation ebbing into comfortable pauses, laughter breaking through at small memories, the wine softening the edges of everything unsaid.

And as the candle burned lower, the city still glowing far beneath you, you realized you didn’t want to leave just yet.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, nodding toward the skyline. His voice was softer now, unburdened by the formality of dinner.

You joined him at the railing, the cold metal brushing your skin as you leaned forward. “It feels unreal. Like the world kept building and building, and I blinked and ten years passed.”

He poured another glass and handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fraction too long. The contact was fleeting, but your body remembered it, sparking warmth that lingered even after he pulled away.

“You’re not the only one who blinked,” he admitted. “Sometimes I still think I’m that broke student in a rented room, wondering how to pay next month’s bills. But then I look around and… everything changed.”

You studied his profile, the way the city lights caught on his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes that success hadn’t erased. “Not everything,” you said softly. “You still laugh the same. You still cook like you’re feeding someone you love. Some things don’t change, no matter how much time passes.”

He turned toward you at that, looking at you. There was something in his gaze that made your chest tighten, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken.

The breeze picked up, tugging at your hair, and you shivered before you could stop yourself. Seokjin noticed immediately. Without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. His hands lingered there, warm against the fabric, anchoring you in place.

“Still the same too,” he murmured with a faint smile. “Always forgetting how easily you get cold.”

You laughed quietly, though your voice caught a little. “And you always overpacked jackets. Just in case.”

“Smart of me,” he said, his tone light but his eyes holding yours.

A pause stretched between you, long enough for the city’s hum to fill it. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged, humming with all the words neither of you were ready to say.

“Do you ever wonder,” you asked finally, your voice almost a whisper, “what we’d be like now… if things had been different?”

He didn’t answer right away. He set his glass down on the railing, staring out at the skyline. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, but there was a thread of ache beneath it. “Every single day.”

The honesty of it cut through you. You tightened the jacket around yourself, more for comfort than warmth, and took a slow sip of wine.

“I used to think about the mornings,” you admitted. “Waking up, making coffee, you half-asleep and grumpy, but still making breakfast for both of us. I thought that would be my life.”

Seokjin’s lips curved, bittersweet. “I thought that too. I thought… it would always be you.”

The world seemed to still at his words, the city blurring into background noise. Your heart pounded, but you forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded in this moment that felt like it might collapse under its own weight.

“Seokjin…” you began, but your voice broke on his name.

He didn’t press you to continue. He only looked at you with that gaze you had once memorized, the one that made you feel seen, as if no distance or time could erase his knowing of you.

The quiet settled again, softer now, like a blanket instead of a wall. And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like silence between strangers. It felt like home.

When you finally set your glass down, he spoke again, gently. “Stay a little longer. Just… stay.”

And though you knew you should leave before the weight of memory became too much, you nodded. Because in this moment, under Seoul’s endless lights, staying felt like the only thing you wanted.

The morning hours slipped by in a blur of fabric swatches, phone calls, and endless revisions. The office smelled faintly of fresh coffee and printer ink, the kind of atmosphere that only came alive under the weight of deadlines. Hoseok leaned against his desk with a sigh, eyes scanning yet another seating chart.

“If I see one more family feud over who sits closer to the stage,” he muttered, “I’m going to retire early.”

You chuckled, your pen scratching across a planner. “You say that every month.”

He shot you a look that was all mock suffering. “And one day I’ll mean it.”

The two of you fell into the rhythm you’d built over the years, comfortable in the quiet push and pull of work. It wasn’t until your stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl that you realized the time.

“I’ll order food,” you said, reaching for your phone. “Noodles or sandwiches?”

“Noodles,” Hoseok replied without hesitation. “But only if they arrive before I collapse.”

You had just opened the app when a knock sounded at the door. Without looking up, you called, “Come in.”

The air shifted.

Seokjin stepped into the office, holding a neatly folded paper bag. Sunlight from the window seemed to catch on him, outlining the tall lines of his frame, the calm composure in his eyes. His voice was low, steady, familiar in a way that tugged at something deep in you.

“I thought you might not have eaten,” he said. “So I brought lunch.”

Hoseok froze. His head snapped up, eyes widening before narrowing into recognition. “Mr. Kim?”

You blinked at Hoseok, startled, before glancing back at Seokjin.

Seokjin inclined his head politely, a faint smile brushing his lips. “It’s been a while, Hoseok.”

“Long enough that I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hoseok admitted, though his eyes flicked knowingly between you both. Then he gestured toward the table. “But if that bag is food, you’re more than welcome.”

Seokjin set the bag down and began arranging the containers with practiced hands. The air filled with the rich, warm scent of braised short ribs and delicately seasoned side dishes. It smelled like comfort and care, like something more than just lunch.

You sat at the round table, chopsticks in hand, and tried not to think of the time you had shared a meal he cooked years ago, in a cramped kitchen with chipped bowls, before everything broke apart.

Hoseok took the first bite and groaned dramatically. “Oh my god. This is incredible. Y/N, you’re going to have to cancel that order, because nothing will top this.”

You tried your own bite, and the taste nearly undid you. Tender, flavorful, layered with memory. The food carried more than flavor; it carried history.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly.

“I wanted to,” Seokjin replied, his voice low. “I always liked feeding you.”

Hoseok’s gaze darted between you both, sensing the undercurrent but mercifully keeping quiet. He filled the silence with chatter about clients, vendors, and schedules, giving you the space to collect yourself.

By the time the containers were empty, he excused himself to take a call, leaving you and Seokjin in the softened quiet of the office.

You stacked the chopsticks together, your hands fidgeting. “You showing up here with food… it feels strange. Familiar. Almost like…” You trailed off, unable to finish.

“Almost like nothing’s changed,” Seokjin said gently. His eyes held yours, steady, unflinching. “But we both know it has.”

The truth of it pressed into you, filling the space between your breaths. Outside, the city kept moving, oblivious to the quiet storm inside your chest.

Five months had passed, and time reshaped everything into something quieter, something steadier. What had once been awkward silences and unspoken history between you and Seokjin was now replaced with a rhythm that felt almost natural.

He was everywhere in your life again. Almost every day, he appeared with food — sometimes lunch neatly packed into lacquered boxes, sometimes dinner carried in steaming containers that filled your office with warmth. On evenings when schedules allowed, he invited you to his house. Other times, you found yourself at his restaurant, a place where Yoongi had practically claimed a permanent seat.

Yoongi had become a fixture in your life, too. He was easy company, sharp-witted yet soft-spoken, the kind of presence that grounded you without demanding anything in return. You trusted him, perhaps more than you realized, and introducing him to Hoseok felt like a natural step. To your surprise, they clicked instantly, their laughter often filling the space when you all gathered.

And tonight, all of you sat together at a dim bar tucked away in Itaewon. The kind of place that glowed with low amber lights, its walls lined with bottles that shimmered like jewels. Outside, Seoul buzzed in neon and rain-slicked streets, but inside, time stretched soft and slow, caught in the warmth of voices and clinking glasses.

Yoongi leaned across the table, his glass of whiskey catching the light. “It’s amazing that even after 10 years, you treat each other as if not a single year has gone by..”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course. We’re so familiar with each other, it feels like nothing has changed… except that we’ve aged?”

Seokjin glanced at you from across the table. His smile was small but lingering, the kind that wasn’t meant to be noticed but somehow always left its mark.

“Still,” Yoongi said, his tone lighter now, “it’s good to see you both like this. After everything, I didn’t think comfort would look this easy again.”

Hoseok, seated beside him, nodded. “He’s right. I remember when planning your wedding was… well, a storm, Mr. Kim.”

Seokjin blinked at him, then let out a quiet laugh. “You can drop the ‘Mr. Kim,’ Hoseok. It’s been months.”

“Habit,” Hoseok grinned, leaning back in his chair. “But really, I’m glad. Cancelled weddings aren’t easy to walk away from. Yet here you are, cooking for her almost every day like it’s second nature.”

There was no teasing in his voice, only truth. The kind that made you feel suddenly aware of Seokjin’s steady gaze.

You set your glass down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “It’s just food. Nothing complicated.”

“Food is never just food,” Seokjin murmured, his voice low, almost as if he was speaking only to you.

The silence that followed was soft, not uncomfortable, but heavy enough to make you shift in your seat. The others filled it quickly with laughter and banter, but you felt his words linger, like a thread tied invisibly between you.

Later, when the night stretched thinner and the bar grew quieter, the four of you stayed a little longer, talking about everything and nothing. Hoseok teased Yoongi about his taste in music, Yoongi countered with sharp remarks that made you laugh until your sides ached, and Seokjin mostly watched — his laughter quiet, his gaze steady, as if he was memorizing the sound of your joy.

The city outside pulsed with light, but inside, it felt almost like a film reel, each moment etched in amber glow, fleeting yet unforgettable.

You could not name what this was, not yet. Friendship. Comfort. A rhythm you did not want to lose. But beneath it all, there was something slow and careful building, like the first sparks of a flame waiting for air.

The city was winding down when Seokjin walked you home. The streets shimmered with the remnants of rain, neon lights fractured into puddles, and the air carried the faint smell of chestnuts from a vendor on the corner. You fell into step beside him easily, the way you always did these days. Conversation flowed and ebbed between you, sometimes playful, sometimes quiet, and when you reached your house, you almost didn’t want the walk to end.

At the door, you paused. “Thank you for walking me.”

Seokjin nodded, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The glow from the streetlamp softened his features, casting his profile in warm light. He should have left then, offered a casual goodnight like he usually did, but instead he lingered, his weight shifting as if caught between going and staying.

You tilted your head, sensing it. “What is it?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze drifted past you, up toward the dark outline of your house, then back to your face. “I just… don’t want to go yet.”

The admission was quiet, almost unguarded.

Something in your chest tightened, a warmth spreading outward. You leaned against the doorframe, searching his eyes. “Then don’t. Stay a little longer.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “If I do, I might say something I shouldn’t.”

The air between you shifted. You swallowed, your voice softer now. “Like what?”

He exhaled, the sound closer to a laugh but edged with hesitation. “Like how I didn’t expect this. Us. After everything, I thought the distance between us would stay permanent. But now…” He paused, eyes fixed on yours as if weighing whether to go on. “Now it feels like I’ve been given another chance. And I don’t want to ruin it.”

Your heartbeat stumbled. His words pressed against the quiet of the night, raw and unpolished.

“Jin,” you whispered, his name tasting different now, heavier. “You could never ruin it. These past months… they’ve been some of the best I’ve had in a long time. Because of you.”

He blinked, surprised by the clarity in your voice. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach for you but stopped short, curling into his pocket instead.

“You’ve always been like this,” he said finally, his tone half-wistful, half-admiring. “Making it sound so simple when I complicate everything in my head. I keep thinking about the past, about what went wrong, about all the ways I failed. And then you smile at me, or you laugh at something ridiculous, and suddenly all of that feels lighter.”

The honesty in his voice unraveled something inside you. You stepped a little closer, close enough that the faint warmth of his body cut through the cool night air. “You didn’t fail me, Jin. Life just… happened. But look at us now. We found our way back.”

Silence held for a long moment. He searched your face as if memorizing every detail, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I don’t want to lose this again.”

You inhaled slowly, the weight of his confession sinking deep. Your hand brushed lightly against his sleeve, tentative but deliberate. “Then don’t.”

The words hung there, fragile yet powerful.

He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for months, his shoulders easing. A faint smile curved his lips, but it was laced with something deeper, almost aching. “You make it sound easy.”

“Maybe it is,” you murmured.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world around you seemed to dim — the hum of traffic, the flicker of neon, the cool night breeze — all fading beneath the pull of something unspoken, something trembling just at the edge of breaking free.

Seokjin’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before he forced himself back to your eyes. The distance between you had never felt thinner.

Finally, he stepped back, his voice low but steady. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

You nodded, though your chest ached at the space he put between you. “Goodnight, Jin.”

As you closed the door, your heart pounded with a strange mix of longing and hope, the echo of his words still vibrating in the silence of your apartment.

And on the other side of the door, Seokjin lingered a little longer before finally walking away, carrying the weight of a truth neither of you could ignore much longer.

Yoongi’s house smelled faintly of cedar and wine, the kind of warmth that settled into you the moment you stepped inside. The living room was dimly lit, fairy lights strung lazily across the wall, their glow mixing with the soft amber of the lamps. Music played low from the record player, a vinyl spinning something hushed and steady, almost like background breathing.

You arrived with Hobi and Seokjin just as Yoongi was pouring himself a glass of red wine, his hair a little messier than usual, his sweater sleeves pushed up. He looked both surprised and quietly pleased to see you.

“You came,” Yoongi said simply, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile.

“Of course we did,” Hobi grinned, dropping the neatly wrapped gift bag on the table. “Wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world, hyung.”

Yoongi accepted it with a small nod, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer. “I’m glad,” he said, before moving to adjust the record player.

The evening unfolded gently. You and Hobi teased him about how he never celebrated properly, Seokjin poured the wine like it was his second nature, and Yoongi leaned against the counter, watching the three of you with quiet contentment. The world outside the windows was dark, but inside, it felt like a pocket of light — a fragile sanctuary.

You passed Seokjin a glass of wine, fingers brushing briefly against his. The touch was nothing, accidental, but the air around you seemed to shift. His eyes lifted to yours, holding just a fraction too long, and your stomach flipped.

Yoongi noticed. He said nothing, only poured himself another drink and let the music swell. Hobi was recounting some ridiculous story from months ago, laughter spilling from him so easily it filled the room, but Seokjin’s attention was no longer on the story. It was on you. Every time you leaned closer to listen, every time your smile curved, he followed it as if it anchored him.

By the time dinner plates were pushed aside and the wine bottle was nearly empty, you found yourself wandering toward the balcony, drawn by the quiet night air. The city stretched below in soft twinkles, hushed under the late hour. You leaned against the railing, inhaling the coolness, when you heard footsteps behind you.

Seokjin.

“Too loud in there?” he asked, his voice gentler than the night breeze.

“Not loud,” you said, turning to glance at him. “Just… full. Needed some air.”

He came to stand beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, though neither of you moved away. For a moment, the silence between you was filled only by the city hum and the muffled sound of music through the glass door.

Then, quietly, he spoke. “I can’t keep pretending.”

You turned to him, surprised. “Pretending what?”

His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the city lights before coming back to you. His voice trembled, just enough to make your chest ache. “That I don’t love you. That ten years changed anything. It didn’t. I thought I could bury it. I thought time would dull it, but it never did. Every day without you only made it clearer. I’m still in love with you.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening with something sharp and tender all at once. The words were everything you’d tried not to let yourself hope for, and hearing them now unraveled you.

Your voice was unsteady when you whispered, “I thought I was the only one. I told myself I had to move on, that you had. But every time I saw you again, every time you smiled at me like I was something worth holding onto… I knew. I knew I never stopped loving you either.”

His hand found yours on the railing, fingers tentative at first, then firm, as though afraid you might slip away. You didn’t. You laced your fingers with his, grounding yourselves in that fragile, undeniable truth.

The world seemed to still. The city below, the laughter inside, the night air — all of it faded when he leaned closer. His breath brushed your cheek, his eyes searching yours one last time, as if waiting for permission.

You closed the distance.

The kiss was not hurried, not desperate. It was slow, aching, the kind of kiss that carried ten years of silence, ten years of longing, ten years of everything unsaid. His hand cupped your jaw, steady and trembling at once, while yours clung to the fabric of his shirt. The taste of wine lingered, but it was the warmth of him, the familiarity of something you had once lost and found again, that undid you completely.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His smile was small, fragile, and more real than anything you’d ever seen. “I’ve waited so long to tell you that,” he murmured.

Your eyes burned, tears threatening, but your smile was steady. “Then don’t stop. Not this time.”

He nodded, pressing another kiss to your temple, as if sealing the promise.

The drive was quiet. Morning sunlight cut through the windshield in long bands of gold, and the hum of the car seemed to press against the silence between you and Seokjin. Not uncomfortable silence, but the kind that made every thought sharper, heavier.

You had been here before. Years ago, when your hair was shorter, when the air between you and him was filled with laughter and careless plans. His mother had greeted you like family then, always insisting you eat more, always sending you home with something wrapped in foil. Coming back now felt almost intrusive, like returning to a house where time had kept moving without you.

Seokjin parked and shut off the engine. He looked at you once, quietly, before speaking. “She’ll be glad you’re here,” he said. Not a reassurance, not a promise. Just a fact, spoken with the calm certainty he always carried.

You nodded, even though your chest was tight.

The house looked the same — pale brick, wooden steps, a faint smell of flowers drifting from the small garden. Before you could lift your hand to knock, the door opened. His mother stood there, apron tied at the waist, hair swept back in a way that made her look exactly as you remembered and yet older, softer around the edges.

Her eyes fell on you. For a second, her expression didn’t shift. Then recognition broke through.

“Y/N?”

Your throat went dry. You bowed, your voice quiet. “Hello, eomeoni. It’s been a long time.”

The name seemed to shake her. She reached out, her hands warm and firm as she pulled you closer. It wasn’t dramatic, just steady — the way someone embraces a person they thought they’d never see again.

Seokjin lingered a few steps behind, his hands in his pockets, watching without interfering. When his mother finally let you go, she turned to him. “You brought her back?”

He didn’t flinch under her gaze. He moved to your side and laced his fingers through yours, a simple, deliberate gesture. “I didn’t bring her back. She came back on her own.” His voice softened. “And I’m not letting her go this time.”

Her lips parted as though she wanted to speak, but instead she exhaled a shaky breath and nodded slowly.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of broth and toasted sesame oil. You sat at the kitchen table while she poured tea, her movements practiced, quiet. When she finally set the cups down, she looked at you, her eyes still carrying something unshed.

“I was… sad when you left,” she said, matter-of-fact, as though she had rehearsed it many times but never spoken it aloud. “You were good for him. I thought… maybe you’d be the one to stay.”

Your fingers curled around the cup, the porcelain warm against your palms. “I thought so too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

She turned to Seokjin, her expression shifting, a flash of disappointment still sharp even after all these years. “And then you told me you were marrying that woman.” She shook her head. “I knew it wasn’t right. She didn’t love you. She loved the idea of you. I could see it.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “You were right,” he said. “I tried to convince myself it was enough. That maybe comfort would grow into love. But it never did. And when she lied about… things…” His voice faltered before he continued, steady. “I knew I had to end it.”

His mother’s gaze softened, though the shadow of that disappointment lingered. She reached for your hand across the table. “And you. Did you stop loving him?”

The question held no accusation, only quiet curiosity.

You shook your head, your voice steady this time. “No. I carried it with me, even when I tried to forget. It was always there.”

For the first time since you arrived, her smile appeared — small, but real. She leaned back, nodding once, as though something heavy had finally been set down. “Then maybe the timing was wrong before. Maybe it isn’t now.”

Seokjin’s thumb brushed against your knuckles beneath the table. His mother noticed, her eyes softening again. She didn’t say more, just rose to set breakfast on the table. Three bowls, three pairs of chopsticks.

You sat there with the two of them, steam curling from the soup, sunlight pooling on the table. It felt strange and familiar all at once, like slipping into a dream you used to have. The years were still there, the mistakes still heavy, but in that moment it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his mother’s laughter returned when Seokjin teased her, the way he kept sliding the side dishes closer to your chopsticks, the way the house felt less like a place you had left and more like one you had found again.

After breakfast, his mother disappeared into the garden, muttering about the weeds she hadn’t had time to pull. The house fell quiet, save for the hum of summer cicadas outside.

You followed Seokjin down the hall, the wooden floor creaking under your weight, until he pushed open a door you had once known better than your own. His old room.

It was smaller than you remembered, maybe because time had stretched your memories wide. The desk was still pressed against the window, the bed neatly made, and on the shelves were traces of a boy who had once dreamed here. Textbooks lined up, worn spines bent from late nights, a few action figures that had somehow survived his growing up. But what caught your breath were the smaller details.

On the dresser sat a faded frame — your photo, both of you grinning at some half-forgotten beach trip, your hair windblown, his arm draped carelessly around your shoulder. In a box beneath it, a stack of letters you had written him during finals season. And on the chair by the desk lay a sweater — his favorite, the one you had always stolen because it smelled of him. The one you had left behind the day everything broke.

You touched the sleeve gently, your throat tightening. “You kept everything,” you whispered.

Seokjin leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that quiet intensity he always carried. “Of course I did,” he said simply. “How could I not? They were pieces of us. Even when you weren’t here, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.”

You turned, searching his face. “Did it hurt to see them every day?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice low, honest. “But letting them go would’ve hurt more.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick with years, with everything unsaid. Then you set the sweater down and laughed softly, the sound trembling at the edges. “Do you remember… sneaking in here to pretend we were studying?”

His mouth curved into a grin, boyish and sudden, like you had slipped back ten years. “Pretend being the key word.”

You laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We were terrible at it. Your mom thought we were geniuses for how much time we spent ‘studying.’”

“She would’ve killed me if she knew,” he said, moving closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But you… you were impossible to resist.”

The memory pulled you under like a tide. The way his lips had first brushed yours clumsily against that desk, the way your laughter had filled the small room after every stolen kiss. The rush of young love, reckless and pure.

Before you realized it, his hand was on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. His lips met yours, slow at first, familiar and new all at once. The kiss deepened, pulling you back into everything you had been, everything you still were.

Your back hit the edge of the desk, and you both laughed quietly against each other’s mouths. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm. “Shh,” he murmured, smiling. “She could hear us.”

That only made you laugh harder, muffling it against his chest. The years between you unraveled in that moment, undone by something so simple, so profoundly ordinary.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his hands framing your face like he was relearning every angle, every line. When he finally pulled back, his voice was soft, hoarse. “I can’t believe you’re here. That we’re here. After everything.”

You searched his eyes, the ones you had memorized years ago. “Me too. But maybe we needed the time apart… to know we’d always come back.”

He leaned in, brushing another kiss against your lips, tender and sure. “Then let’s not waste another second.”

The room seemed to breathe with you — walls steeped in memories, air heavy with the past, and yet all of it folding neatly into this present moment. You weren’t students anymore, sneaking kisses in secret. You were older now, scarred, wiser. But the love was the same. If anything, it had only deepened.

You rested your head on his shoulder, laughter still caught in your throat. For the first time in years, the world felt exactly right.

By late afternoon, the air had cooled, carrying the faint sweetness of summer grass and the promise of rain far off in the distance. You stood with Seokjin at the gate of his mother’s house, the smell of her cooking still clinging to your clothes. She held your hands one last time, reluctant to let go, her smile wide and tear-bright.

“Take care of her this time,” she told Seokjin, giving his wrist a little swat that made him laugh, embarrassed. Then her eyes softened as they turned to you. “I’m so happy you’re back. You were always part of this family.”

The words lingered with you even after you waved goodbye, even as you and Seokjin walked down the quiet street together. His hand brushed against yours once, twice, until finally he caught it and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three years slipped past like a reel of film unspooling, each frame lit with ordinary magic: your hand in Seokjin’s at crosswalks, laughter echoing in kitchens, stolen kisses in parking lots where the world couldn’t see.

Life was busy, often too busy. You threw yourself into wedding planning, guiding anxious brides through chaos and orchestrating love stories that weren’t yours. Seokjin expanded his restaurants, new branches sprouting in corners of the city you barely had time to visit.

And yet every night, no matter how many plates had been broken or contracts signed, he always showed up. His headlights would glow outside your office like a promise. He would wait, leaning against the hood of his car with his sleeves rolled up and a tired smile that always softened when he saw you.

That evening was no different. You left the building with your bag slung across your shoulder, exhaustion tugging at your steps, but there he was. The city hummed around you — neon lights flickering, taxis weaving, the smell of late-night food stalls drifting in the air.

“Long day?” he asked as you reached him.

“Three weddings in one week,” you sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “I think I’ve aged ten years.”

He chuckled, opening the car door for you. “You look the same as the girl who used to steal my fries in college.”

You gave him a look once you sat down. “You’re just saying that because you’re hoping I’ll cook for you this weekend.”

He slid into the driver’s seat, lips quirking. “Maybe. Or maybe because it’s true.”

The car wove through the city, soft music filling the spaces between you. You leaned your head against the window, watching raindrops scatter across the glass as the traffic lights turned everything gold and red.

“Did you hear about Haneul?” Seokjin’s voice broke the quiet, cautious but steady.

You turned your head, surprised. “No.”

“She flew out of the country,” he said simply, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “No one knows where exactly. Just… gone.”

You let the information settle. The name still carried a shadow, though it no longer cut the way it once did. “Does it bother you?”

He shook his head. “No. I just… hate the thought that I almost tied my life to someone like her.”

You reached across the console, resting your hand over his.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles, a quiet acknowledgment.

Later, parked outside your house, neither of you moved to get out of the car right away. The city noise had dulled, replaced by the sound of the rain pattering against the roof.

“You know,” he began, almost hesitating, “Sometimes I think about how fast time is moving.”

You smiled faintly, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “You mean how we’re not twenty anymore?”

“Exactly,” he admitted, leaning back against the seat. “I look at my staff sometimes — they’re so young, full of fire, staying up all night like it costs them nothing. And then I come home and fall asleep halfway through a movie with you.”

You laughed softly, the sound filling the small space. “We’re still young, Jin. Just… a different kind of young.”

He turned to you then, eyes steady. “Do you ever think about it? Us. What comes next.”

Your heart stilled. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed your mind — weddings were your career, after all. You spent every week building perfect futures for others, while your own remained suspended in a comfortable present.

“I do,” you admitted, your voice low. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re waiting for something. Or if this—” you gestured between you, the car, the rain, the life you’d built in the background “—is already it.”

He studied you quietly, the kind of gaze that always saw through your layers. Then he smiled, small and earnest. “If this is it, I’m still the luckiest man alive.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was full — of unsaid possibilities, of a love that had matured into something unshakable.

You leaned over, pressing your forehead against his. The rain tapped softly above, and the world outside felt far away. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “Together.”

His breath brushed your cheek as he closed the distance, his kiss slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that carried the weight of three years and the promise of more.

When you pulled away, laughter bubbled in your chest. “You always pick the most dramatic moments to kiss me.”

He grinned, eyes shining. “Maybe I just like the movie version of us.”

And in that quiet car, with rain painting the world in silver streaks, you believed it — that your love was already the kind of story people leaned in to watch.

You walked into your house, unaware that Seokjin, driving away with a quiet smile, was already imagining a life with you.

The key turned easily in the lock, and you slipped into Seokjin’s house the way you had countless nights before. It was not your name on the lease, not technically your address, but the toothbrush in the bathroom and the clothes folded neatly in his dresser told another story. So did the way his shoulders relaxed every time he saw you walk through the door, as if his heart could only breathe properly when you were here.

“Finally,” he murmured, voice warm with that low, tired edge that always made you ache. He set down the keys, his gaze already on you as if you were the only thing he’d been waiting for all day. “I was about to come find you.”

You smiled, dropping your bag on the couch. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

The words were light, almost playful, but they carried a weight that lingered in the air. You knew his patterns by now. If you went home, he would text within ten minutes. If you did not answer, you’d hear a knock on your door and find him standing outside, hair mussed, holding some excuse of a reason. It had long stopped surprising you. That was why you stayed most nights here, in this house that had slowly become more yours than you ever expected.

The night began like so many others: shoes by the door, lights soft, his jacket tossed onto the chair. But there was something about the way Seokjin watched you tonight. The silence was not ordinary.

He crossed the living room in two strides and kissed you before you had the chance to say another word. Not the casual hello-kiss you’d grown used to, but a deeper one, as though he’d been holding his breath all day and could only exhale through your mouth.

Seokjin kissed you before you could ask what was different. His lips pressed against yours with a hunger that felt unsteady, like he was holding back from saying something too large for words. His hands cupped your face, then slid down, dragging against your throat before resting on your shoulders. He kissed you deeper, until your breath came short, until your back hit the bedroom door.

When he broke away, his forehead leaned against yours, his voice low.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along your lower lip before kissing you again.

He tugged you toward the bed, his mouth never leaving yours. The sheets rustled beneath you as he laid you back, hovering above you, his hair falling into his eyes. His kiss trailed lower — down your jaw, grazing the edge of your throat, lingering at the hollow there before moving to your collarbone. His tongue flicked against your skin and your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Let me,” he murmured, tugging your blouse open slowly, button by button, as if savoring each reveal. He peeled it off your shoulders, his palms gliding over your arms as though memorizing the shape of you. His mouth followed, kissing along the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your chest, until he reached your breast.

His lips closed around your nipple, warm and insistent, his tongue circling until your breath hitched and your back arched against him. His other hand caressed your waist, thumb stroking your hip, grounding you even as his mouth coaxed a quiet moan from you.

“Jin,” you breathed, and the sound of his name on your lips only drove him further. His mouth moved down, scattering kisses across your stomach, dipping lower until his teeth grazed the hem of your skirt. He looked up at you, eyes dark, silently asking permission he didn’t need. You nodded anyway, heart pounding.

He slid your skirt and underwear down in one motion, his fingertips brushing your thighs with reverence. Then he lowered his mouth to you. His tongue was gentle at first, teasing, tasting, before growing firmer, more certain. Your hand flew to his hair, clutching as your hips arched toward him. The wet heat of his mouth, the steady rhythm of his tongue, the way his nose brushed against you — it pulled you under, unraveling you piece by piece until the tension broke and you came undone, shivering beneath him, whispering his name like a prayer.

Seokjin kissed his way back up your body, lingering at your stomach, your chest, your throat, before finally kissing your lips again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands moved to his own clothes then, tugging off his shirt, his toned chest revealed in the dim glow of the lamp. You reached for his belt, fumbling, and he caught your hand, chuckling softly.

“Impatient?” he teased, though his voice was already rough, frayed with desire.

“Always with you,” you answered, and his smile faltered into something softer, more raw.

He undressed quickly after that, sliding out of his jeans and briefs until he was bare before you, his skin warm, his body tense with restraint. He settled between your thighs, lining himself against you, but paused, his forehead resting against yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, his breath uneven.

“I want you, Jin. Always.”

That was all it took. He pushed into you slowly, stretching you inch by inch until you gasped and clung to him. He stilled, letting you adjust, his thumb stroking your cheek. Then he began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a rhythm that built slowly, achingly. His body pressed to yours, his chest brushing your breasts, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered your name like a vow.

Every thrust felt like a confession, every kiss a promise. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and the room filled with the sounds of your breathing, your moans, his whispered curses, his quiet groans. His pace quickened, and your body tightened around him, the sensation overwhelming until you shattered beneath him once more, crying out as pleasure surged through you.

Seokjin followed, burying his face in your neck, his body trembling as he spilled into you with a low, guttural sound. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms immediately, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple as your breaths evened out together.

For a long moment, there was only silence, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. Then he shifted, reaching toward the drawer of his nightstand. You frowned, still catching your breath, until he turned back with a small velvet box in his hand.

Your heart stopped.

He opened it, revealing a ring that shimmered faintly in the low light. His voice broke as he spoke.

“I’ve loved you for thirteen years. I don’t want to waste another second pretending like forever isn’t where we’re already headed. Will you marry me?”

Tears blurred your vision as you pressed your forehead to his, laughing and sobbing all at once.

“Yes, Jin. A thousand times yes.”

He kissed you again, slow and tender, the ring sliding onto your finger between breaths, sealing what you already knew — that every path had always led back here, to him.

You woke to the familiar warmth of his body, skin to skin, tangled sheets draped loosely over you both. The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, and for a moment you lay there in silence, your gaze fixed on the silver ring glinting on your finger. It looked unreal, almost like a dream you hadn’t yet woken from.

Seokjin stirred beside you, shifting onto his side. His hair was messy, his voice still husky from sleep. “You’re staring at it again,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You turned to him with a teasing smile. “Can you blame me? I said yes last night. I still can’t believe you actually asked.”

He grinned lazily, but his eyes softened, a depth of tenderness that always made your chest ache. “I can’t believe you said yes,” he admitted, and leaned in to kiss your temple. His lips lingered, warm and unhurried.

Your hand drifted under the sheet, brushing against him, and you felt the unmistakable evidence of his morning desire. You bit your lip, mischievous. “You’re already awake,” you teased softly.

Color rose in his cheeks, but he laughed. “That’s your fault.” His words were half play, half confession, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you beneath him.

The kiss was deep, hungry in the way mornings often were, filled with the taste of sleep and the comfort of home. His hands slid down your body, reacquainting themselves with every curve and hollow, as though the night before hadn’t been enough. His lips trailed from your mouth down to your neck, lower still, until you were arching into him, gasping his name in the quiet morning light.

You tangled together once more, nothing rushed, nothing hidden, the intimacy of years pressing into the moment. When you finally collapsed into his arms, breathless and undone, he whispered against your hair, “Forever, okay?”

You smiled into his chest, your hand resting over his heart. “Forever.”

Later, you sat propped against the pillows, hair messy, the sheet loosely wrapped around you, still staring at the ring as if it might disappear. Seokjin leaned over and kissed your hand reverently, pressing his lips to your fingers one by one.

“I’m making breakfast,” he declared suddenly, springing up with the boyish determination that always made you laugh.

“You’re naked,” you pointed out.

“So are you,” he countered, smirking as he reached for his sweatpants. “But I’m a chef. This isn’t going to be just scrambled eggs.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and soon the sounds of chopping and the warm sizzle of butter filled the air. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs drifted in, mingling with the faint scent of coffee. You padded out to the kitchen, stealing one of his shirts from the chair and slipping it on.

He turned, catching sight of you. His eyes softened. “That looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

You sat at the counter, chin in your hand, watching him with the quiet awe of someone who had always loved the way he moved in a kitchen. Confident, precise, yet somehow tender with every motion.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” you teased. “Even for breakfast, you have to be perfect.”

“I proposed last night,” he said seriously, plating an omelet with herbs and roasted tomatoes, sliding it toward you. “You think I’m going to feed my fiancée toast?”

You laughed, but your chest tightened at the word fiancée. It sounded new and fragile, but so right.

Between bites of food, the conversation shifted easily, like it always had with him.

“So,” he said, carefully casual, though his eyes flicked to yours with a hint of anticipation. “When do you want to start planning?”

You swallowed, setting down your fork. “I don’t want to rush. I want us to enjoy this first. Every part of it. Being engaged, being in love. I’ve planned so many weddings for other people. I want ours to feel like us, not like a checklist.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtful. “That’s fair. But you’ll have Hobi’s help, right?”

“Of course,” you smiled. “He’ll love it. And I know you’ll want to be involved with the food.”

“Not just the food,” he said firmly. “I want to be part of everything. I don’t want to just show up at the altar. I want this wedding to be ours.”

Something in your chest broke open at his words. You reached across the counter, taking his hand. “Then we’ll do it together.”

His thumb brushed over your ring again, almost absentmindedly, as though he couldn’t stop reminding himself it was real.

The morning stretched on in soft laughter, easy conversation, the clink of cutlery against plates. It felt like a beginning, like standing at the edge of something beautiful, knowing the story wasn’t ending but unfolding into a new chapter.

The ring felt heavier than you imagined it would, not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. Every time the sunlight caught it, your heart skipped, your chest filled with warmth and disbelief. You and Seokjin had promised forever in the privacy of your bedroom, but now came the harder part—sharing that promise with the people who mattered most.

It started small. The two of you sat in the living room one quiet evening, curled together on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket. The TV played idly in the background, ignored. Seokjin’s hand rested on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly circling the band of your ring.

“So,” he began softly, his voice tinged with both excitement and nervousness. “Who should we tell first?”

You thought for a moment. “Hobi and Yoongi. Then we’ll tell our family.”

Seokjin smiled knowingly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Hobi’s going to cry.”

“Of course he is,” you laughed, but your heart swelled at the thought.

The next evening, you invited Hobi over under the guise of dinner. He came bounding in with his usual energy, his laughter filling your apartment before he even set his shoes by the door.

“You two always make me eat too well,” he joked as he entered the kitchen, where Seokjin was already setting down dishes.

You caught Seokjin’s eye, nerves bubbling inside you. He gave your hand a quick squeeze before you cleared your throat. “Actually, Hobi… there’s something we wanted to tell you.”

He blinked, glancing between you. “Oh?”

You lifted your hand slowly, the ring glinting under the kitchen light. “We’re engaged.”

For a moment, silence. Then Hobi’s jaw dropped, and his eyes went wide before brimming with tears. “No way,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Seokjin laughed, patting his back as Hobi clung to him next. “You’re going to be our most dramatic wedding guest, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Hobi said, wiping his tears and smiling through them. “But also your best man. Don’t even think about picking anyone else.”

The three of you spent the night talking about wedding ideas, Hobi already scribbling notes on napkins, suggesting color palettes, venues, and dance playlists. His excitement made everything feel even more real.

A few nights later, you and Seokjin met Yoongi for dinner at a quiet restaurant he loved. He was already seated when you arrived, sipping his drink with his usual calm expression.

“You’re late,” he said dryly, though his lips twitched with amusement.

“We have an excuse,” Seokjin said, sliding into the booth beside you.

“Oh?” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking between the two of you.

You lifted your hand again, the ring catching the dim light of the restaurant. “We’re engaged.”

Yoongi stared for a beat, unreadable, before the smallest, softest smile curved his lips. “About time,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

“That’s it?” Seokjin asked, half-laughing. “No tears? No dramatic speeches?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Not my style. But I’m happy for you. Genuinely.” His eyes met yours, warm despite his calm demeanor. “You’re good for him. And he’s good for you. That’s all that matters.”

It was simple, but it meant the world.

The following weekend, you and Jin visited both families to share the news of your engagement. Your mother wept with joy, and Jin’s mother’s excitement filled the room like sunlight.

When you and Seokjin were finally alone again, you curled into his side and whispered, “It’s real now. Everyone knows.”

He kissed your hair softly. “It’s been real since the moment you said yes.”

And for the first time, you didn’t just believe it—you felt it, completely.

The late afternoon sun was already beginning to slip toward the horizon when you tugged Seokjin’s hand, urging him toward the car.

“Just one more,” you pleaded, eyes bright with anticipation. “There’s a villa not too far from here, they have this terrace that overlooks the river. I’ve heard it’s breathtaking at sunset.”

Seokjin groaned softly but smiled, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. His hair was slightly tousled from the long day, his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. “One more?” His voice was playful, but you could hear the weariness beneath it.

“Yes. Just one.”

And so he followed you, like he had all day. From the airy ballroom with gilded chandeliers to the rustic garden with roses climbing the fences, he had said the same thing at every stop. “Yes. It’s beautiful. Yes, it could work.” His agreement had been easy, too easy — and somewhere along the way, unease began to stir in your chest.

By the time you reached the villa, your steps had quickened with both excitement and frustration. You wanted him to be swept away like you were. You wanted him to see not just the arches and fountains, but the way the light bent at just the right angle, the potential in every corner.

You turned to him, your words slipping out sharper than you intended. “Do you even care which one we choose, Jin? You’ve just been saying yes to everything.”

He blinked at you, startled, then let out a slow breath. “Of course I care. Why would you say that?”

“Because you don’t ask questions. You don’t notice the details. It’s like you’re just… agreeing to shut me up.” The words tasted bitter even as they left your lips.

For the first time that day, silence fell heavy between you. Seokjin looked at you, his dark eyes steady, his jaw set not in anger but in thought.

Finally, he spoke, quiet but certain. “You see things I don’t. You’ve done this a hundred times. You know how the light should fall, how the sound will carry, how guests will feel when they walk into a room. I don’t know those things. I only see the surface — whether it’s beautiful, whether I can picture you smiling there. That’s why I keep saying yes.”

Your heart sank. Guilt pressed against your ribs. You had mistaken his trust for disinterest, his willingness to follow your lead for carelessness. The truth sat between you now, simple and humbling.

“Jin…” you whispered, stepping closer. Your throat tightened. “I’m sorry. I let my planner brain take over. I forgot that you’re not supposed to see everything the way I do. You just see me.”

His expression softened immediately, his lips curving into that gentle smile that always unraveled you. He lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Exactly. I don’t care if it’s a garden or a ballroom or a beach. I just care that it’s you walking toward me. That’s all I’ve ever cared about.”

Your chest ached with warmth as you leaned into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder. The tension melted, leaving only the quiet hum of love — imperfect, but true.

“I don’t deserve you sometimes,” you murmured.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You deserve more than me. But luckily, I’m stubborn, so you’re stuck with me.”

You laughed, soft and shaky, and the last of the sharpness dissolved into something tender. The villa’s terrace stretched before you, the river glinting gold beneath the setting sun. For once, you stopped cataloguing, stopped measuring angles and echoes. You simply held Seokjin’s hand, and let yourself imagine.

The morning sun spilled across the long table in your office, catching on the swatches of fabric, printed mock-ups, and color-coded binders that sprawled like a battlefield of dreams. This time, though, it wasn’t someone else’s wedding. It wasn’t a client or a stranger. Every ribbon you touched, every sketch you adjusted, was for you — for your wedding.

Your fingers lingered over a lace fabric sample when Hobi leaned over your shoulder, his grin as wide as ever. “You’re already glowing, you know that? If you keep smiling like this, people are going to think you’re selling happiness instead of wedding packages.”

You nudged him with your elbow, rolling your eyes though your chest fluttered. “I’m trying to be objective. This isn’t just a bride’s dream, it’s an actual event. It has to flow, it has to breathe.”

Hobi leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You do realize most brides don’t talk about oxygen circulation when they’re choosing flowers, right?”

You laughed, but the sound cracked in your throat. The truth was, it was harder than you thought — separating the planner in you from the bride. Every decision you made came with two voices inside you: one practical, trained, professional; the other soft, romantic, hopeful.

The organizing team shuffled papers, pinning ideas to the board, while Hobi anchored you back into yourself. He pulled out his notebook, tapping his pen dramatically. “So. Venue finalization, floral design, lighting. What’s first?”

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to answer not as a planner, but as a bride. “Flowers,” you said softly. “I always dreamed of peonies in spring. My grandmother loved them.”

The team began drafting arrangements, and Hobi squeezed your hand under the table. His voice carried warmth when he said, “Then peonies it is. Your grandmother will be there in every bloom.”

The moment nearly undid you, but you pushed through, letting the room buzz with possibility.

Meanwhile, across town, the clatter of pans and the scent of simmering broth filled Jin’s kitchen. He stood at the counter with his sleeves rolled up, chopping herbs with an intensity that would have impressed any chef.

By the time the sun dipped low, his menu was scribbled on a notepad, ink-stained and smudged with flour:

• An appetizer of delicate seafood, honoring your coastal roots.

• A main course with flavors bold and warm, reminiscent of Seokjin’s mother’s kitchen.

• A dessert light and sweet, simple enough to remind everyone of beginnings.

Seokjin looked at the list with quiet pride, his heart swelling. For the first time, he could almost see it — the table filled with people you loved, your laughter echoing through the room, his food carrying pieces of himself to everyone present.

That night, the glow of the bedside lamp softened the shadows across Seokjin’s face. You were lying with your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser on the nightstand. He shifted slightly, as though restless, and then slipped something small and cold into your hand.

You lifted your head, blinking. “What’s this?”

Seokjin’s eyes crinkled the way they always did when he was hiding nerves behind a smile. “A key.”

You tilted it in the light, confusion blooming in your chest. “To what?”

He hesitated, then pressed his forehead against yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “To our house. The one I bought for us.”

Your lips parted. “What?”

“I know you’re drowning in wedding planning,” he said softly. “Every night, I watch you sketch table layouts until your eyes blur. Every day, you’re chasing details no one else even notices. And I thought… while you plan the wedding, I could plan the next chapter.” He swallowed. “So I asked Yoongi to help me look. He has an eye for spaces. We found one I thought you might like.”

You stared at him, the key heavy in your palm. “Seokjin… you did this without telling me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” His thumb brushed along your knuckles, patient, steady. “A place that’s not my apartment and not just a dream. A place where we’ll come home after the wedding and know—it’s ours.”

Tears gathered hot in your eyes. The words tumbled out, almost trembling. “Show me tomorrow.”

The next morning, the world was washed in sunlight, the kind of light that makes everything feel possible. Seokjin drove with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for yours every few minutes as though he couldn’t bear to let go. He parked in front of a quiet street lined with old trees, their branches arching into a green canopy overhead.

When you stepped out of the car, your breath caught. The house stood like something out of a memory you didn’t realize you had been carrying. White walls, soft wooden trims, windows that looked like they’d hold laughter and warm lights on winter nights.

You turned slowly, taking it all in. “Jin…”

He watched you carefully, like your reaction was oxygen. “Do you like it?”

The front door creaked open as he guided you inside. The living room was wide and filled with morning light pouring through tall windows. The walls were bare, but you could already imagine frames, shelves, and flowers filling them. The kitchen had an island where you could picture him fussing over dinner while you teased him for being too serious about plating. Upstairs, there was a room with a window that overlooked the street—perfect for the quiet mornings you always longed for.

You pressed your hand to your mouth. “You remembered everything I ever said.”

“I listened.” He smiled faintly. “Every time you pointed at a window you liked, every time you told me you wanted a garden for herbs… I wrote it down. I wanted this place to feel like you.”

You turned to him, eyes shining. “Like us.”

He nodded, his throat working as though words were too small. “Yes. Like us.”

You stepped closer, sliding your arms around his waist, pressing your face to his chest. “I love it. I love you.”

He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering. “Then it’s settled. This is where we’ll start our family.”

The sunlight spilled gently through the curtains, dust particles dancing lazily in the warm glow. Your hands were wrapped around a mug of tea, though the liquid had long gone cold. Hobi sat across from you, legs tucked under him, scrolling through the final checklist on his tablet. Despite his casual posture, you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the tiny crease of worry on his forehead.

“I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,” you admitted, voice low, almost lost in the quiet hum of the apartment. You pressed the mug to your lips, taking in a slow sip as if it could calm the storm swirling inside you.

Hobi looked up, his expression softening. “You’ve worked so hard for this. You deserve it.” He paused, biting the inside of his cheek. “And Jin… he’s been through it all with you. I mean, he’s… lucky. But I think you’re even luckier, honestly.”

You chuckled softly, though it was more nervous than anything. “Lucky to have him? Hobi… I’ve been the lucky one since college.” The memory of late nights, laughter echoing in quiet dorm rooms, and small acts of care resurfaced like gentle waves. “And now… tomorrow… I’m going to marry him. After everything, after all the heartbreaks, lies, and waiting, it’s finally… real.”

Hobi reached across, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s real because you both fought for it. You didn’t let fear or pride keep you apart. That’s what makes it… unshakable.”

Meanwhile, across town, Seokjin sat in his study with Yoongi, the hum of the city outside a constant reminder that life was moving forward, faster than he ever imagined. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to quiet the nerves that gnawed at his chest. Yoongi, ever calm, leaned back in his chair with a faint smile.

“You look nervous,” Yoongi said quietly.

“I am,” Seokjin admitted, voice rougher than he intended. “Tomorrow… it feels like everything changes. I’ve dreamed about this, fought for this… but now, it’s real. And I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

Yoongi nodded, understanding without judgment. “It’s supposed to feel like this. Big changes always do. But Jin… you’ve earned this. You’ve earned her. And the life you’re building together.”

Seokjin exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a brief moment. “I just… I want everything to be perfect. For her, for us. I want her to feel how much she’s loved, every single second.”

“She already knows,” Yoongi said softly. “She’s seen it in everything you’ve done these past months. From the smallest gestures to the biggest sacrifices. Don’t let nerves steal what you’ve built.”

Seokjin opened his eyes, a small, grateful smile forming. “Thanks, Yoongi. I just… I can’t believe tomorrow is finally the day.”

Yoongi’s smile deepened, quiet but steady. “And you’ll handle it. You two… you’ve been through enough. This? This is just the beginning.”

Back at your apartment, you set the mug aside and took a deep breath. “I think… I just need to see him before all the chaos starts tomorrow. Just to… remind myself that this is real.”

Hobi’s grin was mischievous but full of warmth. “Go on then. He’s probably pacing right now, thinking the same thing.”

You laughed, a mix of nerves and anticipation bubbling up. “I guess we both need this. One last quiet moment before the world sees us as… us.”

The sun continued to spill through the window, a gentle reminder that tomorrow would come whether you were ready or not. And deep down, even in the nerves and the excitement, you knew one thing for certain: you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of your apartment, painting the room in soft gold.

Hobi hovered nearby, tablet in hand, checking the schedule one last time, while the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air.

“I can’t believe this is it,” you murmured, eyes tracing over the carefully arranged seating chart. “All these months, every tiny detail… and now it’s actually happening.”

Hobi smiled, shaking his head gently. “You’ve been planning weddings your whole career, but this one… this is different. This is yours. And Jin has no idea how much effort you’ve poured into this.”

You laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “He has some idea. He’s been helping me non-stop, even though I know he’d rather be focused on his kitchen.”

“Speaking of him…” Hobi’s tone shifted to playful teasing. “He’s probably pacing in his apartment right now, thinking about how nervous he is. He always looks calm, but you know him better than anyone. He’s not calm.”

Across town, Seokjin stood in his penthouse kitchen, the scent of fresh herbs and sizzling butter filling the air. Yoongi sat at the counter, casually sipping coffee but observing Jin with sharp eyes.

“You look nervous,” Yoongi said quietly, placing his cup down.

“I am,” Jin admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been through so much in these past years, and… today, it all comes together. I keep thinking about how she’s going to look in her dress, walking toward me, and I—” His voice faltered, but his eyes softened at the thought.

“She’ll be perfect,” Yoongi said, calm but certain. “And you’ll be the same Jin she’s loved all these years. Just breathe. That’s all you have to do.”

Jin exhaled slowly, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders. He glanced at the kitchen table where he had placed a small envelope with your name written in his careful handwriting. The letter was waiting to be exchanged, a silent testament to the emotions words couldn’t contain in person.

Back in your apartment, the hairdresser and makeup artist flitted around you, adjusting veils and smoothing fabrics, while Hobi quietly hovered nearby, ready to manage anything that went awry. You slipped into your dress for the first time, the satin hugging your form and the lace tracing delicate patterns against your skin.

“Wow,” Hobi whispered, stepping back. “You look… breathtaking.”

You blushed, your fingers nervously brushing the fabric at your shoulder. “I still can’t believe this is my wedding day. I keep thinking of all the couples I’ve planned weddings for… and now it’s finally mine.”

Hobi grinned. “And the best part? You’ve got Jin. After everything, after every heartbreak and struggle, he’s here. He’s all yours today.”

Meanwhile, Seokjin arrived at the venue, his mother waiting with a radiant smile, dressed in elegant pastels. She enveloped him in a hug, whispering how proud she was of him and how happy she was that you were finally back in his life. Your parents arrived shortly after, their eyes misty, hands clasped, barely able to hide the pride and joy radiating from them.

Hobi and Yoongi arrived together, the energy of friendship and loyalty grounding the day. Yoongi, ever protective, watched quietly as Jin straightened his tie, occasionally muttering soft reminders to himself to stay calm. Hobi nudged him playfully, while your parents watched the scene unfold, smiling at the familiarity of long-shared bonds now coming full circle.

The quiet moment before the ceremony was tender and almost sacred. You sat in a private room, the lace of your gown catching the soft light, and opened the envelope Jin had sent you earlier. His words were deliberate, heartfelt, and filled with a depth of emotion that made your chest ache.

I’ve loved you since the first moment I realized you were more than just a part of my life. You’ve been my strength, my calm, my chaos, my everything. Today, I vow to hold you, to protect you, to love you in ways that last beyond words and years. I can’t wait to see you walk toward me.

Tears pricked your eyes, and Hobi gently squeezed your hand.

The ceremony itself was a dance of anticipation and emotion. Guests settled, the soft murmur of excitement filling the air, and then the music began. Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, every detail of the venue reflecting the care and thought you had poured into it. And then, you saw him.

Seokjin stood at the altar, eyes glistening with quiet awe, a smile breaking across his face as you approached. Every memory, every struggle, every long conversation of the past ten years culminated in this moment.

He took your hands as you reached him, the warmth of his palms grounding you. “You look… perfect,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“You too,” you replied softly, eyes locked. “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”

The officiant began, but the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Every look, every subtle gesture, every brush of fingers spoke louder than any words. When it was time for the vows, you both spoke honestly, with laughter, tears, and a slow-burning intensity that reflected a decade of unspoken love and shared lives.

“I vow to love you in all the ways I’ve learned from the past thirteen years,” you said, voice shaking but certain. “To laugh with you, fight with you, dream with you, and cherish every single ordinary moment, because they’re extraordinary with you.”

Jin’s eyes were shimmering as he replied, “I vow to hold your hand through every storm, to be your safe harbor, and to love you as fiercely as I’ve loved you since the very beginning. You are my home, my heart, my forever.”

Every word was felt, every emotion shared. Hobi, Yoongi, your friends and families watched in quiet reverence, knowing that what they were witnessing was the culmination of years of heartache, perseverance, and unwavering love.

When the ceremony concluded, the kiss was not just a formality—it was a promise renewed, a moment where all the past pain dissolved, leaving only the purity of two souls finally together.

The evening air shimmered with the soft glow of fairy lights strung across the reception hall. Crystal chandeliers reflected the city skyline through the tall windows, casting a warm, golden haze over the celebration. Guests laughed and clinked glasses, the murmur of happiness filling every corner, but amidst the joy, your attention was entirely on Seokjin.

He stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching you with that quiet intensity he always carried. His eyes followed every movement, every smile you gave to friends and family, and for a moment, you caught him brushing a hand across his jaw in nervous anticipation. You smiled back, and his lips curved into a small, almost shy grin that made your heart flutter.

The music shifted, a slow, tender melody filling the room. Hobi nudged you gently. “Go on. Dance with him. It’s your night.”

You took a deep breath and moved toward him, your dress brushing the floor lightly, and he stepped forward immediately, slipping his hand around your waist. The warmth of his palm against your back grounded you in the moment, a quiet intimacy amidst the chatter and celebration.

“You look… incredible,” he whispered as your foreheads touched, his voice low and reverent.

“You too,” you murmured, letting the dance guide you both. “I can’t believe we’re actually here.”

“Neither can I,” he admitted, his thumb brushing along your hip. “All those years, all the waiting… it led to this. To us.”

The dance was slow, deliberate, every step measured and shared, like the rhythm of your hearts syncing after years apart. Around you, laughter and music continued, but the rest of the world felt suspended, leaving only the two of you.

Later, you moved to a quiet corner near the window. The city lights stretched beneath you, a blanket of glittering gold and silver. Jin pulled two glasses of champagne from the table and handed you one.

“To us,” he said softly, the warmth in his eyes mirrored in your own.

“To us,” you echoed, clinking your glass gently against his.

The night was a tapestry of heartfelt moments. Hobi gave a toast that made you both laugh until your sides ached, reminiscing about all the chaotic planning and late-night calls. Yoongi’s words were quieter but no less profound, speaking of loyalty, patience, and love that withstands every test. Seokjin’s mother and your parents watched, eyes misty, overwhelmed with the happiness of seeing you both together.

“You know,” Jin said later, his hand finding yours again, “I’ve never felt more… complete. Even after all the chaos, all the lies and mistakes in the past, it led us here. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I feel the same,” you admitted, leaning into him. “All those years, the waiting… it makes this moment even more precious.”

As the reception wound down, you found yourselves stealing away to a quieter balcony overlooking the city. The cool night air wrapped around you both, and Jin draped his jacket over your shoulders, his fingers lingering as he held you close.

“Married life,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “I never imagined it could feel like this. Calm. Safe. And full of you.”

“It’s only the beginning,” you said softly, tracing circles on his hand. “But I can already tell… it’s going to be everything we hoped for.”

He smiled, brushing a soft kiss across your temple. “Everything I’ve ever hoped for.”

The stars blinked above the city, and for the first time in years, both of you could simply breathe—together, finally, with nothing holding you back.

Author’s Note

Wow, we finally made it to the end! Thank you so much for sticking with me through every chapter. I really appreciate every comment, reblog, and like—it honestly means the world. 💜

This story was such a joy to write, and knowing you were reading and enjoying it makes it even more special. I hope you felt all the slow-burn, emotional moments as deeply as I imagined them.

Big hugs and endless thanks for being here with me!

—InkedWithCharm

@mar-lo-pap @pp0810 @syh-a @andoyuki @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @woncheecks @chocolateladycat @carriereadsbooks

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inkedwithcharm · 2 days ago

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hi! i just wanna say i've been binging most of your fics and they're all SOOO good 💓 your ongoing stories have been making me look forward to the next day so i can read your new chapters ☺️ i've noticed that you have a writing style too and would you ever consider maybe writing crack or lighthearted fics too? i feel like that would be something interesting to see from you 🫶🏻

Thank you so much, It means the world to know my stories have been keeping you company and giving you something to look forward to 🥹✨

And yes!! I’ve definitely thought about trying out lighter or crack-style fics too. It would be such a fun challenge for me since I usually lean toward the emotional/angsty side. I think it’d be interesting to mix things up a bit and let loose in a more playful way.☺️

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inkedwithcharm · 4 days ago

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Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Chapter Four

The hum of the street outside your office was faint, distant—the occasional sweep of a car’s headlights against the window, the low whisper of wind slipping through the alley. Inside, the world felt smaller. Quieter.

You stood a few steps apart from Seokjin, the warm pool of light from your desk lamp barely reaching his shoulders. He looked like a man caught between staying and leaving, his weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other, eyes tracing the floor before lifting to meet yours.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence wasn’t empty; it was heavy, humming with everything unsaid.

Finally, he drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, like he was bracing for impact. “I’m… not supposed to be here.” His voice was low, the edges roughened from exhaustion.

“You’re right,” you said softly, though it came out gentler than you’d meant.

He let out something between a laugh and a sigh. “But here I am.”

The clock on your desk ticked in the background, a metronome to the uneven rhythm of your hearts.

Finally, his gaze lifted to yours.

“I just… needed to see you,” he said quietly.

“Don’t,” you interrupted sharply, your chest tightening. “Don’t say that. You shouldn’t.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might argue. But instead, he nodded once, looking away. “…Sorry.”

Silence settled between you, thick enough to hear the faint ticking of the clock. You almost thought he would leave without explaining, but then—he exhaled, slow and resigned.

“I’m marrying Haneul,” he said, his voice low. “Not because I want to. Because I don’t have a choice.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean you don’t have a choice?”

His fingers curled loosely at his sides. “It’s complicated. Before… before all this, I was just a chef in a small restaurant. Barely making rent, running on too much coffee and too little sleep. I didn’t have a name.”

He paused, as if weighing every word. “Then Yoongi found me. He saw something in me no one else did. He helped me build everything I have now—my restaurants, my reputation. And if I go against Haneul’s family… he loses everything he put into me. Millions gone. His trust… gone. I can’t repay him for what he’s done, but I can protect him from losing it all. Yoongi has no idea about my situation, and I can’t bring myself to tell him.”

You stood frozen for a moment, his words still ringing in the air like the aftershock of a sudden storm. Marrying Haneul. No choice. The weight in his voice had been enough to make your stomach turn cold.

“Sit,” you said softly, almost instinctively, though your own heart was pounding. “Please.”

He didn’t argue. He moved to the couch with the heavy, reluctant steps of a man walking toward a sentence he’d long accepted. His shoulders were slightly hunched, hands resting on his knees, his gaze unfocused.

You lingered for a moment, watching him—how still he sat, how the usual sharpness in his presence had been dulled to something worn and quiet. Then you went to the kitchen. The clink of ceramic cups against the counter felt too loud in the silence. You boiled water, watching the steam curl upward, your thoughts spiraling with it.

When you returned, you set one cup in front of him, the other in front of your own seat. He didn’t touch it right away, only stared at the dark surface as though tea could offer him answers.

“I want to understand you,” you said finally, breaking the stillness. “So tell me everything.”

His jaw flexed. For a moment, you thought he’d refuse, that he’d retreat into that impenetrable wall again. But then his voice came—low, rough around the edges.

“We met at an event,” he began. “One of those big, glittering things where everything smells like champagne and money. My team was catering. Her team was handling PR. She was… polished. Sharp. She knew how to talk to people, how to get their attention.”

He let out a humorless breath. “Later, I found out she’d planned it that way. That event… it wasn’t just some random coincidence. Her father’s the mayor. She’s close to the governor who hosted the whole thing. I didn’t see it then, but… she was already two steps ahead.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup. “So you were… dating?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. We weren’t dating. We barely knew each other. But… something happened between us.” His gaze drifted away, a shadow crossing his face. “And weeks later, she told me she was pregnant.”

Your breath caught.

“She said her father knew. And then he made it clear—if I didn’t marry her, he’d destroy everything. My business, my name, everything I’ve worked for. Everything I owe…” He stopped, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “It wasn’t just about me. It was about people who believed in me. People I can’t afford to let down.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the quiet hiss of steam still lingering from the tea. His hands were clasped together now, fingers laced so tightly they’d gone pale.

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been forming in your mind, the one you weren’t sure he’d want to hear.

“Seokjin,” you said gently, “are you sure you’re the father?”

His head lifted slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. There was no flash of anger—only a flicker of something else. Doubt.

For the first time since he arrived, he seemed to truly stop and think.

And that silence between you… carried far more weight than any answer could.

The office had gone quiet after Seokjin’s confession. The tea between you had cooled, untouched, though steam still clung faintly to the rims of the cups. He sat slouched forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on the floor as if it might answer the questions clawing at the back of his mind. You watched him in the low light, the golden lamp on your desk catching the curve of his cheekbone, the shadows beneath his eyes.

You had never seen him look so… unmoored. Seokjin was the kind of man who carried himself like every inch of his existence was planned, a man who could move through chaos and still adjust his cufflinks without missing a beat. Tonight, that armor was gone.

“You said… she told you she was pregnant,” you murmured, keeping your voice steady. “But you never questioned it?”

His jaw tightened. “I was in shock. We weren’t… together, not like that. It happened once. One night.”

The way his eyes shifted told you more than his words. There were memories there, ones he didn’t want to replay but couldn’t erase—flashes of that night, the taste of champagne, the scent of her perfume, the dim light of a hotel suite. He blinked hard, as if trying to clear it.

“She came to me a month later,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Said she was pregnant, said her father knew. And then… the threats started.”

You leaned back in your chair, the creak of the wood loud in the silence. “And you believed her?”

“What else could I do?” He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down in a way that made him look younger, almost boyish, but so unbearably tired. “Her father—he’s… dangerous in a way that’s not about violence. He knows exactly where to cut.

“What if it’s not true?” you asked, and the words landed in the room like a sudden shift in air pressure.

For the first time, he looked at you fully. His gaze flickered, a storm of confusion, anger, and something rawer—hope, maybe, though he didn’t want to admit it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His breath came slow and uneven. “You think…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite bear the thought. “If it’s not true… then I’ve been living in chains for nothing.”

You held his eyes. “Then find out. Quietly. Before you marry her.”

He leaned back in the chair, one hand over his mouth, staring at some point far away. You could almost hear the cogs turning in his head—the memories unspooling, the small inconsistencies, the way she had steered conversations, the people who had avoided meeting his eyes at certain moments.

He thought of the event where they met. The too-perfect coincidence of her appearing at his table. The way her father had appeared minutes later to shake his hand. The “chance” meetings in the weeks that followed. The calls she made when she knew he was working late.

Pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t wanted to see were sliding into place, and each one made the pit in his stomach heavier.

“I need to talk to her,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Or… someone who knows.”

Your chest tightened, wanting to reach for him but holding yourself back. “Then do it. But do it knowing that once you start… you can’t stop. And if you find out the truth, your whole life changes.”

His lips curved into something almost like a smile, but it was too tired to hold. “My life’s already changed. I just… didn’t notice.”

The clock on the desk ticked, the sound loud in the stillness.

When he finally stood, he didn’t look at you right away. His hand lingered on the back of the chair, knuckles white. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But… thank you.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice to stay steady.

He left without another word, the soft click of the door carrying more weight than any goodbye.

For three days, Seokjin could barely hear the world over the echo of her words.

Three days of sitting in his office with his pen poised above paper, signing nothing.

Three days of pushing food around his plate while the steam faded into the air, untouched.

The city outside his apartment windows went about its days—cars weaving through the gray drizzle, street vendors calling over the noise, buses sighing as they pulled to the curb. But inside, Seokjin was motionless, like someone trapped under a heavy weight.

The more he replayed Haneul’s story, the more it felt… off. The dates didn’t quite match. The way she’d avoided his eyes when he’d asked certain questions. The too-perfect explanations, neatly wrapped like gifts he was supposed to accept without unwrapping.

By the fourth day, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

If there was even a sliver of doubt, he had to know. Not later. Not eventually. Now.

That was how he found himself standing outside the small OB clinic where Haneul had her monthly check-ups. The building was tucked between a florist and a stationery store, its faded green awning sagging slightly from years of rain.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender air freshener. A receptionist in pale pink scrubs glanced up, startled, when she saw him.

“Mr. Kim?” she asked, voice polite but curious.

“I’m here to see Dr. Oh,” he said, his tone calm enough to be civil but edged with the kind of resolve that didn’t invite argument.

She hesitated, glancing at the wall clock. “She’s with a patient—”

“I’ll wait.”

The waiting room was quiet except for the muted hum of the air conditioner. A small child sat across from him with her mother, flipping through a picture book. He tapped his fingers against his knee, eyes fixed on the door at the end of the hallway.

When Dr. Oh finally emerged, she looked almost surprised to see him. “Mr. Kim,” she greeted, adjusting her glasses. “I didn’t know you had an appointment today.”

“We need to talk,” he said simply.

She led him into her office, closing the door behind them. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting in thin strips of pale daylight that fell across the desk. Medical charts lined the walls, but the air in the room felt heavier than the one outside.

“What is this about?” she asked, sitting down.

Seokjin remained standing, his hands in his pockets, but his voice carried a quiet insistence. “I want you to tell me exactly how far along Haneul is.”

Dr. Oh’s eyes flicked toward the door before returning to him. “You should be asking her.”

“I already did. And I think she lied to me.”

Silence pressed against the room.

When she didn’t speak, Seokjin stepped closer, his voice tightening. “How many months, doctor?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, it looked like she would refuse, but then something in his gaze—unblinking, steady—made her shoulders sink.

“She didn’t want me to tell you,” she murmured. “In fact… she made sure I wouldn’t.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“She came to me three months ago,” Dr. Oh said, voice low. “Paid me. Threatened to file a complaint with the medical board to have my license revoked if I didn’t cooperate. She made me promise to adjust the gestational age on her records.”

The words hit like cold water, but Seokjin stayed still. “To what?”

“Three months. That’s what she told me to say if anyone asked. The truth is… she’s almost five.”

The air in the room seemed to thin. The hum of the air conditioner became too loud, the daylight too sharp.

“She was already pregnant before she involved you,” Dr. Oh added softly. “I don’t know why she needed you to believe otherwise, but she made sure you would.”

For a long time, Seokjin didn’t speak. His mind replayed every moment with Haneul—the way she had cried in his kitchen, the way she’d pressed her hand to her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking, the way she’d clung to him as though he was her only choice.

Only now, the images looked different. Darker.

When he finally looked at Dr. Oh, his voice was even, almost too calm. “Thank you for telling me.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “I’m sorry you had to hear it this way.”

Seokjin walked out of the clinic without looking back. Outside, the sky had shifted into a heavy, rain-soaked gray, the kind that promised a storm. The streets were slick, the air cool against his face, but he barely felt it.

Every step away from the clinic felt heavier than the last, like the truth was something he was carrying in his chest, and it was only getting heavier.

His feet carried him to your door, it wasn’t triumph that guided him. It was the need for air—real air, untainted by lies. He needed a space that didn’t collapse in on him with every breath.

When you opened the door, your eyes widened at the sight of him. Drenched, shivering, but with a strange calm etched into his face, as though some invisible weight had just slid off his shoulders.

“You’re soaked,” you whispered, worry slipping through your tone.

He stepped inside without protest, his coat dripping onto your floor. You pressed a towel into his hands, but he only held it loosely, staring at you as if grounding himself in your presence.

For a while, he said nothing. Then, quietly, with a voice steadier than he expected, he spoke.

“It’s not mine.”

You blinked, not understanding at first.

“The baby,” he clarified, his eyes locking on yours. “It’s not mine.”

Relief flickered in his expression, raw and unguarded, and you felt it in your chest like a sudden rush of wind.

“Seokjin…” you started, but your words trailed off, unsure what to offer him.

He let out a shaky laugh, one that bordered on breaking. “Do you know what that means? I don’t have to live chained to her lie. I don’t have to spend the rest of my life carrying something that isn’t mine.” His smile faltered. “God, I shouldn’t feel this happy, should I?”

Your heart ached at the contradiction in him—the lightness, the guilt, the fragile hope. “You’re allowed to feel relieved,” you said softly. “Being free from a lie isn’t selfish. It’s survival.”

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours, as though trying to believe it. The rain hammered harder against the windows, drowning the silence between you, but for the first time in days, Seokjin’s shoulders relaxed, his breath no longer jagged.

He was free. And even though the road ahead promised confrontation, anger, and shattered glass, for this brief moment, he could breathe.

The storm had eased into silence by the time he spoke again. The sound of dripping water echoed faintly from the eaves outside, the world wrapped in that fragile stillness that comes after heavy rain. The lamp beside the sofa painted his face in soft amber, highlighting the exhaustion etched into every line of him—but also something else. A quiet clarity.

He turned to you, his voice unsteady but filled with something raw and true.

“Thank you,” he said.

You blinked, taken aback. “For what?”

“For… for making me see.” His lips trembled with the weight of it. “That night, when you asked if I was sure I was the father—I couldn’t stop hearing your voice in my head. It was like a splinter I couldn’t ignore. I thought I hated you for planting that doubt in me. But it saved me. You saved me.”

Your throat tightened. He wasn’t looking at you with gratitude alone—there was shame too, the kind of shame that comes from realizing you had nearly surrendered your whole life to a cage built by someone else’s lies.

“I didn’t save you,” you said gently. “You saved yourself by daring to ask the question out loud. I just… reminded you that you deserve to.”

His eyes softened, and for the briefest second you thought you saw a flicker of something more in them—something fragile, unspeakable—but then he exhaled and looked away.

The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hum of the clock on your wall. You held your breath before asking the question that had lingered in your chest since his revelation.

“What about the wedding?”

The words felt heavier than they should, as though they carried with them the weight of his future, of the choice he would have to make now that the truth had torn through the lies.

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. He pressed a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly before he spoke. His voice was firm, though faintly cracked around the edges.

“There will be no wedding.”

The certainty in those words startled even him. His shoulders sagged, not in defeat this time, but in release, as though shedding chains he had worn too long.

“I will not stand at an altar with a woman who tried to chain me with a child that isn’t mine. I will not live in her lie.” His eyes found yours again, blazing with a quiet defiance. “Tomorrow… I’ll end it. All of it.”

Your chest ached at the strength it must have taken him to say those words. The storm in him was far from over, but for the first time he was steering his own ship rather than drowning in its waves.

“And Yoongi?” you asked softly.

A pause. His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers twisting in the towel still damp from the rain.

“I have to tell him. He deserves the truth before anyone else hears it. He’s been my anchor through everything, and I… I can’t lie to him anymore.” His voice grew quieter, almost childlike.

You leaned forward, your hands tightening around the mug of cooling tea. “Then tell him. You’re not alone anymore, Seokjin. Not in this.”

He looked at you then —eyes searching your face as though anchoring himself in your presence, as though the warmth of your words was the only steady ground beneath his feet. His lips parted, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t yet. Instead, he nodded, exhaling a long, uneven breath.

“I will,” he said, his voice hushed but steady. “Tomorrow, Yoongi will know everything. And Haneul’s lies… will finally end.”

The rain outside picked up again, soft and steady, like the world exhaling with him. And in that quiet room, the two of you sat together—not as savior and saved, not as anything clearly defined, but as two people bound by a fragile moment of truth, knowing tomorrow would change everything.

The rain had quieted into a mist that clung to the windows of Yoongi’s studio, the kind of silence that made every sound sharper, heavier. Seokjin stood just inside the doorway, his hands clenched, his heart thundering.

Yoongi barely looked up from his desk. “You’re here,” he muttered, distracted by the glow of the monitor. Then he caught sight of Jin’s face, pale and drawn, and his expression hardened. “What happened?”

Seokjin swallowed, forcing the words out. “The baby isn’t mine.”

The chair creaked as Yoongi turned fully to him, disbelief cutting across his face. “What?”

“She lied. Haneul lied. I found out yesterday.”

The silence cracked, sharp and immediate, before Yoongi shot to his feet. “I knew it. Something about that woman never felt right. I warned you not to trust her, but you made me believe you really wanted a life with her—a marriage, a family.” His voice was raw, trembling with fury.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“No.” Yoongi’s hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the pens and lyric sheets. His voice was rising now, unsteady with rage. “Don’t you dare say that to me. You always have a choice, Jin. You let yourself be trapped.”

Seokjin’s throat tightened. He’d rehearsed the words in his mind, but they still came out broken, fragile. “Her father gave me an ultimatum.”

Yoongi blinked, his jaw tightening. “What are you talking about?”

“He said if I didn’t marry her… he would destroy everything. My business. The company we built.” Seokjin’s voice shook, but he pushed on. “The company you helped fund when I had nothing. He said he’d drag you down with me. I couldn’t risk that.”

For a heartbeat, Yoongi just stared. Then the fury broke like a flood. “So you let him win? You let him dangle me over your head like a leash and you said nothing?” His voice cracked as his hands curled into fists. “Do you have any idea how insulting that is? You think I’m so weak that I wouldn’t fight for us? For you?”

“I was trying to protect you.” Seokjin’s voice was small, pleading.

“No, Jin. You were protecting me from my own choice.” Yoongi’s chest heaved with each breath, anger and betrayal lacing every word. “You think you shielded me, but all you did was cut me out. You made me watch you suffer for months, when you could’ve told me the truth. You should’ve trusted me enough to fight with you.”

Seokjin’s eyes burned, shame clawing up his chest. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing everything you gave me. You believed in me when no one else did. You lifted me up. I didn’t want to repay you with ruin.”

Yoongi’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “You still don’t get it. I didn’t invest in you because I expected something back. I did it because I saw something in you. You’re like a brother to me now. I don’t care about the money, or the company, or the numbers on some stupid balance sheet. I care about you.”

The room felt too small, too suffocating for the grief between them. Seokjin’s voice cracked, low and trembling. “I didn’t want to let you down.”

Yoongi stepped forward, his fury dimming to raw hurt. His voice softened, but the pain in it was sharper than anger. “The only way you let me down was by carrying this alone. Don’t you see? If one of us falls, the other’s supposed to pull him back up. Not stand on the edge and pretend he’s fine while he’s breaking inside.”

Seokjin’s tears finally spilled, hot and unrelenting, his shoulders trembling as the truth—ugly, heavy, and months overdue—settled between them. Yoongi grabbed his arm, gripping tight.

“You’re not alone in this fight, Jin. Not anymore. If Haneul’s father thinks he can scare us into silence, then he doesn’t know who he’s up against. He tried to pit us against each other—but all he did was remind me why I’ll never let you carry this by yourself again.”

Seokjin let out a shuddering breath, as if the weight of months of silence was finally breaking free. For the first time, hope flickered faintly through the exhaustion in his eyes.

The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of your office, casting long golden streaks across the floor. Your desk was neatly arranged, though your hands fidgeted with the edge of your notebook, betraying the stillness you tried to hold. You hadn’t expected to see him today—not like this, not with Yoongi by his side.

The door opened and Seokjin stepped in first, tall and composed, but his eyes flickered with nerves. Behind him, Yoongi followed, quiet and observant, his gaze sharp enough to cut through silence.

“Y/N,” Seokjin began softly, his voice careful, almost reverent. “This is Yoongi. The one I told you about.”

You rose slowly, the air in the room tightening around you. Your eyes met Yoongi’s, and for a moment, the world shrank to nothing but that gaze—assessing, skeptical, carrying the weight of all the things he had built with Jin.

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, studying you. “So you’re the one,” he said, his tone even, though there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Seokjin’s throat bobbed. “Y/N is the one who helped me find out the truth. Without her, I would still be living in Haneul’s lie.” He turned to Yoongi, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache. “I wouldn’t have had the courage on my own.”

The words hung heavy, tender and raw. You felt the sting behind your eyes but willed it away.

Yoongi shifted, his arms crossing, but his silence didn’t feel dismissive—it felt thoughtful, contemplative. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, not in hostility but in a strange sort of curiosity.

“I know about you,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “Jin talked about you before. Six years together.” His gaze flicked between the two of you, sharp and searching. “But what I didn’t know was that you were the wedding planner Haneul hired.”

Your breath caught, the truth landing between all three of you like an uninvited guest.

Yoongi let out a small, humorless laugh. “At first, I thought it was just another one of her obsessions with Jin. Another way to dig into his past. Another way to keep him on a leash.” He paused, his eyes settling on you again, softer now. “But maybe it wasn’t her doing at all. Maybe it was fate trying to push him back to where he belonged.”

The room grew unbearably still. Seokjin looked at Yoongi, surprise flashing in his expression. You couldn’t look away from either of them, caught between the gravity of the past and the fragile threads of the present.

“Yoongi…” Seokjin’s voice broke the silence. “I wanted to tell you earlier. About everything. About Y/N being here. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t want it to seem like—like I was still caught in the past.”

Yoongi’s expression softened, though his voice carried a quiet firmness. “Jin, your past isn’t a chain. It’s part of who you are. And if she was the one who gave you the courage to face the truth, then I’m glad she’s here.”

The words lodged deep in your chest, stirring emotions you had locked away for years.

The weight in the room shifted, something fragile yet unyielding rising from the cracks of pain and betrayal. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet—but it was the first step toward healing.

Seokjin exhaled, shoulders trembling with the relief of no longer being alone in his truth.

And for the first time, you saw him not just as the man who had once held your heart, but as someone still learning how to carry it—carefully, painfully, but with hope.

The office door creaked open before any of you could react. The soft click of heels against the polished floor cut through the silence, and Haneul stepped in. Her presence, pristine and deliberate, was like the sudden drop in air pressure before a storm. Her eyes darted between you, Jin, and Yoongi, sharp with suspicion.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice smooth, but the tremor beneath it betrayed her unease. Her gaze lingered longest on Jin, as if daring him to answer.

Seokjin stiffened, his hand curling into a fist at his side. His throat worked, but for a long moment, no words came. The golden light spilling from the window carved his profile in sharp relief, every line of his face etched with conflict.

Yoongi was the one to break the silence. His voice was low but unyielding, cutting clean through the tension. “We were discussing the truth.”

Haneul’s jaw tightened, her mask cracking for a second before she forced a smile. “What truth? That you’re both trying to sabotage what Jin and I have? That you can’t stand the idea of him moving forward without you?”

Her words struck like venom, but Seokjin finally lifted his gaze to her, and his eyes burned with something steadier than fear. “Stop, Haneul. Enough of the lies.” His voice trembled at first, but then grew stronger. “I know. I know I’m not the father of your child.”

The air collapsed in on itself. The silence was suffocating, until Haneul laughed—sharp, brittle, echoing too loudly in the small office. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yoongi stepped forward, his calmness more dangerous than anger. His eyes locked onto hers, sharp as glass. “You can keep denying it, but the truth has a way of surfacing. And if you think you can keep hiding behind your father’s shadow, you’re mistaken. I won’t let you drag Jin down any further. If he doesn’t end this, I will. And when I do, everyone will know the kind of lies you and your father are built on.”

Her composure faltered. She turned to Jin, desperation flickering in her gaze. “You’ll regret this. My father will make sure of it. He’ll destroy everything you’ve built. He’ll—”

Seokjin’s voice broke through hers, louder than you had ever heard him. “Then let him.” His chest heaved as he spoke, his voice raw, stripped bare. “I would rather lose everything than keep living a life built on lies. I won’t do it, Haneul. Not to Yoongi. Not to Y/N. Not to myself.”

Your breath hitched at the sound of your name, the weight of his truth pressing down on the moment. You could see the fear trembling in his hands, but you could also see the freedom sparking in his eyes for the first time.

Haneul’s lips trembled as if to form another denial, but the words died when her gaze fell on you. For a fleeting second, her expression shifted—jealousy, resentment, and fear all clashing at once.

You inhaled slowly, your voice soft but steady, cutting through the storm like a lifeline. “Haneul, the truth will not break him the way you think. It will free him. And when it does, no threat, no shadow, not a single person can hold him anymore.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Haneul’s face hardened, her jaw tightening as tears threatened to fall but never did. With a sharp pivot, she turned, her heels striking against the floor like gunshots, and slammed the door behind her.

For a moment, none of you moved. The air was heavy, as though the room itself had absorbed every ounce of anger and grief.

Seokjin sank into the chair near your desk, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook—not from defeat, but from the weight of having finally spoken the truth.

Yoongi placed a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “You did the right thing, Jin. It’s not over yet, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll face her father together.”

You moved closer, your voice softer than the fading light. “And this time, you won’t have to fight with fear. You’ll fight with truth.”

Seokjin lifted his head, his eyes glassy but filled with something new—something fragile, yet unbreakable. Hope.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in shades of fire and ash, as if the world itself knew a war was about to begin.

The invitation arrived not as a letter, but as a summons. A messenger in a black suit delivered it directly to Seokjin’s penthouse, a heavy envelope stamped with the seal of Gyeongwon City. The mayor’s command was clear: dinner, tomorrow night. Refusal was not an option.

The following evening, the three of you stood before a towering glass building, the reflection of the city burning orange in the fading light. Seokjin’s hand twitched at his side, his nerves barely hidden beneath his neatly pressed suit. Yoongi, calm as ever, adjusted his cuffs with deliberate precision, his silence carrying its own gravity.

You walked between them, your presence unassuming yet grounding. Though you said little, Seokjin’s glances toward you betrayed how much he leaned on your steadiness.

The mayor’s private dining hall was a stage of power. Crystal chandeliers glowed with cold light, the long mahogany table gleaming like a weapon sharpened for show. Every corner whispered of influence: oil paintings of ancestors, polished silver, guards stationed discreetly near the doors.

Mayor Han sat at the head of the table, his figure heavy with authority, eyes sharp beneath his graying brows. Haneul was not present. Tonight was meant to be a man’s negotiation, but the air shifted the moment you entered, disrupting the script he had prepared.

“Ah, Seokjin.” His voice was smooth, almost warm, like wine poured too sweet. “I wondered how long it would take before you came to your senses.” His eyes flickered briefly to Yoongi, then you, his smile thinning. “And you’ve brought… company.”

Seokjin’s jaw clenched, but Yoongi answered first, his tone steady as steel. “We’re not here to play audience. If you have something to say, say it to all of us.”

The mayor’s smile faltered, replaced by something sharper. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Very well. I’ll be direct. The wedding will proceed. You, Seokjin, will marry my daughter. If you do, I will ensure your business not only survives, but thrives. If you don’t…” His eyes narrowed, the words slow and deliberate. “I will bury you. Your name, your company, everything you hold dear. And trust me, I have the means.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Seokjin’s breath hitched, but he did not look away. His knuckles whitened against the table’s edge.

Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling at first, but gaining strength with every word. “You think I’m afraid of you. And for a long time, I was. But not anymore. I know the truth about Haneul. I know the child isn’t mine. And I will not marry her.”

The mayor’s eyes flashed with fury, his composure cracking for the first time. “You ungrateful boy. After everything I’ve offered you—”

“Offered?” Yoongi’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade. His calm mask slipped, revealing the anger burning beneath. “You threatened him. You tried to destroy the very business he and I built from nothing. That isn’t an offer. It’s extortion.”

The mayor’s face darkened. “Careful, Min Yoongi. Words like that can end careers.”

Yoongi leaned forward, his voice quiet but deadly certain. “And secrets like yours can end legacies. Don’t test me.”

The air trembled with the unspoken threat. You could feel Seokjin wavering beside you, his breath uneven, the weight of months of fear pressing down on him. Without thinking, you reached under the table, your hand brushing lightly against his. The warmth of your touch steadied him, pulling him back to himself.

Seokjin drew in a sharp breath and lifted his gaze, his eyes no longer shaking. “I would rather lose everything than live a life chained to your lies. If you want to bury me, then do it. But I won’t marry Haneul.”

The mayor slammed his hand against the table, the silverware rattling with the force. The room seemed to darken with his rage. “You’ll regret this. Both of you. And you—” His eyes shifted to you, cold and assessing. “Stay out of matters that don’t concern you.”

Your voice, though soft, rang steady across the table. “With respect, Mayor Han, they do concern me. Because the moment you tried to control Seokjin’s future, you made it everyone’s fight—everyone who loves him, everyone who believes in him. And no amount of power can erase the truth.”

The mayor’s nostrils flared, his composure unraveling. For the first time, he seemed at a loss for words, his authority slipping against the quiet defiance surrounding him.

Yoongi pushed back his chair, rising with a finality that filled the room. “We’re done here. Threaten him again, and I won’t hesitate to put every piece of evidence I have into the hands of people who will make sure your empire burns.”

He reached for Seokjin’s shoulder, urging him up. You followed, the three of you turning away from the table like soldiers leaving the battlefield. The mayor’s fury burned against your backs, but none of you looked back.

When the heavy doors closed behind you, Seokjin exhaled a shuddering breath, his body trembling with the weight of what he had just done. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak, but the look in his eyes said enough. He was free, and terrified, and alive all at once.

Yoongi placed a hand on his back, steady but firm. “You did it, Jin. You finally stood up to him.”

You offered the smallest smile, your hand brushing his sleeve. “And this is only the beginning.”

The night air outside was cool, carrying the scent of rain. The city lights shimmered like constellations, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the storm that was yet to come.

Your apartment smelled faintly of rosemary and candle wax. Hoseok poured the wine clumsily, filling the glasses too high, his brows drawn in quiet confusion as he sat across from you. He knew the outlines of the story, but not the jagged edges.

“I don’t get it,” he said, swirling his glass. “I only met Mr.Kim because of the wedding. He seemed… decent. Reserved, sure, but solid. So why cancel everything now? Did he…?”

You shook your head. The wine burned your throat as you swallowed, though it wasn’t the alcohol that stung. “No, it wasn’t him. He found out he’s not the father. The child Haneul carries—it isn’t his.”

Hoseok’s lips parted in shock. He set his glass down, the clink sharp in the silence. “Are you serious?”

“He’s been living under that lie for months.” Your voice trembled. “Can you imagine what it did to him? To sacrifice his peace, his career, his freedom, because of her manipulation? And all the while he believed he was protecting an innocent life that wasn’t even his.”

The room felt heavier with every word. Hoseok leaned back, exhaling sharply. “So the wedding’s canceled.”

“Yes.” You stared at your glass, the crimson swirl reflecting the city lights beyond the window. “And tomorrow… we start calling everyone. Every vendor. Every supplier. It’s over.”

The morning was gray, a thin rain threading down the office windows. You and Hoseok spent hours dialing numbers, your voices mechanical, repeating the same cold phrases until they lost meaning.

“This is to confirm the wedding is canceled.”

“No, there won’t be a reschedule.”

“Thank you for your understanding.”

Every confirmation tightened the knot in your chest, but it was necessary. Seokjin was free, and that mattered more than the storm you knew was coming.

By noon, the storm walked through the door.

Haneul burst into the office like a knife tearing through silk, her heels striking sharp echoes against the polished floor. She threw a printout onto the desk—an email confirmation you had sent to a vendor.

“You,” she hissed, her eyes cutting into you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Canceling my wedding through an email? Who gave you the right?”

You rose from your chair slowly, the room buzzing with her fury. “It isn’t your wedding anymore, Haneul.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “And who are you to say that? You’re just Jin’s ex. You have no place here. You don’t belong in his life anymore.”

The words sliced, but you refused to flinch. Your voice steadied, cold and deliberate.

“Maybe I am his ex. But at least I never lied to him. At least I never chained him to a life of humiliation. You paraded him like a trophy while you betrayed him behind closed doors. And now you’re angry because your mask has slipped.”

Her face blazed red, but you didn’t stop.

“You told me I have no right. But I’ll tell you what I do have. I have the right to stand by the truth. I have the right to call out cruelty when I see it. And I have the right to defend the man you tried to destroy. Because unlike you, Haneul, I don’t see him as a bargaining chip or a leash. I see him as a person.”

The silence after your words was suffocating. Hoseok watched from his chair, stunned, the wine from last night still lingering faintly on his breath.

Haneul’s eyes glistened with rage, her voice trembling. “You think this is over? My father will bury him for this. He’ll bury both of you.”

“Then let him try,” you said, your voice quiet but certain. “Seokjin would rather stand ruined in the light than live forever in the shadow of your father’s power. And I’d rather fall beside him than watch him chained to you.”

The air between you crackled. Haneul’s mouth opened, but no words came. She turned on her heel and stormed out, her perfume clinging to the office like smoke after fire.

When the door slammed shut, Hoseok let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know him,” he muttered, “but I almost pity him. No one deserves to be dragged through this kind of hell.”

Your hands trembled as you sat down, staring out at the rain-streaked city. “No,” you whispered. “No one does.”

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to wonder—not about the fight ahead, not about the mayor’s power, not even about the ruin to come—

But about what it might mean for Seokjin to finally be free.

For the first time in months, Seokjin slept without nightmares. His body, usually restless and taut with the ache of unspoken dread, lay heavy against the mattress. The dawn light bled gently across the curtains, painting the room in soft strokes of gold. There was no phantom cry in his ear, no invisible chain tugging at his chest. Only the steady rhythm of his breathing, deep and even, as if his soul had finally remembered how to rest.

The ringtone was gentle, familiar. He stirred, his lashes fluttering, his hand groping across the nightstand until his phone warmed his palm. Your name glowed against the screen.

“Hello?” His voice was still hoarse from sleep.

You didn’t answer with a greeting. Your breath trembled through the line. “Jin. Turn on the news. Right now.”

Confused, he pushed himself upright, fumbling for the remote. The television flickered to life, the screen painting his pale face in cool tones. A row of reporters stood clustered outside the courthouse, cameras flashing in bursts of white. And there—at the center, head bowed, wrists cuffed—was Mayor Han.

The anchor’s voice rang clear. “Mayor Han Gyeongmin has been arrested on multiple charges of corruption, bribery, and abuse of power. Investigations confirm a decade of embezzlement and coercion. The arrest has sparked both outrage and relief across the city.”

Seokjin’s heart stopped. His chest hollowed and then swelled so quickly he couldn’t breathe. His hand covered his mouth, his knuckles pressed white.

“Jin,” your voice whispered through the receiver, “he’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore.”

A sound broke out of him—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh, but something raw, something long-buried clawing its way free. His shoulders shook, his eyes blurred until the image of the disgraced mayor dissolved into nothing but color and light.

“Is it real?” His voice cracked. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

“It’s real,” you said softly, firmly. “You’re free.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. He sat there with the phone pressed to his ear, tears trailing down his skin like rain against glass. Then, as though the words finally sank into bone, he leaned back against the headboard, exhaling a shudder that seemed to empty years of torment from his lungs.

“Thank you,” he whispered, not even sure to whom—perhaps to you, perhaps to the universe itself.

That evening, the city hummed with whispers of the arrest. News tickers flashed across building façades, every restaurant and café buzzing with speculation. Seokjin slipped into a quiet corner of a familiar restaurant where Yoongi was already waiting, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the warm haze of the hanging lanterns.

Seokjin slid into the seat opposite him, his expression softer than Yoongi had seen in months. He almost looked like the man Yoongi remembered—the one who used to laugh easily, shoulders unburdened by fear.

“You’ve heard?” Seokjin asked.

Yoongi lifted his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside. “Hard not to. The whole city’s singing about it.”

Seokjin’s lips curved, trembling at the edges. “I almost cried this morning. Watching him in handcuffs… it was like watching the chains around my neck break one by one.” His hand clenched around the stem of his glass. “Do you know what it feels like to wake up without the weight of someone else’s power crushing you? To breathe and not fear who’s waiting at your door?”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, though his face stayed unreadable. “It feels like living.”

Seokjin exhaled, his voice fragile but earnest. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this moment. For months I carried the shame, the lies, the fear… I thought it would bury me alive. And now—he’s gone.”

Yoongi leaned back, his tone deceptively casual. “Good men don’t deserve to rot under bad ones.”

Seokjin looked at him then, as though searching for something beneath the calm exterior. “You sound like you knew this day was coming.”

Yoongi smirked faintly, taking a long sip of his drink. “Let’s just say people like him always leave cracks. Sometimes the right pressure makes the whole thing collapse.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering—but Yoongi offered no confirmation, no confession. He only sat there, quiet as the shadow he had always been, watching Seokjin’s relief like a man who had carried a secret load and had no intention of setting it down aloud.

“Whatever the reason,” Seokjin whispered, his voice breaking, “I can finally sleep again. I can finally… breathe.”

Yoongi clinked his glass lightly against Seokjin’s. “Then drink to that. To breathing. To freedom.”

The toast was simple, almost offhand, but when Seokjin lifted the glass to his lips, the burn of the liquor carried more sweetness than pain.

For the first time in months, his smile reached his eyes.

The clock ticked quietly against the muted hum of your office. Papers were stacked neatly on your desk, sunlight streaming through the blinds in stripes of soft gold. Outside, the world moved as it always did, unaware of what day it was. But for you, the date pulsed like a quiet drumbeat in the back of your mind.

Today should have been Seokjin’s wedding day.

You were typing absentmindedly when a soft knock broke the silence. You lifted your head, half-expecting a courier or Hoseok. But when the door opened, your breath stilled.

Seokjin stood there, framed by the warm glow of the hallway, a bouquet of fresh white lilies and soft pink roses in his hands. The sight was disarming. He was dressed simply, no sharp lines of formality—just a man stripped of weight, his eyes softer than you’d seen in months.

“Jin,” you whispered, surprised.

He stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him. The bouquet looked almost shy in his grasp, as though it didn’t belong to someone like him, someone who had been dragged through storms and shadows.

“These are for you,” he said simply, setting them on the edge of your desk. His voice was calm, steady, threaded with something warm.

You glanced at the flowers, then at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did.” He leaned against the corner of your desk, his gaze steady. “Because of you, I’m standing here today. Not as someone’s husband. Not as someone trapped in a cage I never built. But as myself again.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat. “It’s nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”

“No.” He shook his head firmly, his expression deepening. “Not anyone. You. You saw what I couldn’t. You gave me the strength I lost. You… reminded me of who I was.” His lips curved faintly, almost a smile. “I forgot what that man looked like. But you didn’t.”

The words pressed against you like warmth in winter. You lowered your gaze to the flowers, the petals delicate and alive, unlike the heaviness of the past months.

“It feels strange,” you said softly, “to look at you now. You’re… calmer. Lighter. Like how I remember you from before.”

Seokjin’s eyes lingered on you, the corners crinkling as he let out a quiet breath. “Ten years ago.”

“Yes.” You smiled faintly, the memory spilling back. “Back then, you laughed at everything. Even the things no one else found funny.”

“I was ridiculous.” His laugh was gentle, self-deprecating. “I used to make stupid jokes just to hear you groan. Remember when I nearly burned the kitchen trying to cook for everyone?”

You laughed, the sound easing something between you both. “The rice turned black. I still don’t understand how you managed that.”

“It was talent.” His grin widened, and for a moment, he truly was the boy you remembered—untouched by power, unscarred by betrayal.

The memory lingered in your chest. His laugh, his lightheartedness, the boy you once knew before time and ambition had carved away at him. And now, standing here, he looked closer to that boy than he had in years—calm, unburdened, alive.

For a long moment, you both stood there, the silence filled not with tension but with something gentler, something almost fragile.

“Still… I owe you. More than you know.” His gaze lingered, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man he had been ten years ago—the one who carried joy so easily, the one who believed in possibility.

A silence followed, filled with unspoken memories, heavy yet strangely tender. Then Seokjin straightened, a small smile tugging at his lips, his eyes glinting with something lighter than you’d seen in months.

“You know,” he began, voice soft but steady, “I’ve spent most of my life expressing myself through food. It’s the only language I know how to speak without hesitation. So… as a thank you, will you let me invite you to dinner? I’ll cook. Just for you.”

The weight of his words lingered in the room, delicate and promising—like the quiet first step of something new.

Chapter 5

@mar-lo-pap @pp0810 @syh-a @andoyuki @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @woncheecks @chocolateladycat @carriereadsbooks @amarawayne

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inkedwithcharm · 5 days ago

Text

Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Chapter Three

The venue was quiet when you arrived, the last of the sunlight stretching across the polished floors like liquid gold. Staff members moved in and out, adjusting chair covers, setting out the final batch of glassware, while you walked the length of the room with your tablet in hand.

You had expected Haneul to meet you for the final inspection, but when the door opened, it was Seokjin who stepped inside. He looked immaculate, as always, his black coat draped over one arm, the faint shadow of fatigue under his eyes.

“Haneul?” you asked.

“Morning sickness,” he replied simply, walking toward you. “She’s resting. Thought I should come instead.”

You gave a small nod, your voice dipping into the safe, professional register you had perfected for situations like this. “Shall we start?”

You led him through each section, the tablet a glowing map between you. “This is the main dining area,” you began, scrolling to the floor plan. “White linen, gold cutlery, low floral centerpieces so conversation isn’t blocked. The dessert station will be here—Haneul wanted the chocolate fountain placed near the balcony for easier access. And over here is the quartet. The sound check is already scheduled.”

“Okay,” Seokjin said.

The word landed like a pebble on still water—flat, without ripples. You moved on, trying to keep the energy steady.

“The ceremony arch will be installed tomorrow,” you continued. “We’re using a mix of roses, hydrangeas, and eucalyptus. The lighting crew will add uplighting here to highlight it during the vows. Then the transition to the reception…” You scrolled again, pointing at the plan. “Candles lit just as the skyline starts to glow.”

“Okay,” he said again, his gaze somewhere beyond the room.

You stopped, lowering the tablet slightly. “You’re not… excited.”

His eyes shifted to you then, unreadable. “Should I be?”

The question wasn’t sharp—it was quiet, almost weary.

“You’re getting married,” you said, trying to keep your tone neutral.

A small, humorless smile touched his lips. “I’m marrying someone out of obligation, not love.”

Your fingers tightened slightly on the tablet. “Then why do it?”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again. “She’s carrying my child. And… I don’t want to be the man who walks away from that.”

His voice softened, carrying an ache that reached places you wished you could ignore. “I told myself that love… doesn’t always have to be part of the equation. That it’s something you can live without, as long as the rest of your life is stable.”

You searched his face, your chest tightening. “But do you believe that?”

A long pause. The hum of the air conditioning filled the space between you. Finally, he said, “I don’t know anymore.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Seokjin… you deserve more than stability. You deserve someone you actually want to share a life with.”

His eyes lingered on yours a beat too long. “Sometimes wanting isn’t enough.”

It was then you realized how close you were standing—close enough to notice the faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the familiar scent of his cologne, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

You broke the moment, glancing back at the tablet. “Let’s… finish the walkthrough.”

The last of the inspection ended with the soft click of your tablet case. You turned to Seokjin, ready to wrap up, when the first low rumble of thunder echoed overhead. A moment later, the sound of heavy rain began drumming against the ballroom’s tall glass windows.

Outside, the city was shrouded in a silver veil, raindrops rushing down the panes in hurried rivulets. The parking lot was already glossed with water, puddles rippling under the wind.

You stopped by the doorway, clutching your tablet to your chest. “Guess we’re stuck for a while.”

Seokjin glanced out. “Looks like it.” He set his coat down on the nearest chair, loosening his tie with an absent hand.

The storm built quickly. Rain lashed harder against the glass, and thunder rolled in closer, loud enough to make the lights hum faintly. You sat at one of the tables near the window, the faint scent of fresh flowers from the centerpieces wrapping around you. After a moment, Seokjin joined you, the space between you filled with the low hum of rain.

Neither of you spoke at first. It was easier to watch the rain trace its crooked paths down the glass. You could almost convince yourself this was just another night years ago, before things became complicated.

Then his voice broke through, softer than you expected. “Do you ever think about back then?”

Your eyes shifted to him. “Back when?”

He looked at you fully now, his gaze steady. “Ten years ago. When it was… just us.”

Your heart gave the smallest jolt. “Sometimes.”

A faint smile curved his mouth, but there was a weight in it. “We were… happy then. Weren’t we?”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your tablet. “Yes. We were.”

The storm outside seemed to swell, as if urging the moment forward.

“I was thinking,” he continued, “about that day after school. The one where we got stranded in the rain.”

You remembered instantly. “The bus never came.”

“And you refused to wait under the shelter like a normal person,” he said, the ghost of a laugh in his tone.

“You followed me anyway,” you countered, unable to stop your smile.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze distant with the memory. “We ended up soaked. My shoes were ruined. And you…” His smile softened further. “You grabbed my hand in the middle of the street and started dancing. Like there was no one else in the world.”

Your breath caught, because you could see it too—the grey sky pouring down, the two of you spinning and laughing while water pooled around your ankles. The feel of his warm hand gripping yours, your hair plastered to your face, the way your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“You laughed the whole time,” he said quietly. “Like it didn’t matter that we were drenched. Like it didn’t matter that the world kept moving around us.”

A small ache bloomed in your chest. “That was before… everything changed.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of what was unsaid, of the years that had passed, of the choices that had brought you both here.

“I think about that sometimes,” he admitted. “How simple it felt. How easy it was with you.” His voice lowered. “And I wonder… if I’d done things differently back then, would we still be…”

He trailed off, but the unfinished question hung heavy between you.

You looked away, afraid of the truth that might slip out if you met his eyes for too long. “We can’t go back.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “We can’t.”

The rain hadn’t let up.

It poured steady and thick, as if the sky had decided you both had more to say before you left.

The ballroom felt cavernous in its quiet, the floral centerpieces swaying gently as the air conditioner hummed overhead. Outside, sheets of water blurred the city into soft watercolor greys. You stayed by the same table near the window, your tablet resting in front of you, but neither of you had looked at it in minutes.

Seokjin’s elbows rested on the table, his hands loosely clasped.

“Do you remember,” he began, voice low and steady, “our first day in that tiny apartment?”

A faint smile found your lips despite the weight in your chest. “The one with the green door and the leaky faucet?”

He chuckled softly. “And the heater that only worked during the hottest days of summer.”

“And the aircon that decided to come alive in the middle of winter,” you added, the memory pulling a quiet laugh from you.

You could almost smell it now—the faint mustiness of the hallway, the peeling paint on the banister, the way the sunlight angled through that single small kitchen window.

“We didn’t even have proper furniture,” he said, looking down at his hands. “Just that secondhand couch you found at the thrift store.”

“It was hideous,” you teased. “But it was ours.”

A shadow of nostalgia crossed his expression. “We painted the walls that first weekend. Do you remember? That pale yellow we thought would make it feel bigger.”

You nodded slowly. “You got more paint on yourself than the walls.”

“It was because you kept distracting me,” he said with a smirk that softened almost instantly. “We were… happy. Back then.”

The smile on your face wavered. “We thought love was enough.”

The rain against the glass seemed louder now, each drop a reminder of time passing.

“It was,” he said quietly. “For a while.”

For a moment, the room smelled like that tiny apartment—like paint drying in summer heat, like cheap instant noodles on the stove. You saw flashes of late nights spent laughing in the dark, of mornings where the first thing you saw was him, hair messy, voice still thick with sleep.

“Until it wasn’t,” you murmured.

He didn’t look away. “You were trying so hard. Sending applications every day. Going to interviews that didn’t lead anywhere.”

“And you…” You hesitated, the memory pressing against your ribs. “You worked double shifts, came home with shoulders so tense you barely talked.”

He let out a slow breath. “Bills kept piling up. Rent. Utilities. Everything we’d promised each other we’d figure out—it all started to feel heavier than we could carry.”

Your chest ached with the truth of it. You remembered the final weeks—the quiet dinners, the way laughter had been replaced with silence, the nights you’d hear him in the other room, staring at the bills in his hands.

“I hated seeing you like that,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I hated knowing you were going without things just so we could make rent. And I couldn’t fix it.”

“You didn’t have to fix it,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s why I said we should… take a break.”

The words still felt sharp, even after a decade.

“I thought going back to your parents would give you some relief. That maybe… we could try again later, when things were better.” His gaze dropped. “But later never came.”

You swallowed hard, the rain outside blurring more than just the glass. “It felt like you gave up.”

His voice cracked just slightly. “I didn’t give up on you. I gave up on watching you struggle because of me.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The weight of those years pressed in from every corner of the empty ballroom. Somewhere, thunder rolled far in the distance, its echo fading into the steady fall of rain.

“I kept the paintbrush,” you admitted softly.

His head lifted. “What?”

“From that weekend. It’s covered in dried yellow paint. I don’t even know why I kept it.” You smiled faintly, though your eyes stung. “Maybe I just wanted to remember the part of us that was… easy.”

Seokjin leaned back, his expression unreadable, but his silence felt thick with everything he couldn’t say.

The rain eased slightly, but neither of you made a move to leave. It was as though the storm had drawn a fragile circle around you, one that reality couldn’t quite penetrate.

When he finally spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I still think about that apartment sometimes.”

You let the words settle between you, the echo of your shared past filling the spaces the rain left behind.

The rain outside softened into a gentler patter, as if the storm had run out of fury. The air in the ballroom was cool and still, but your chest felt tight. You didn’t know if it was because of the chill or because of the words hanging between you.

Seokjin hadn’t moved. His hands still rested loosely in front of him, his gaze shifting between the window and you. You realized, almost with a start, that there was no rush anymore—nothing pulling you out of this moment except the rain’s slow retreat.

“I guess,” you began quietly, “we both made the right choice at the time.”

His eyes lifted to yours, searching, as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t.

“It was the best decision for us back then,” you continued, your voice steady though your fingers curled against your tablet. “Even though it hurt like hell.”

He gave a short, humorless breath. “Best for you, maybe. I never…” His jaw flexed. “It didn’t feel like the best for me. It felt like losing everything.”

You nodded faintly. “It felt like that for me too.”

Silence stretched, but not the heavy kind—this one had edges, like it was waiting for you to cut through it.

“I was hurt,” you said finally, your voice low, “when you told me we should take a break.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I was willing to struggle with you, Jin. I didn’t care how hard it got. I knew it would pass, that we’d find a way. That’s what I believed in.”

His eyes flickered, something raw crossing them.

“But you…” You took a slow breath. “You gave up. Not just on our situation—on me.”

Seokjin closed his eyes briefly, as if the words stung in a place he had been trying to protect for years. “I didn’t give up on you,” he said after a long pause, his tone careful, almost pleading. “I gave up on watching you suffer because of me. There’s a difference.”

You shook your head softly. “Not to me. Back then, all I heard was that you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I wanted you more than I wanted air,” he said, his voice tightening. “But I didn’t think love was supposed to hurt that much. And every day, watching you cut corners for yourself so we could make ends meet—it was killing me.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. “It was hurting me too, but I thought we were in it together.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, the years in his expression making him look older in that moment. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“By letting me go?”

He flinched. The rain picked up slightly again, a reminder that the world outside was still moving, even as you stayed rooted in a decade-old wound.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I used to think that maybe if I had fought harder—if I had told you I wasn’t leaving, no matter what—you might have stayed.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe that too. But then he gave the smallest shake of his head. “I would have made you leave anyway. Because I thought… someday, you’d thank me.”

You smiled faintly, without humor. “You were wrong.”

Your words didn’t have venom—they simply carried the truth.

“And yet…” You exhaled slowly. “I can’t say I regret it. Maybe it was the only way we could grow. You did what you thought was right. I did what I thought I had to. And somehow… here we are.”

Seokjin studied you for a long moment, the rain’s rhythm filling the space between each unspoken thought. Then he nodded, slowly, almost reluctantly. “Here we are.”

There was no embrace, no dramatic swell of music—just two people sitting at a table while the storm softened outside, acknowledging the ache and the strange, bittersweet peace of knowing you had both survived.

The rain had finally eased into a mist, the storm’s rage now a memory carried in the damp air and the distant rumble of thunder. You closed your tablet, gathering your things as the ballroom’s silence returned, heavy and still.

Seokjin walked a few paces ahead, holding the door for you as you stepped into the faintly glowing night. The sky was a bruised violet, streaked with fading lightning far off in the horizon. You inhaled the scent of wet earth and rain-soaked concrete—it was the kind of air that clung to skin, the kind that made every movement feel slower.

Just as you approached the wide stone steps leading to the parking lot, a sudden flash split the sky, white and jagged. Instinctively, Seokjin’s hand found your arm, warm and steady, his thumb brushing against the curve of your elbow as he guided you over a slick patch. The contact was brief, but it stole your breath in a way you didn’t expect.

“You should leave your car here,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow. It’s safer if you ride with me.”

You hesitated. “It’s fine, I can drive—”

“It’s late,” he interrupted gently, his hand still hovering close to your arm as if he wasn’t ready to let go. “And the roads are slick. Please.”

The “please” was soft, but it left no space for refusal. You gave a small nod, following him toward his car.

Inside, the faint scent of leather and cedar filled your senses. The world outside was still silvered with rain, streetlights blurring in the wet glass. Seokjin started the engine, and the quiet hum of the heater wrapped the car in a cocoon of warmth.

The first few minutes passed in small, unimportant comments—the state of the roads, the weather, a light joke about how the venue’s staff had almost mistaken you for the bride. The words were nothing, but the air felt thick, every silence between topics carrying more weight than the conversation itself.

It was somewhere between the second red light and the stretch of highway, when the rain on the windshield softened to a whisper, that he spoke without looking at you.

“If I hadn’t let you go back then…” His voice was calm, almost too calm, but the words slowed as if they cost him something. “…do you think we’d still be together now?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the strap of your bag. You turned your head, but his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, the passing lights catching in the curve of his cheekbone, the set of his jaw.

You could have answered quickly. You could have laughed it off, told him it was pointless to ask after ten years. But you didn’t.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your tone steady but not unkind. “Part of me wants to believe we would have made it. That love would have been enough.”

“And the other part?” he asked, his voice low, almost tentative.

“The other part…” You exhaled, watching your breath fog faintly against the glass. “…thinks maybe we would’ve broken each other trying.”

He glanced at you then, just briefly, but long enough for you to see something shift in his eyes. “You think I was wrong.”

“I think you were scared,” you corrected, your voice softer now. “And maybe I was, too. But I also think we’ll never know.”

The car was silent except for the steady sweep of the wipers.

“You were the happiest part of my life,” he said quietly, so quietly you almost wondered if you were meant to hear it.

You swallowed. “And you were mine.”

Another pause. A streetlight passed overhead, bathing the inside of the car in pale gold before darkness took it back.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Us. Back then. If we’d chosen differently.”

You let your head rest against the seat, eyes drifting to the rain-streaked blur of the city outside. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But not as much as I used to. I learned to stop wondering about a life I can’t go back to.”

He didn’t reply right away, but you saw his grip tighten on the steering wheel.

The rest of the ride passed in the quiet rhythm of unspoken thoughts. When he finally pulled up in front of your place, he didn’t move to unlock the doors right away. Instead, he sat there, looking at the faint ripples of water on the hood.

“Goodnight,” he said at last, his voice carrying something between a farewell and a promise.

You nodded, your hand on the door handle, though neither of you made the first move to truly part. And then, in the smallest of ways, you realized—some doors never really closed, no matter how much time had passed.

The morning was brighter than you expected, sunlight breaking through the leftover clouds like a tentative apology after last night’s storm. The streets still glistened, dotted with puddles that caught fragments of the sky. You stepped outside, key in hand, half-ready to call the towing service Seokjin had promised to arrange.

But your car was already there.

It sat in its usual spot, impossibly clean for something that had spent the night under an open sky. The windshield gleamed without a trace of last night’s rain, the tires free of mud, the paintwork catching the soft gold of morning light. When you opened the driver’s side door, a faint scent of cedar and something faintly citrus drifted out, as if someone had taken the time to not just return it, but restore it.

Then you noticed it.

On the hood, just off-center, sat a small paper bag, folded neatly at the top. Your fingers brushed the slightly warm paper before you even realized you’d moved to pick it up.

The logo on the front made your chest tighten.

It was from that café. The one tucked in a narrow street corner you used to visit with him, back when a single pastry shared between you was a luxury. Back when you’d sit side by side, elbows touching, your laughter echoing against walls lined with mismatched bookshelves. You hadn’t been there in years—last you’d heard, it had closed. But here it was, in your hands.

You carried it inside, setting it on your kitchen counter. The smell was unmistakable—sweet, buttery, with that faint nuttiness you’d recognize anywhere. You unfolded the paper and found exactly what you knew would be there: a chestnut cream bun, golden and soft, the top dusted with powdered sugar.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. It wasn’t just the pastry—it was the care it took to remember. Ten years had passed. Ten years in which you’d both learned to live with different routines, different people, different versions of yourselves. And yet, he had remembered this.

You sat at the small table, the pastry untouched, your tea cooling beside you. His voice from last night kept looping in your head. “If I hadn’t let you go back then, do you think we’d still be together now?” At the time, you’d told yourself it was just nostalgia talking. Just an idle, late-night thought sparked by the rain. But now, holding this, you weren’t so sure.

Your phone stayed on the table all day. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for a message, but every time it lit up with some meaningless notification, you felt that brief flicker of disappointment. You even caught yourself scrolling through your call log, your thumb hovering over his name more than once.

By late afternoon, you gave in—not to calling him, but to eating the pastry. It was still soft, the cream still light and subtly sweet. The first bite sent you back to a rainy Saturday in your twenties, when the two of you had split one on the walk home because neither of you could afford two. You’d taken turns holding the little paper bag between bites, your free hands tangled together in your coat pockets.

Back then, it had felt like enough.

You finished the last bite slowly, almost reluctantly, the way you linger over the final page of a book you’re not ready to close. The silence in your house felt heavier after, not lonely exactly—just… aware.

Later that night, when you set the empty paper bag in the trash, you noticed something written in small, neat handwriting on the underside of the folded top. You hadn’t seen it before.

You once said this was happiness.

No signature. No question. Just a statement that didn’t need one.

You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the words until they blurred. Then you smoothed the bag flat and set it aside on the counter instead of throwing it away.

The week had been relentless. Finalizing floral arrangements. Reconfirming hotel bookings. Coordinating last-minute changes in the seating chart because some distant uncle had suddenly decided he must bring a plus-one. The to-do list seemed to breed overnight, every ticked-off box giving birth to two more tasks.

You were on the phone with Hoseok when it started to feel like too much.

“I swear, Hobi,” you sighed, wedging your phone between your ear and shoulder as you attempted to sort through a stack of contracts, “if I hear the phrase ‘can we just make a small adjustment?’ one more time, I might actually lose it.”

On the other end, Hoseok laughed—a bright, buoyant sound that had a way of grounding you even on the most exhausting days. “You’ve been running yourself ragged. When’s the last time you took a full day off?”

You snorted softly. “Full day off? In wedding season? That’s cute.”

Before he could respond, your other line buzzed. Haneul. You closed your eyes for a brief second before telling Hoseok you’d call him later.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” Haneul’s voice was sweet in the way polished marble might be—smooth on the surface, cold underneath. “We have a bit of a situation. I need another dress fitting. Today, if possible. My tummy’s showing more now and the seamstress says the current cut won’t work.”

You glanced at the clock. Today had already been double-booked, but you forced the fatigue from your voice. “Alright. I’ll make arrangements.”

The boutique was all white light and delicate fabrics when you arrived. Haneul stood in front of a mirror, already wearing her gown, her hands smoothing the curve of her stomach with an almost theatrical tenderness. She didn’t greet you right away—just studied her reflection with the intentness of someone admiring a rare painting.

“I’ll need the train adjusted too,” she said finally, as if it had just occurred to her. “And maybe we can replace the veil. Something softer. More… ethereal.”

You took mental notes, keeping your tone neutral. “I’ll speak with the designer.”

For the next hour, her list grew—venue décor changes, alterations to the bridesmaids’ bouquets, a request to track down a specific brand of imported candles she’d seen on Instagram. None of these things fell under your direct job description, but you nodded anyway, adding them to your ever-expanding list.

Patience, you reminded yourself. Just get through the fitting.

It wasn’t until the seamstress stepped away that she turned to you fully. Her gaze sharpened, the easy smile thinning.

“I know,” she said.

You blinked. “Know what?”

“That you’re Seokjin’s ex.” She said it lightly, almost conversationally, but there was an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “I did my homework before you started working with me. Surprising, isn’t it? That you’d end up helping with our wedding.”

You kept your expression steady, though a dozen possible responses burned in your throat.

She continued, her hand absently resting on her stomach. “I hope you’ll find someone too, someday. Like I have. Getting married. Starting a family. It’s… the best feeling.” The way she said it was deliberate, the sweetness dipped in a subtle poison.

You took a slow breath, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her wonder what you’d say. When you spoke, your voice was calm, almost gentle.

“I am happy for you, Haneul,” you said. “Truly. But you should know—having someone doesn’t always mean you’ve won anything. Sometimes the real win is being able to walk away from a love that couldn’t meet you where you were, and still wish them well. I’ve had that. And I’m at peace with it.”

Her smile faltered. Just slightly, but you caught it.

You picked up your bag, your notes already tucked inside. “I’ll have those adjustments arranged. Someone will confirm with you by tomorrow.”

And then you left. Not hurried, not flustered—just steady. The air outside felt fresher somehow, even in the city’s late afternoon heat.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that smelled faintly of aged whiskey and burnt orange peel. Outside, rain had slicked the streets until they gleamed under the pale glow of the lampposts. Seokjin sat at a corner table, a half-empty tumbler of something amber in his hand, the condensation pooling slowly onto the wood.

Yoongi slid into the seat across from him without asking, shrugging off his coat. His hair was still damp from the drizzle outside, and his eyes—sharp as always—took in the scene before him with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve been drinking a lot lately,” Yoongi said after a beat, his voice low, deliberate.

Seokjin swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the light refract through it. “Have I?” His tone was casual, almost detached, but Yoongi wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t play dumb.” Yoongi leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Last week at Namjoon’s dinner, you had three before the starters even arrived. And now here you are again.”

Seokjin gave a faint shrug, the kind meant to close a conversation rather than open it. “Maybe I just like the taste.”

Yoongi’s brow lifted slightly. “No, you like control. And alcohol doesn’t give you that. So something’s going on.”

The rain outside deepened in sound, a soft percussion against the windows, as if trying to fill the silence Seokjin let stretch between them. He didn’t want to say it—not here, not now. Not when every word would feel like surrender.

Instead, he took another sip, letting the burn coat his throat before speaking. “You never liked her, did you?”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t shift. “Haneul? No. She’s… ambitious. But about the wrong things. And she’s obsessed with you. It’s not love—it’s possession. There’s a difference.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“That’s the point,” Yoongi said evenly. “I don’t have to. I see enough. You’ve been… off ever since this engagement started. You talk about the wedding like it’s a quarterly report, not your future.”

For a moment, Seokjin almost said it. Almost told him about the conversation in the mayor’s office, the cool, calculated way Haneul’s father had leaned back in his leather chair and given him the choice: marry her, and gain stability—or refuse, and watch everything he’d built crumble overnight.

But the words stayed lodged in his chest, bitter as the whiskey he kept drinking.

Instead, he stared at the faint rings his glass had left on the table. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“No,” Yoongi said quietly, leaning forward now, his elbows on the table. “You’re trapped. And the part that scares me is… I’m not sure you even remember what it’s like to be free.”

Something twisted in Seokjin’s chest at that. His mind drifted—not to the business, not to Haneul—but to you. The way you used to laugh at the smallest things, the way your hand always found his when crowds grew too loud. The memory ached in a way the alcohol couldn’t dull.

Yoongi watched him for a long moment, then spoke again, softer this time. “Jin… if you’re marrying her because you love her, then fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But if you’re doing it for any other reason… you’re about to make the kind of mistake you can’t undo.”

Seokjin’s grip on his glass tightened, the faintest tremor running through his fingers. He didn’t answer. The truth was dangerous—not just to speak, but to admit to himself. So he let the silence win.

The rain kept falling outside, a slow, steady rhythm, like a clock counting down to something neither of them could stop.

The private dining room of Seokjin’s restaurant was dressed like a quiet promise—soft amber lighting spilling across polished mahogany, the faint scent of rosemary and garlic drifting in from the kitchen, and the gentle hum of jazz from beyond the frosted glass doors. The world outside was awash in silver rain, droplets trailing down the windowpanes like slow-moving tears.

Seokjin sat at the head of the long table, his shoulders straight, his tie perfectly knotted. Beside him, Haneul was a vision of composure—cascading hair curled into perfect waves, pearl earrings catching the light with each tilt of her head. Across from them, Yoongi sat quietly, one arm draped lazily over the chair, his glass of water untouched.

They had barely gotten through the first course when Haneul turned, her tone deceptively light.

“Jin,” she began, tracing her fork idly across her plate, “Father’s hosting the annual mayoral gala next Saturday. You’ll be there with me, of course.”

Seokjin’s knife paused mid-slice. He glanced at her briefly, then back to his plate. “Saturday?”

“Yes,” she said, a small, expectant smile on her lips. “It’s important this year. Father’s inviting some very… influential people. We’ll need to make the right impression.”

“I’ll see if I’m free,” Seokjin replied, his voice even but not warm.

Her smile thinned. “You’ll be free,” she said, like it wasn’t a matter of schedule but of loyalty.

Yoongi’s gaze flicked between them, the corners of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Sounds like quite the event,” he murmured. “Though I didn’t realize the guest list was mandatory.”

Haneul’s eyes shifted to him, her tone dipping a fraction colder. “It’s not mandatory for everyone.”

“Ah,” Yoongi said, leaning back in his chair. “Just for the people who look good on a politician’s arm.”

Her laugh was soft, brittle at the edges. “Some of us understand that appearances matter. It’s called partnership, Yoongi-ssi.”

“Some of us,” Yoongi replied, his voice smooth, “also understand that partnerships built on pressure don’t last.”

The air thickened. Even the quiet clink of cutlery seemed louder in the space between their words. Seokjin kept his focus on his plate, though Yoongi caught the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his free hand curled against the table’s underside.

“Jin understands the importance of supporting my father,” Haneul said finally, her hand slipping onto Seokjin’s arm in a gesture that looked affectionate but felt like possession. “We’re a team. He knows how much this means to me—and to our future.”

Yoongi’s eyes stayed on Seokjin. “Do you?” he asked quietly.

Seokjin didn’t answer. The silence was answer enough.

They finished dinner with strained civility. Haneul’s voice stayed light, almost cheerful, as she spoke of floral arrangements and guest lists. Yoongi let her speak, offering the occasional dry remark, his mind cataloging every flicker in Seokjin’s expression, every time his friend’s gaze drifted toward the window as though searching for something just beyond the glass.

The dinner had ended hours ago, but the air in the restaurant still carried the lingering perfume of roasted garlic, charred rosemary, and the faint sweetness of Haneul’s floral scent. Most of the staff had already gone home. The only sounds left were the distant hum of the refrigerator units and the soft patter of rain against the skylight above the kitchen.

Yoongi leaned against the stainless steel counter, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t supposed to be there—he’d told himself he’d go straight home—but the sight of Seokjin tonight, sitting stiff and silent while Haneul orchestrated the evening, had lodged under his skin like a splinter.

Seokjin finally emerged from the back office, jacket draped over one arm, shirt collar slightly loosened. He looked tired—not in the way people looked after a long shift, but in the way someone looked when their days had been strung too tightly together for too long.

“You’re still here,” Seokjin said, eyebrows lifting faintly.

Yoongi took a slow sip. “Thought I’d finish my drink. And maybe ask why you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else tonight.”

Seokjin walked past him to the counter, setting down his jacket, his movements precise. “I was fine.”

“You were quiet,” Yoongi said. “Even for you.”

Seokjin reached for a clean glass from the shelf and poured himself water instead of matching Yoongi’s whiskey. “Some nights are quieter than others.”

Yoongi watched him over the rim of his glass. “And some nights are suffocating.”

Seokjin’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he took a drink. “It was just dinner.”

“No,” Yoongi said, setting his tumbler down with a soft clink. “It wasn’t. It was her pushing you into that gala, like it’s already written in stone that you’ll be by her side, smiling for the cameras. And you—” he gestured vaguely toward him “—just nodded like you didn’t have a choice.”

Seokjin exhaled, long and steady, as if weighing whether to respond at all. “It’s easier to agree than to argue.”

“Easier?” Yoongi’s tone was sharp now, cutting through the low hum of the kitchen. “Easier is avoiding traffic by taking a different street. This is your life we’re talking about, Jin.”

Seokjin turned then, leaning against the counter across from him. His expression was unreadable, the kind of mask he’d perfected over years of navigating high-end clientele, public expectations, and the weight of his family name. “Not everything needs to be a fight, Yoongi.”

“But some things,” Yoongi countered, “are worth fighting for. And you don’t look like a man who wants to marry her. You look like a man cornered.”

For the first time, Seokjin’s gaze shifted—just slightly—to the side, as if something outside the rain-slicked windows had caught his attention. But Yoongi knew him well enough to recognize it for what it was: avoidance.

“It’s complicated,” Seokjin said at last.

Yoongi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “So un-complicate it for me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Seokjin shook his head. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”

“That’s the problem,” Yoongi said, his voice low but steady. “You’re acting like you have to go through with this, and I’m telling you—if you don’t want to marry her, then don’t. Whatever the reason, I can help.”

Something flickered in Seokjin’s eyes—brief, almost imperceptible, like the shadow of a thought he didn’t want to voice. He took another sip of water instead.

Yoongi studied him for a long moment, then pushed himself upright. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’m not blind, Jin. And I’m not going to sit here and watch you chain yourself to someone you don’t love just because you think you owe her—or her family—something.”

Seokjin’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.

Yoongi gathered his coat from the back of a chair, his footsteps echoing in the quiet kitchen. At the doorway, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You know what scares me the most? That one day you’ll stop looking like you want to be anywhere else… because you’ll forget what wanting felt like.”

And then he was gone, the heavy door swinging shut behind him, leaving Seokjin alone in the stillness.

The rain outside had eased to a fine mist, the city lights blurring against the wet glass. Seokjin stood there for a long time, staring at nothing in particular, the taste of unspoken truths lingering on his tongue.

The ballroom glowed like a jewel box under the weight of a hundred crystal chandeliers. Light dripped in warm golden threads over polished marble floors, reflecting off champagne flutes and sequined gowns. The air hummed with the soft rise and fall of a string quartet, the low murmur of political conversations, and the occasional bright peal of laughter from someone trying too hard to sound at ease.

Seokjin arrived at Haneul’s side, the two of them stepping into the room as though the crowd had been waiting just for them. Her hand was looped through his arm, her nails a precise, blood-red arc against the black of his tailored suit. She smiled like she owned the night. He smiled because it was easier than letting anyone see the truth.

The mayor spotted them almost immediately, striding forward with his wife, both faces alight with the kind of pride that photographs well.

“There they are,” the mayor said, clapping Seokjin on the shoulder with a force that felt more like a claim than a greeting. “Our soon-to-be newlyweds.”

Haneul beamed. “We were just saying on the way over, it feels like the month is flying by. Soon enough, we’ll be walking down the aisle.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. The mayor’s wife caught his hand between hers, her grip cool and perfumed. “And we’ll be welcoming our grandchild soon after, won’t we?”

The word hit him like the clink of ice against a glass—small, but sharp enough to leave a mark. He forced a polite laugh. “Yes. We’re… both looking forward to it.”

Inside, he was counting the ways that sentence was a lie.

The conversation swirled around him, full of plans and dates and names of florists he didn’t care about. The mayor spoke about the wedding as though it were a foregone conclusion, a public event rather than a private vow. Haneul squeezed his arm with every detail she confirmed, each touch a reminder of the walls closing in.

He nodded at the right moments. Smiled when expected. And cursed, silently, in the small, unlit space where his real thoughts lived.

It was as he reached for a champagne flute from a passing tray that he saw you.

You were across the room, half-turned in profile, speaking to someone he didn’t recognize. The lighting caught in your hair, gilding it like the edge of a page in an old book. You weren’t in sequins or silk, but you looked more at home in the room than half the people wearing them.

For a moment, the noise dimmed.

He told himself not to look too long, not to give away anything, but his gaze kept finding you through the movement of the crowd. You turned slightly then, as though sensing it, and your eyes met his.

It wasn’t dramatic. No widening of eyes, no audible gasp—just a stillness that passed between you like a breath you both forgot to take.

Haneul’s voice broke the thread. “Jin, darling, my parents want to introduce us to the ambassador from—”

He didn’t hear the rest. He let her pull him away, but his head turned once more, scanning for you over the slope of shoulders and the glint of champagne stems. You were still there, your expression unreadable, but your gaze was fixed on him like you were trying to solve something you couldn’t name.

The night unfolded in slow torture. Between polite laughter and hollow toasts, he kept seeing you—by the bar, near the balcony doors, at the far end of the hall where the servers disappeared with empty trays. Each time, there was almost a moment to speak, but never enough to break the glass wall of circumstance between you.

Near midnight, he found himself standing alone for the first time, the crowd thinning as the music softened. You passed by, close enough that the faintest trace of your perfume reached him. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, because he couldn’t—not here, not now.

Your eyes flicked to him one last time, a question lingering there. Then you were gone, disappearing into the outer corridor where the gold light met the shadow.

When Haneul returned to his side moments later, taking his arm again, he felt the weight of her touch more heavily than the chandeliers above.

The gala’s music still clung to Seokjin’s ears as he stepped into the backseat of the waiting black sedan, but the moment the door shut behind Haneul, the glittering noise of the ballroom was replaced by the muffled hum of the city at night.

The driver pulled away from the curb, streetlights streaking gold across the tinted windows. Haneul sat beside him, her gown rustling softly as she shifted. Her perfume was sharp in the enclosed space, cloying after hours of being forced to wear his public smile like armor.

For a while, there was only silence, the sound of tires over wet pavement filling the space between them. Seokjin leaned his head back against the leather, eyes half-closed, thinking of the way your gaze had caught his earlier—quiet, questioning, unshakable.

Haneul’s voice cut through, sweet at the edges but brittle in the center.

“You were looking at her.”

His eyes opened, slow and deliberate, turning toward her. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she said, a small, humorless laugh escaping. “That girl. Across the room. You kept staring like you’d forgotten I was standing right next to you.”

Seokjin’s jaw flexed. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes flashing in the dim light. “Do you think I don’t notice when your attention drifts? You’ve been—elsewhere—for months. And tonight, it was written all over your face.”

He exhaled sharply, turning his gaze to the dark blur of the city outside. “We just spent hours talking about our wedding, about your father’s precious guest list, and somehow you still found a reason to pick a fight.”

“That’s not a fight, Jin. That’s me asking why you can’t even pretend to be present with me. Why it’s so hard for you to look at me like—” She broke off, biting her lip before continuing, softer but sharper. “Like you look at her.”

Something in him snapped at the precision of that accusation. He turned to face her fully, his voice low and edged. “You want to talk about pretending? Fine. Let’s talk about how I’ve been pretending this entire relationship is what I want.”

Her eyes widened, but she recovered quickly, sitting straighter. “You don’t have a choice, Jin. I’m pregnant. You’re going to be my husband whether you like it or not. That’s reality.”

His knuckles whitened where his hands rested on his knees. “Don’t you dare talk to me about choice when you’ve spent the last few months making damn sure I don’t have one.”

“You think this is just about you?” Her voice rose, the polished socialite veneer cracking. “This is about our family, our future. Do you have any idea what people would say if you walked away now? What my father would do?”

The car seemed to shrink around them, the air heavier with each word. Seokjin’s chest rose and fell, his anger no longer contained. “Your father’s opinion stopped mattering to me the moment he started treating me like a pawn in one of his power plays. And you—” He stopped himself, teeth clenched, forcing the next words out slower. “You’ve been more concerned with appearances than the fact that I’m drowning in this.”

Haneul’s chin lifted. “You think you’re the only one drowning? I’ve given up things for this too. I’ve done what’s necessary to protect us both.”

“Protect us?” He laughed once, bitter. “No, Haneul. You’ve been protecting yourself. And you’ve been using me to do it.”

The rest of the ride was quiet but thick with unspoken fury, both staring out their own window as the city lights flashed past.

When the car pulled up in front of her building, she didn’t wait for him to open the door. She stepped out with a sharp slam that echoed down the street, not looking back.

Seokjin stayed in the backseat, hands pressed against his face for a moment, feeling the heat of his own pulse. He didn’t follow her inside. He told the driver to drop him at his house, then took his other car and drove off.

The city had thinned into quiet by the time Seokjin pulled into the side street.

He wasn’t sure how he had ended up there—how, in the haze of the argument, his hands had steered the wheel through miles of unfamiliar roads only to stop in front of the building he had sworn not to come near. His headlights washed over the pale facade, the glass entrance dim behind drawn curtains.

He killed the engine.

For a while, he sat in the driver’s seat with both hands still on the wheel, the leather cool under his grip. His pulse was still quick from the fight, the words he hadn’t meant to say clawing at the back of his throat.

The thought was reckless—pressing the buzzer, asking to see you—but it circled his mind anyway, relentless.

Maybe you’d still be at the gala. Maybe you’d be here, sitting on your couch in some worn sweatshirt, hair down, eyes tired but warm. Maybe you’d let him talk. Maybe you’d remind him what breathing felt like.

The possibilities pulled at him until his thumb was hovering over the lock button, ready to step out.

And then—

Headlights swept over the street as another car turned the corner, slowing before stopping just a few meters behind him. The sleek black sedan idled, engine purring low.

Seokjin’s gaze sharpened when he saw you in the passenger seat.

You were leaning slightly toward the driver. Laughing at something he’d said, your smile soft under the pale yellow wash of the streetlight. The sight was a strange punch to his chest: you looking like you belonged in someone else’s world, someone else’s night.

He sank lower in his seat, jaw tight.

Your car pulled to the curb. You unbuckled your seatbelt, thanked him with a smile, and stepped out. Your heels clicked gently on the pavement as you made your way to the door, hair brushing your shoulder with each step. You didn’t look toward him, not yet—but then your eyes caught the shape of a familiar car at the edge of your street.

You froze for a fraction of a second.

His silhouette was visible through the glass—broad shoulders, the stillness of someone caught between wanting to move and not daring to. You didn’t need to see his face to know.

Your hand hesitated on the door.

But in the next instant, his engine roared to life. Without a single sign, without rolling down the window, he pulled away from the curb, the taillights vanishing into the stretch of dark road ahead.

You stood there a moment longer, the sound of his departure swallowed by the night.

Jeongguk’s voice called lightly from behind his window. “Everything okay?”

You forced a small nod, but your eyes stayed on the street long after the last trace of his car was gone.

Inside his vehicle, Seokjin didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t need to. He could still feel the way you’d stopped mid-step, the way the air between you had tightened even from across the pavement.

He drove on, telling himself he’d done the right thing. But the truth was heavier, sitting like stone in his chest. He’d come because he needed to see you, and now that he had, leaving felt like a mistake he wouldn’t stop thinking about.

The rain had already stopped by the time you reached Hoseok’s apartment, but the streets still glistened under the amber glow of the streetlamps. The scent of damp asphalt clung to the air, the kind that made the city feel quieter, like it was holding its breath.

You knocked twice, and within moments, Hoseok’s door swung open, spilling warm light onto the hallway.

“Y/N,” he greeted, stepping aside to let you in. He was barefoot, his hair a little mussed, wearing an oversized sweater that looked like it had seen a hundred lazy Sundays. “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be home resting after that… whatever fancy thing you were at?”

You gave a small laugh, untying your coat. “The mayor’s gala.”

His eyebrows arched. “Mayor? Since when are you going to political dinners?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” you admitted, following him into the kitchen where two mugs of tea were already waiting. “An old client of mine was there—remember Mrs. Choi? The one who trusted me with her daughter’s wedding when no one else would take it?”

“The one with the insane floral budget,” he said with a grin.

You nodded. “She’s the reason I got my start. She invited me tonight. I couldn’t say no without feeling ungrateful.”

Hoseok slid a mug toward you, his expression softening. “So you went. Alone?”

You hesitated. “No. I… I asked Jeongguk to come with me as a plus one. Just as friends.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

You ignored it. “He dropped me home after. But when we pulled up, I… I saw something.” Your fingers tightened around the mug, its warmth seeping into your skin. “There was a car parked on my street. Not just any car.”

Hoseok leaned forward slightly. “Whose?”

You met his eyes, your voice low. “Seokjin’s.”

His brows knit together. “Are you sure?”

“I’d recognize that car anywhere,” you said quietly. “It was him. He didn’t get out. Just… sat there. And then when I got to my door, he drove off. He was also at the gala.”

Hoseok was silent for a moment, reading your face. “Did you talk to him?”

You shook your head. “No. I saw him across the room with Haneul and her parents. They were all smiling, talking about… wedding plans, I guess. I didn’t want to—” Your throat tightened. “I didn’t want to make things awkward. We didn’t even say hello.”

“That’s… a lot,” Hoseok said, his voice gentler now.

You stared into your tea, watching the faint ripples where your thumb tapped the porcelain. “I don’t understand why he was there. Why he would come to my place and then just leave.”

Hoseok set his mug down, his tone shifting from friend to quiet voice of reason. “Y/N… you know this is complicated. He’s getting married in one month. And you’re his wedding planner. Whatever’s going on in his head—it’s dangerous. For him. For you. For everyone.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“If he’s going to marry Haneul, you have to protect yourself. Before this turns into something you can’t walk away from.”

You swallowed hard. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You talk to him,” Hoseok said firmly. “Soon. You tell him—clearly—that whatever he’s thinking, whatever he wants, it has to stop. Now. Before it hurts more than it already has.”

The words sat between you, heavy and final. You knew he was right. The thought of facing Seokjin, of forcing clarity onto something that had thrived in unspoken spaces, made your chest ache.

But you also knew you couldn’t keep standing in doorways, watching taillights vanish into the night, wondering what it meant.

You had timed it carefully.

Your appointments had lined up perfectly today—meetings across the city in the morning, a short lunch break, and then a final stop at one of Seokjin’s restaurants to finalize seating arrangements for the wedding.

It was the perfect cover.

Professional. Expected.

Safe.

The folder in your hands was filled with layout charts, menu suggestions, and floral mock-ups—props for the conversation you had rehearsed a hundred times in your head.

This would be the day you drew the line.

When you arrived, the familiar scent of butter and garlic greeted you, warm and rich. The hostess smiled politely, already knowing who you were, and without hesitation said, “Mr. Kim is in one of the private rooms. Let me take you there.”

You followed her down the quiet corridor lined with framed photographs of dishes and awards. The world outside felt far away—muted by the soft carpet underfoot, the hum of conversation fading with each step.

And then—voices.

They weren’t muffled enough for you not to recognize them.

“…You think I don’t notice? You’ve been somewhere else for weeks,” Haneul’s voice was sharp, each word biting.

Seokjin’s reply came low, steady, and controlled. “I’m here, aren’t I? Planning this wedding like you wanted.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve been distracted. Everyone can see it. Even my parents are asking questions.”

Your pace slowed without thinking, the hostess a few steps ahead, her hand already reaching for the sliding door. You wanted to stop her, to turn back, but your feet rooted to the carpet.

Haneul’s voice cut through again. “You know what my father is capable of.”

Silence fell. The kind that swallows the air from the room.

When Seokjin spoke again, there was a thread of something raw in his voice. “And you’re okay with that? Forcing a marriage because your father says so?”

“I’m pregnant, Jin,” she said quietly, and you felt the words like a weight against your chest. “This is happening whether you want it or not.”

The hostess slid the door open just enough to peek inside, then glanced back at you with a slight bow. “He’s in the middle of something. Perhaps you’d like to wait?”

But before you could answer, you saw him.

Seokjin, sitting at the table, his expression drawn, his shoulders tense. He looked up, catching sight of you in the doorway.

The flicker in his eyes was impossible to read.

You stepped inside just enough to hold up the folder in your hands. “I… had some final table placements for the wedding. I thought we could go over them.”

His jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face. “Now’s not a good time.”

“I heard,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, heavy with something unspoken. “You shouldn’t have.”

You didn’t know what was worse—the fact that you couldn’t have the conversation you came for, or the way he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world alone.

“I’ll come back later,” you said, stepping back toward the door.

But as you passed him, his fingers brushed yours, a fleeting contact that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.

You walked out without looking back. Because you knew if you did, you wouldn’t be able to leave.

Seokjin hadn’t gone home.

The restaurant was long closed, the air in his office thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint tang of wine from earlier in the evening. Papers lay scattered across his desk—half-signed contracts, untouched menus, and the floral mock-ups you’d brought. He had pushed them away hours ago, but somehow, his gaze kept drifting back to them.

Or rather, to the moment you had stood in the doorway holding them.

The look in your eyes was still imprinted in his mind. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t pity—it was something else. Something he couldn’t name without opening a part of himself he’d tried to lock shut.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He could still hear Haneul’s voice from earlier, the threat of her father’s ultimatum curling around his thoughts like smoke.

Marriage. Pregnancy. Ruin.

And somewhere in the middle of all that—you.

The clock ticked past midnight before he realized he hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. He reached for his jacket, slid it over his shoulders, and grabbed his keys.

He didn’t have a plan.

He only knew he couldn’t sit in that office another minute with the image of your face in his mind.

The city was quiet at this hour, the kind of stillness that made streetlights look almost liquid in the dark. He drove without music, letting the low hum of the engine fill the space between his thoughts.

When he turned the corner onto your street, he told himself he would just drive past.

But then he saw the light.

It was faint, spilling through the second-floor windows of your office. The sign downstairs was dark—Closed—but you were still there.

He parked without thinking, the engine’s sound cutting abruptly into silence. The cool air hit his face as he stepped out, his footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk.

He knocked.

It took a moment, but then there was the sound of movement inside—soft footsteps, the click of a lock turning.

When the door opened, you stood there barefoot, hair slightly mussed, still in the clothes from earlier but with your sleeves rolled up. The faint smell of coffee drifted from inside.

“Jin?” you asked, surprise flickering across your face.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight like a man who’d just realized he didn’t have the right words. “Can we talk?”

Your eyes searched his, hesitant but curious. “It’s late.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t want to wait until morning.”

There was something in his voice—low, uneven—that made your chest tighten.

You stepped aside without another word, letting him in. The soft click of the door closing behind him felt final, like the start of something you couldn’t undo.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you. You stood in the center of your dimly lit office, the glow from your desk lamp casting shadows over both of you.

“What do you want to talk about?” you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment, his jaw working like he was weighing the risk of saying what was truly on his mind.

Chapter 4

@mar-lo-pap @pp0810 @syh-a @andoyuki @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @woncheecks @chocolateladycat @carriereadsbooks @amarawayne

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inkedwithcharm · 6 days ago

Text

Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Chapter Two

The morning air carried the faint chill of an overcast sky. When you stepped outside, the light was soft and diffused, the kind that made the world feel like it was holding its breath. Hoseok had called you again just an hour earlier, his voice tinged with concern.

“Are you sure you want to come?” he’d asked. “I can handle it. You don’t have to be there just because Haneul asked.”

You had been fastening your watch then, your reflection in the mirror calm, even though your stomach had been a knot. “It’s fine, Hobi. I said I’d go. It’s part of the job.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you,” he had said gently.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “I’ll be there.”

The first location was tucked into the outskirts of the city—a sprawling manor with ivy climbing the old stone walls, its gardens still damp from the night’s rain. You pulled into the driveway at the same time a sleek black sedan rolled to a stop.

Seokjin stepped out first. Even in something as simple as a charcoal sweater and slacks, he carried himself like the air bent slightly toward him. Haneul followed, all tailored elegance, her hand lightly on his arm as though the gesture was more for show than warmth.

Her eyes found you immediately. There was no mistaking the flicker in them—a quick appraisal, followed by a faint downturn of her lips. She didn’t greet you, only turned to Seokjin and murmured something before walking ahead.

Inside, the tour began. You let the event manager’s words flow, taking notes, asking the right questions, keeping your tone steady. You avoided looking at Seokjin too often, but when you did, you found him watching you with an unreadable expression, as though he were trying to place you in a memory.

The first venue wasn’t right. Too little indoor space. Haneul dismissed it with a polite but curt smile, already eager to move on. The second location was farther out, almost an hour’s drive.

Before you could return to your car, Seokjin’s voice reached you. “You can ride with us. No point in driving separately.”

You opened your mouth to refuse, but Haneul was already nodding. “Yes. Come with us. That way you can take notes while we discuss.”

You hesitated, fingers curling slightly around your bag strap. “It’s fine, I can—”

“I insist,” she said smoothly.

So you slid into the back seat of the sedan, the faint leather scent mingling with Seokjin’s cologne. The city blurred past in muted greys and greens. Haneul spoke for most of the drive—ideas for table arrangements, how she wanted the ceremony framed with blossoms, the exact shade of gold for the cutlery.

At the second venue—a glass-walled estate overlooking a lake—the air was crisp with the scent of pine. Inside, Haneul’s voice became sharper, more insistent.

“I want a full floral arch here,” she told the coordinator, gesturing toward the terrace. “And chandeliers over the outdoor dining area.”

The coordinator glanced at you. “That might be difficult given the timeframe.”

You stepped forward, keeping your voice level. “We’ll do our best, but we’re working with four months. Some custom orders might not arrive in time. It might be better to focus on elements that can be sourced locally without delay.”

Haneul’s head turned toward you, her eyes cool. “It’s your job to make it happen.”

For a heartbeat, the air seemed thinner. But you only smiled, professional, composed. “Understood. I’ll look into every possible option.”

Seokjin’s gaze lingered on you, a quiet frown creasing his brow. When Haneul stepped ahead with the coordinator, he moved closer, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head lightly. “No need. This is work.”

“Still,” he said, and there was something in the way he looked at you—as if he wanted to say more, but couldn’t in the open air of that lakeside terrace.

By the end of the tour, the wind had picked up, scattering pine needles across the stone steps. Haneul’s heels clicked sharply as she walked toward the car, already pulling out her phone. You followed behind, your notepad full of neat handwriting, though your chest felt strangely heavy.

When Seokjin opened the car door for you again, his hand brushed the edge of yours—barely there, but enough to make the world tilt for a fraction of a second.

The second venue had barely been agreed upon when you found yourself back in the rear seat of Seokjin’s car. Your notebook rested on your lap, pages already crowded with tight, looping handwriting—meticulous notes of every single request, compromise, and fleeting decision. The faint scent of leather and something clean, almost like cedarwood, lingered in the car. Outside, the countryside road stretched endlessly, the soft hum of the tires blending with the muted thud of your pen as it tapped against paper.

Haneul, radiant in her expensive cream blouse and diamonds that caught every scrap of sunlight, sat beside Seokjin. Her voice filled the enclosed space as she dictated yet another list of changes for the florist, the lighting, the table arrangements.

“I want the drapery in ivory, not champagne,” she said without looking up from her phone. “And we need imported roses—no, I don’t care if they’re out of season.”

You lifted your eyes from the page only long enough to confirm her requests before writing them down, your professional smile fixed in place like porcelain. Four months was barely enough time for a wedding of this scale—any wedding planner worth their salt knew that. Still, you nodded politely, making a note to call your supplier that evening.

From the driver’s seat, Seokjin’s voice came, quieter than hers but edged with something dry. “Or,” he said, glancing briefly at her before focusing back on the road, “we could just get married and call it a day. Skip the grand production.”

For a moment, silence filled the car, thick and palpable. Then Haneul scoffed, turning to him with narrowed eyes.

“Are you joking? This is our wedding, Jin. It should be grand, memorable—everything people will talk about for years.” Her voice softened, as if coaxing a child. “Don’t you want that?”

Seokjin didn’t answer right away. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly. “If it’s about us, I’d rather it be simple.”

“Well, it’s about us and everyone we care about,” she said firmly, ending the conversation with the click of her phone case snapping shut.

She shifted her gaze toward you, a smile reappearing like a light switched on. “Anyway—” her tone was now honey-sweet—“I’m so excited for all of this. I’ve been imagining my wedding since I was a girl. And with the baby coming, it’s like everything is finally falling into place.” She rested a manicured hand over her still-flat stomach, her voice dipping into something dreamy. “We’ll need to consider how I’ll look in the dress as I get closer to my due date.”

You smiled politely, jotting another note, though the words blurred faintly on the page. You could feel Seokjin’s gaze flicker in the rearview mirror for half a second before shifting back to the road.

Haneul’s voice brightened even further. “Oh, and speaking of…” Her eyes landed on you, warm but curious in a way that felt sharper than it appeared. “Are you seeing anyone? You must be. Pretty girl like you, successful career…”

Your pen paused for a fraction of a second. “No,” you said carefully, keeping your tone light. “I’m single.”

“Really?” Her brows lifted as though it was a surprise worth remarking on. “Well, we should find someone for you. It’s not good to be alone too long, you know?” She laughed lightly, turning back to Seokjin. “Don’t you agree, Jin?”

His knuckles flexed over the steering wheel, but his voice was neutral. “Some people are fine on their own,” he said simply, eyes on the road ahead.

You didn’t miss the way his jaw tensed, nor the faint shadow that crossed his expression—gone as quickly as it appeared. Your chest tightened unexpectedly, but you willed yourself to focus on your notes, on the soft scratch of pen against paper, on anything but the weight in the air that felt like a ghost you both refused to acknowledge.

The car rolled on toward the next stop, carrying three people but far more history than any of you cared to name.

The office was quiet in the way only late nights could make it—soft, heavy, and almost indulgent. Outside the wide glass windows, the city glowed like a field of scattered embers, high-rises blinking in patterns you could almost mistake for constellations. The day’s chaos had faded, leaving only the muted hum of the air-conditioning and the faint scent of peonies from the floral samples Haneul had sent earlier.

You sat on the low couch in the corner of the lounge, shoes kicked off, hair loose from the knot it had been in all day. A glass of deep red wine rested in your hand, the liquid catching the light in warm, slow swirls every time you tilted it. Across from you, Hoseok leaned back in the armchair, his tie undone, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows. His wineglass was already half empty, his smile easy but laced with the kind of exhaustion that came after dealing with impossible clients.

“So…” he began, drawing out the word as if preparing himself. “How many demands today? Ten? Twenty? Or did she finally hit fifty?”

You laughed softly, the sound melting into a sigh. “I stopped counting after she changed the drapery color for the third time.”

“She’s going to be one of those brides,” Hoseok said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “The kind who changes the flowers the morning of the wedding because she read a new Pinterest board.”

You smiled into your glass, letting the wine coat your tongue before you answered. “She wants the impossible. And in four months.”

“Which means you’re going to give her the impossible,” Hoseok said knowingly. “Because that’s what you do.” He took a slow sip of his wine, then glanced at you over the rim of his glass. “And… what about him?”

Your smile didn’t fade exactly, but it stilled, becoming something faint and careful. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” His brows lifted in quiet disbelief.

“He’s a client now,” you said, setting your glass down on the low table between you. “That’s all I’m thinking about. Four months, Hoseok. That’s all. Then there’s no reason to see him again.” You tried to make it sound light, like the idea was nothing more than the truth.

Hoseok studied you for a long moment, his gaze steady but gentle. “You say that like you’ve rehearsed it.”

“Maybe I have.” Your laugh was thin this time, a sound that almost folded in on itself. “It’s easier that way.”

“Easier doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” he said quietly.

You looked away, toward the city lights that glittered like tiny, unreachable dreams. “We were younger then,” you murmured. “Life felt… simple. Like everything was possible. Now it’s just… logistics and timelines and budgets. And the people we used to know are strangers who sign contracts with us.”

The silence that followed was soft but not empty. Hoseok leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Four months is a long time,” he said. “Long enough for old ghosts to stop feeling like ghosts.”

“Or long enough to remember why they became ghosts in the first place,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hoseok didn’t push. Instead, he poured you both another glass, the sound of wine filling the room like a small, private comfort. You lifted your glass to his, the faint chime echoing in the quiet space.

“To surviving four months,” he said with a faint grin.

“To surviving,” you agreed. But the word tasted heavier than the wine, like something you weren’t entirely sure you believed.

Outside, the city kept its quiet glow, the world still spinning past midnight. Inside, the two of you sat in the kind of fragile peace that only existed when the day was over but the past wasn’t.

The bridal boutique smelled faintly of fresh lilies and fabric starch. Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on beadwork and lace, turning every gown into something luminous and untouchable. The air hummed with the quiet rustle of tulle as seamstresses moved like shadows, their hands quick and precise.

You stood near the mirrored platform, clipboard in hand, pretending to study the alteration notes. In reality, your gaze kept wandering—unwillingly—to the pair across the room.

Haneul stood in front of the mirror in her gown, the silk hugging her frame before falling away into a cascade of lace. A stubborn zipper at the back refused to glide up. She gave a dramatic sigh, her hands flailing in playful frustration.

“Jin, help me,” she called.

And without hesitation, Seokjin stepped forward. His hands, steady and familiar, found the zipper. His head tilted slightly, the way it always did when he was focused, a soft crease forming between his brows. You watched him gently lift the delicate fabric, mindful not to tug, not to catch a single thread.

The moment pulled you under like a riptide, dragging you to a morning years ago.

It had been bright and impossibly clear, the kind of spring day that smelled like fresh grass and possibility. You were standing in your bedroom, the sash of your graduation dress twisted awkwardly behind you, refusing to sit right. You had tried, in vain, to fix it yourself.

Then a knock. And his voice.

“You ready?”

You opened the door to find Seokjin leaning against the frame, wearing a crisp shirt and a tie your mother had likely approved of. In his hands, a small bouquet of wildflowers, awkwardly tied with twine.

Your mother was right behind him, beaming, phone already in hand. “Stand together! Just for one picture.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, but he stepped beside you without hesitation, his shoulder brushing yours. Your mother snapped the photo, catching that unguarded second when you looked at each other and smiled—not the polite kind, but the kind that came from knowing every victory and every late-night breakdown the other had endured to get here.

“You look proud,” he teased as she adjusted her grip on the phone.

“I am,” you replied, feeling the words settle warm in your chest. “And you? You look…” You paused, pretending to search for the word. “Like someone who’s going to scream louder than anyone else when my name is called.”

He grinned. “You bet I am.”

And he had. Later, when your name echoed in the air and you crossed the stage, his voice cut through the polite applause, loud and unapologetic. You’d spotted him in the crowd, standing, clapping over his head, his smile like sunlight itself. You’d done the same for him just hours later, nearly losing your voice cheering when his turn came.

The memory lingered like a slow burn—until the boutique’s light shifted, pulling you back.

“Y/N?”

You blinked. Hoseok was standing beside you, holding a small swatch of fabric, his expression tinged with concern. “I’ve been asking if you think this lace works for the table runners,” he said gently.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Sorry, I… I need a moment.”

You set down your clipboard and slipped toward the restroom, careful not to look back.

Behind you, Seokjin had noticed the way you’d left, his gaze flickering after you before Hoseok stepped into his line of sight.

“So,” Hoseok began, tone light but calculated, “tell me about your thoughts on the reception lighting. I know Haneul wants chandeliers, but have you considered—”

It was enough to pull Seokjin’s attention, his answer delayed but automatic.

And in the quiet of the restroom, leaning against the cool tile, you let yourself breathe. The faint laughter from the boutique floor felt like it was coming from another world—a world where you could still stand beside him without feeling this strange, aching distance.

The fitting room was awash in pale afternoon light, the kind that poured through the tall boutique windows and softened every edge it touched. The mirrors multiplied that glow, casting it over sequined gowns and silk trains that shimmered faintly whenever someone moved. The air was scented with pressed fabric and fresh lilies from a vase in the corner.

Haneul was on the platform, her gown a frosted waterfall of lace and satin, the seamstress still fussing with the hem. You stood at the side with your clipboard, marking down final adjustments, doing your best to stay focused. Your attention kept skimming over Seokjin in the corner, who had just finished helping Haneul with that stubborn zipper. He was speaking low to her, polite but distant, his eyes drifting toward you now and then when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

The soft chime of the boutique door opening drew your gaze.

A woman stepped in—elegant but warm, her hair swept neatly back, her eyes bright as they scanned the room. It took you a heartbeat to realize who it was.

“Mrs. Kim,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

Her head turned instantly at your voice, and the recognition bloomed across her face like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Y/N?” she said, almost laughing in disbelief as she crossed the room toward you. “Oh, my goodness. I can’t believe it’s you.”

You barely had time to straighten before she enveloped you in a hug that smelled faintly of green tea and fresh laundry.

“You look… my goodness, you’ve grown even more beautiful,” she said, stepping back to take you in, her hands still resting on your arms. “I never imagined you’d be here. Are you—” her eyes flicked to the clipboard in your hand, “—the wedding planner?”

You nodded, a little dazed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head as though the world had just played a trick on her. “Well, this is… unexpected. I didn’t even know he was getting married until this morning. He called and told me to come for a fitting. I thought it was a mistake at first.”

You tried to smile, but your mind was reeling. Haneul was watching from the platform, lips pressed into a fine line. You still didn’t know if she was aware of your past with Seokjin, but the tension in the air told you she might be.

Mrs. Kim, however, seemed blissfully unaware—or perhaps she simply didn’t care. She guided you to sit with her on the small sofa near the mirrors.

“Tell me everything,” she urged, her eyes warm and searching. “How have you been? I remember those late nights you spent studying in our kitchen. Do you still drink your tea with too much honey?”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound tinged with nostalgia. “Some habits don’t change.”

She smiled in that familiar, motherly way that always made you feel seen. “I still remember the way you’d thank me for every meal as if I had cooked a feast. You were such a bright light in our home back then.”

Your throat tightened. “I… I remember your cooking saved me so many nights. And your patience.”

She squeezed your hand. “It wasn’t patience. It was love.”

Across the room, Seokjin had been pretending to scroll through his phone, but every word reached him. His eyes softened as he watched you and his mother speak so easily, your expressions lit by the same warmth he remembered from years ago. It tugged something deep in him, something that reminded him of quiet mornings when his mother would hum at the stove, you sitting at the counter in one of his sweaters, sleep still in your eyes.

Beside him, Haneul shifted, her expression pinched. The smile she had fixed for the seamstress faltered.

Mrs. Kim, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content to keep the conversation flowing. “I’m glad you’re doing this work, Y/N. It suits you. You’ve always been organized, thoughtful. And… you still have that kind heart, I can see it.”

You swallowed, unsure how to respond without letting too much show. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

As the seamstress announced the fitting was nearly complete, Mrs. Kim stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “I’m so glad I came today. This might be the happiest surprise I’ve had in a long time.”

And for a moment, you forgot entirely about the weight in the room. It was just her, smiling at you like no time had passed at all.

Seokjin, from where he stood, felt the ache of it—how natural you were with his mother, how much it mirrored the past. It wasn’t the gown or the fitting he’d remember from today. It was this.

Haneul, still on the platform, watched you both, her smile thin and her knuckles white against the lace of her gown.

The fitting had barely ended when Mrs. Kim’s warm hand wrapped around yours, her smile radiating the same comfort it had a decade ago. “You’re not going anywhere yet, are you? Come have dinner with us,” she said, her tone more of a loving command than an invitation.

You hesitated, glancing toward Haneul, who had already turned her gaze toward the rack of gowns as though she hadn’t heard. “I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Nonsense. You’ve spent the whole day running around for my son’s wedding. The least I can do is feed you.”

There was a part of you that wanted to escape—to slip back into the safety of your house and away from the tangled knots this day had tied inside your chest. But Mrs. Kim’s eyes were so certain, so kind, and maybe a little bit of you missed the sound of her voice too much to refuse.

So you agreed.

The restaurant was quiet, the kind that didn’t need music because its soft lighting and the clinking of cutlery created their own rhythm. The four of you sat at a round table draped in ivory linen. You could feel Haneul’s tension across from you, her manicured fingers tapping against her water glass in slow, irritated beats.

Mrs. Kim filled the air with conversation before the silence could settle too heavily. “You know, I still remember the first time you came to our home. You were so shy, hiding behind that bouquet of flowers. My husband teased that Jin had brought home an angel.” She laughed, and the memory hit Seokjin like the opening bars of a song he thought he’d forgotten.

Your mind flickered back—his mother’s laughter in the kitchen, the steam of her soybean stew curling in the air, Seokjin’s hand brushing yours as he passed you a spoon under the table.

“That was a long time ago,” you said softly, smiling at the memory despite the ache it brought.

“But not so long that I’ve forgotten how you helped me set the table, or how you stayed late washing dishes even when I told you not to. You’ve always been like that—thoughtful.”

Seokjin’s eyes found yours then, a quiet glance, not meant to linger but impossible to break. There was an unspoken acknowledgment between you—memories shared in the pauses of conversation, in the warmth of her voice.

Haneul’s hand slid over Seokjin’s forearm possessively, breaking the thread. “We’re so grateful she’s our wedding planner,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes,” Mrs. Kim replied simply, her gaze still on you. “Though I admit, I didn’t expect Jin to get married so soon. One morning he tells me there’s a fitting, and here I am.”

Seokjin shifted uncomfortably, sipping his wine to avoid answering.

The food arrived—plates of grilled fish, bowls of steaming rice, banchan arranged like a painter’s palette. You busied yourself with passing dishes, grateful for the distraction.

Mrs. Kim continued, “Back when you two were in school, I thought—” She stopped herself, smiling wistfully instead. “Well, life surprises us, doesn’t it?”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened, his mind replaying those rooftop promises you had once whispered to each other, the way your laughter had filled the empty streets on late-night walks.

Throughout dinner, Mrs. Kim drew you into old stories—about the time you and Seokjin got lost on your way to a festival, about the afternoons you studied at their dining table while she made pancakes. You laughed along, though each story felt like it reopened a door you’d carefully closed.

Haneul tried to steer the conversation toward the wedding—guest lists, floral arrangements, venues—but Mrs. Kim always looped it back to something from the past, and each time, Seokjin found it harder to keep his eyes off you.

At one point, Mrs. Kim touched your wrist gently. “You’ve grown even more beautiful. Time has been kind to you.”

You thanked her, though the words felt heavier than they should. Across the table, Seokjin’s gaze lingered too long before he looked away.

When dinner ended, Mrs. Kim insisted on walking you to your car. The night air was cool, brushing against your skin like an old friend. She squeezed your hand before letting go. “It’s good to see you again, truly.”

You drove away with the taste of nostalgia bittersweet on your tongue, knowing that for the next four months, you’d have to stand in this strange in-between—close enough to remember, far enough to pretend you’d forgotten.

Inside the restaurant, Haneul asked Seokjin why his mother seemed so fond of you. He only shrugged, the words forming in his head but never leaving his lips.

The car’s engine hummed steadily, but the silence inside was far from calm. Seokjin kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles pale against the steering wheel, while Haneul sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly, her perfume clinging stubbornly to the air between them.

It was dark now, the city outside reduced to blurs of neon and headlight beams slicing through the rain-slick streets. The warmth from the car’s heater pressed against their skin, but neither felt comforted.

Finally, Haneul’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering.

“Do you have any idea how humiliating that dinner was for me?” she asked, not looking at him.

Seokjin exhaled through his nose, still staring forward. “Humiliating? That’s what you call it?”

“She acted like I wasn’t even there,” Haneul continued, her words quick and hot. “And you just let her. You didn’t stop her. You didn’t even try to change the topic when she kept talking to you and your mother like you were—” She stopped herself, but the unfinished sentence hung heavy between them.

Seokjin tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Like we were what? Like we were happy? Like we were people who used to care about each other?” His tone was quiet, almost flat, but it carried an edge. “That’s not something I can erase just because you feel insecure.”

Haneul snapped her head toward him. “Insecure? You really don’t see it, do you? She has this… this way of making you look at her like—”

He finally turned to meet her glare, his jaw taut. “Like what, Haneul? Like I remember her? Because I do. I remember her before all of this. Before you. Before the mess. And maybe that’s exactly what you wanted when you chose her to be our wedding planner.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you blaming me for how she acts around you?”

“I’m saying this is what you wanted,” Seokjin said, his voice low but unflinching. “You insisted on hiring her. You pushed for it even when I told you it wasn’t a good idea. Now you’re upset because she and my mother get along? Because my mother treats her like family?”

“That’s exactly my point,” Haneul shot back, bitterness slipping into her tone. “Your mother has never treated me that way. Never.”

Seokjin’s laugh was short, humorless. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water—ripples of silence spreading, stretching, until the air between them was suffocating.

Haneul stared at him, her voice faltering now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that relationships aren’t transactions. You don’t win people over by controlling everything around them. My mother treats people based on how she feels about them. She doesn’t fake it. And maybe she can’t feel close to you because you’ve never given her a reason to.”

Her nails dug into her own arms, her jaw tightening. “You think you know me?”

Seokjin turned back to the road, his gaze hardening. “I know exactly how we got here. We didn’t fall in love and decide to build a life together. We barely even knew each other when you found out you were pregnant.”

Her breath hitched, not in surprise but in recognition of the truth she had been avoiding.

“You think I wanted this?” she said bitterly. “You think I wanted to get married like this?”

“I think you wanted what you wanted,” Seokjin replied, his voice steady, “and when you didn’t get it, you ran to your father.”

Haneul’s lips trembled. “That’s not fair—”

“It’s exactly what happened,” he interrupted. “Your father came to me with an ultimatum. Marry you or watch my business burn. He told me he’d make sure every deal I had lined up would vanish overnight. And do you know what I was thinking while he sat there threatening me?”

Her eyes darted to him, searching.

“I was thinking about Yoongi,” Seokjin said, his voice quieter now, almost as if speaking to himself. “I was thinking about how much I owed him. How hard he worked to keep my business alive when it was barely more than a name. And I couldn’t let all of that go to waste just because…”

“Because of me,” Haneul finished bitterly.

He didn’t correct her.

“You think Yoongi would have supported this if he knew?” she asked.

Seokjin shook his head. “No. And that’s why he doesn’t know. I made sure he never found out. Because if he did, he’d see right through everything. And I didn’t want him looking at me like I had sold my soul.”

The rain outside thickened, drops streaking the glass in long silver trails. The city seemed far away now, like they were driving through a tunnel where only their voices existed.

Haneul’s voice was quieter when she spoke again, but it was lined with resentment. “So what? You’re just going to keep looking at her like that until our wedding day? You’re going to keep letting your mother compare me to her?”

Seokjin’s hands relaxed slightly on the wheel, but his gaze stayed forward. “I’m going to do what I said I’d do. I’m going to marry you. That’s the choice I made. But you don’t get to rewrite how I feel about the past. And you don’t get to tell me to erase parts of myself just because they make you uncomfortable.”

The rest of the drive unfolded in silence, the truth hanging in the air like a heavy storm cloud neither of them could dispel.

But Seokjin’s mind was already somewhere else—on a rooftop years ago, where the air smelled like freedom and the girl beside him laughed under the stars. And for the first time in a long while, he realized that no matter how much he tried to bury it, that night still lived inside him.

The city had long since surrendered to night when Seokjin pulled away from Haneul’s apartment building. The tall glass façade reflected fractured pieces of neon and streetlamps, a distorted kind of beauty that felt too much like his life — glittering from a distance, but sharp and cutting if you got too close.

He didn’t bother waiting for her to turn around, didn’t watch her walk inside. The moment she shut the car door, he pressed his foot to the accelerator, needing space, needing air. His chest was tight — the kind of tight that no deep breath could soften.

By the time he reached his own house, the streets were empty except for the occasional cab slicing through the darkness. His driveway lights flickered on automatically, throwing pale gold across the sleek lines of his car. The house greeted him in silence, like it always did — no voices, no music, just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock in the hall.

He didn’t turn on more lights than he had to. The shadows suited him tonight.

The first thing he did was head for the cabinet in the corner of his living room — the one that held the expensive bottles he never bought for himself, only received as gifts. His fingers curled around the neck of a whiskey bottle, the glass cold and smooth. He poured until the amber liquid reached halfway up the tumbler.

The first sip burned down his throat, sharp and clean, until it pooled warm in his chest. He stood there for a moment, staring at the glass in his hand like it might have answers, then moved to the couch.

The silence here was different from the car’s — heavier, almost intimate. His tie was already loosened from earlier, but he yanked it off completely, letting it fall to the floor.

His mind wouldn’t stay still.

Haneul’s voice from earlier echoed in pieces — sharp questions, jealousy disguised as indignation, the subtle barb in every word she threw about his mother and you. He could still see the way she had sat beside him in the car, her perfume filling the confined space, her tone clipped.

“Why does she treat her like that and not me?”

And his answer had been immediate, almost cruel in its bluntness. “Ask yourself why.”

He took another long drink.

The truth was, he hadn’t wanted to think about it. About her. About any of it. But the moment he was alone, the memory of you seeped in like light through a crack in the blinds. You in the bridal shop earlier today — calm, composed, jotting notes in that small notebook, the one you always carried. Professional, yes, but there was something familiar in the tilt of your head, the way your brows furrowed when concentrating.

It reminded him too much of the past.

Of how, in college, you’d sit across from him in the library, tapping your pen against the page when an idea came to you. How you’d push your hair behind your ear without thinking when reading something that intrigued you. How your laugh — quiet, almost shy — would pull him out of even the worst moods.

He closed his eyes.

He remembered afternoons when you would show up at his house with bags of snacks and coffee, saying you were there to “supervise” his study time, but in truth you’d both end up stretched out on the couch, talking about everything and nothing until night fell. Back then, there was no weight between you. No politics. No threats. No obligations.

Now… there was only this gnawing ache.

The whiskey glass was nearly empty, so he poured again, the sound of liquid filling the tumbler louder than it should have been in the stillness.

He hated how often you crossed his mind these days. He hated how seeing you — the way you carried yourself now, more polished but still undeniably you — brought back everything he had tried to bury.

He hated even more that, in four months, you’d be gone again.

A wedding would be over. The calls, the meetings, the fittings — all of it would vanish, and you’d go back to your world while he stayed trapped in his.

His gaze drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling window across the room. Beyond it, the city sprawled endlessly, lights scattered like constellations. He’d built so much for himself, worked for years to reach this life. Yet right now, staring out at the skyline, all of it felt like someone else’s home.

He thought about Haneul — her smile for the cameras, her hand clutching his a little too tightly at public events. He thought about her father, the way the man had sat across from him with cold eyes and an ultimatum that left no space for choice.

And then he thought about you.

How, in another life, none of this would have happened. How, in another life, it might have been your voice he heard in the quiet, your laughter in his kitchen, your hand brushing his as you passed him a glass of wine.

He swallowed hard and set the glass down a little too roughly on the coffee table. The sound cracked through the room.

The truth was ugly. He was about to marry a woman he didn’t love. He was about to become a father out of duty, not desire. And the only person he couldn’t stop thinking about… was the one he’d already lost.

For the first time in a long time, Seokjin let himself sink back against the couch and admit the truth in full.

He was completely, irreversibly, fucked.

The doors to Le Chêne opened with a muted chime, letting in the soft warmth of late morning. Sunlight spilled across the polished wood floors, catching on the glassware set neatly on the chef’s table. The restaurant smelled faintly of baking bread, roasted garlic, and something sweet—caramel maybe—slipping in from the kitchen.

You walked in with your notebook in hand, your steps echoing lightly in the empty dining room. The restaurant was beautiful in an understated way—pale stone walls, tall windows draped in sheer linen, tables set with crisp white linen and small vases of wildflowers. It was your first time here, and the place felt like a quiet pause in the middle of a busy city.

Seokjin was already seated at the long table. He wore a simple navy shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, a pen resting in his hand, though it didn’t look like he’d been writing. He looked up as you approached, and for a moment, something in his expression softened—like the years between you weren’t as far apart as they used to be.

“Good morning,” you said, offering a small professional smile as you sat down across from him.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice warm but careful. “You found the place alright?”

“Yeah. It’s beautiful,” you said, glancing around. “I didn’t realize this was one of your restaurants.”

“It’s one of the newer ones,” he said. “Opened three years ago.”

You nodded, flipping open your notebook. “Well, Haneul mentioned she couldn’t make it today, so I’ll run through the menu with you. We can start with—”

“How have you been?” His voice was quieter now, the question slipping in before you could hide behind the menu.

You paused, your pen hovering over the page. “I’ve been… fine,” you said after a beat. “Busy with work. Which is good.”

He gave a slow nod, his eyes lingering on you in a way that wasn’t heavy but steady, like he was trying to measure how much of that ‘fine’ was real.

“It’s been ten years,” he said softly. “A lot can happen in ten years.”

You smiled faintly, though you didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It feels like a lifetime.”

He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once against the table. “How are your parents?”

The question caught you off guard, your breath hitching before you could answer. “They’re good. Slowing down, but… they’re happy. Still in the same house.”

He smiled faintly, his gaze dropping for a moment as if picturing it. “I can still remember the garden in the back. Your mom’s roses.”

You felt a small warmth in your chest. “She still grows them. Every spring without fail.”

He nodded, and there was a brief silence before he spoke again, softer now. “My dad passed away. Five years ago.”

Your pen stilled on the page. “Jin… I’m so sorry.”

He gave a small shrug, but it didn’t hide the shadow in his eyes. “It was quick. Heart attack. One moment he was fine, the next…” He exhaled, a slow, almost invisible sigh. “I think about him a lot more than I admit. He wasn’t perfect, but he taught me more than I realized back then.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, letting the silence carry the weight of it.

A small, almost rueful smile touched his lips. “You know… I’ve never seen my mom as happy as she was during the fitting.”

You blinked. “The fitting?”

He looked at you then, the corners of his eyes softening. “When she saw you. She… lit up. Like no time had passed. She hugged you like she used to.” His smile grew faint, tinged with something bittersweet.

You didn’t answer right away, feeling the weight of his words press into you. You could still picture his mother’s embrace, the warmth of it, the faint scent of lavender she always carried.

The plates began to arrive then—delicate arrangements of scallops, lamb, and glazed vegetables. You tried to focus on the food, making notes about seasoning and presentation, but his presence across from you kept pulling you back.

At one point, you mentioned the rosemary lamb as a main course option. He smiled knowingly. “You used to hate rosemary. Said it was too strong.”

You froze for half a second. “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot,” he said simply. “More than I probably should.”

For the rest of the meeting, even when you kept the conversation neatly folded into menu details and plating suggestions, there was an undercurrent you couldn’t ignore. His voice carried warmth where you expected formality. His eyes lingered like he was trying to catch up on ten years in a single morning.

When you finally closed your notebook, the sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the table. You stood, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your time. I’ll send the finalized menu later this week.”

He nodded, but there was something in his gaze that felt like a question left unasked. “It was… good seeing you again.”

You only gave a small nod before heading toward the door, the faint sound of his chair shifting following you out.

The midday sun was gentle that Tuesday, filtered through the gauzy white curtains of the small supplier’s showroom. You stood beside Hoseok at a long wooden table, bolts of lace and swatches of satin spread between you like a painter’s palette. The air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee from the corner café downstairs, mixed with the sharper scent of new fabric. Outside, the city hummed faintly, but here, the space felt still—like a small bubble where only the two of you and your work existed.

“Okay, this one,” Hoseok said, holding up a piece of ivory silk so smooth it caught the light like water. “She said she wanted something ‘timeless but dramatic,’ which… is kind of like saying you want snow in the middle of summer.”

You laughed, jotting down notes. “That’s Haneul.”

He grinned, but there was an edge of exhaustion in it. “She’s been calling me every three hours. I swear she has a sixth sense for when I’m just about to take a lunch break.”

“She’s been calling me too,” you admitted, flipping through the catalog in your hand. “Sometimes I think she doesn’t even want my opinion—she just wants to make sure I’m still alive and thinking about her wedding.”

Hoseok chuckled, then set the fabric down and leaned against the table, studying you. “Speaking of weddings…”

You raised an eyebrow, already sensing the turn in his tone. “Don’t start.”

“What?” He tilted his head innocently, but the mischievous light in his eyes gave him away. “I’m just saying, you spend all day, every day planning weddings for other people. Maybe it’s time you plan yours.”

You shook your head, smiling wryly. “Hobi, I don��t even have time to plan a proper grocery list.”

“That’s because you won’t make time,” he said, straightening up, his voice turning playful but pointed. “Which is why… I have a solution.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh no.”

He reached into his tote bag and pulled out a business card, placing it in your hand like a winning poker chip. “Jeon Jeongguk. Photographer. Just moved back from New York last week. Brilliant, creative, ridiculously good-looking—”

“Hobi.”

“—and before you say anything, yes, he’s single. And before you say the next thing, yes, he’s my friend. And before you try to give me that whole ‘I’m too busy’ speech again, let me remind you: you’re not twenty-five anymore, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you. “You make it sound like I’m ancient.”

“I’m just saying,” he pressed, leaning closer, “life is short. You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow. And if you keep hiding behind your work, you’re going to wake up one day and realize you’ve spent your whole life making other people’s dreams come true while ignoring your own.”

His words landed heavier than you expected. For a moment, you didn’t answer, tracing the edge of the business card with your thumb. Jeongguk’s name was printed in clean, minimalist lettering.

“I’m not hiding,” you said finally, but your voice was softer now. “I just… don’t know if I’m ready.”

Hoseok’s expression gentled. “You’ll never feel ready for something that scares you. But sometimes, you just have to take the step anyway.”

You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes. He had always been able to read you too well, peeling back the polite layers you used to keep people at a distance.

“Fine,” you said at last, your tone reluctant but laced with amusement. “One meeting. But only because you’re impossible to argue with.”

He grinned like a man who had just won a long game. “That’s the spirit. I’ll set it up. And you’re going to thank me later when you’re running off into the sunset with him.”

You shook your head, gathering the fabric samples back into the folder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

But as you tucked Jeongguk’s card into your notebook, you felt a small flicker in your chest—something you hadn’t felt in years.

Hope. Or maybe just the faint curiosity of what it would be like to meet someone new, someone who didn’t carry the weight of your past.

And yet, even as you packed up, the thought of Seokjin lingered stubbornly at the edges of your mind. His voice from yesterday. His eyes when he told you about his father. His mother’s smile when she saw you.

No matter how much you wanted to move forward, some memories were not so easily set aside.

The evening air felt like silk against your skin, a quiet warmth lingering after the sun had slipped behind the skyline. The street outside the restaurant glowed with golden light, the lamps casting halos across the pavement. You caught your reflection in the glass door before stepping inside—hair perfectly styled, your dress a confident shade that caught the light in all the right places.

The hostess smiled and led you toward a table tucked into a warm corner by the window.

Jeongguk was already there.

He looked up the second you approached, a smile spreading across his face like the start of a familiar song. He stood to greet you.

“I knew it was you,” he said, voice light with certainty. “Hobi’s been sending me photos of you for months. Even back when I was still in New York.”

Your step faltered. “He… did what?”

Jeongguk chuckled, a sound easy and unguarded. “Don’t worry, they were all flattering. He’d say, ‘This is my friend, the one who works too hard and needs to smile more.’” His eyes softened. “He wasn’t wrong—you’re even prettier in person.”

You sat, still processing the revelation, smoothing the fabric of your dress. “I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or grateful.”

“Grateful,” he said without hesitation. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”

The restaurant was alive with a low hum—the clink of cutlery, the mellow jazz in the background, the faint scent of rosemary and grilled meat drifting from the kitchen. Conversation came easily. He told you about his years in New York, the constant hum of the city, the kind of people he photographed. You shared stories about your work, the unpredictable chaos of wedding planning, the impossible balance of keeping clients happy without losing yourself.

“You must be incredibly patient,” he said, sipping his drink.

“Or incredibly stubborn.”

“Same thing,” he teased.

By the time dessert arrived, the city outside had slipped fully into night. Candlelight pooled on the table, catching in your glass, softening the edges of his face. You felt lighter, as though for one evening, you’d stepped outside the weight of everything waiting for you in the morning.

When you excused yourself to the restroom before leaving, you didn’t expect to see her.

Haneul stood by the mirror, touching up her lipstick. She turned at the sound of your heels, her smile quick and warm—too quick, too warm.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she said, voice smooth. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

You returned her smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just having dinner.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the door. “Did you know this is one of Jin’s restaurants?” Her tone was casual, but the way she watched you was anything but.

You blinked. “I didn’t.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, as if filing that away. “Well, I’m glad to see you… enjoying yourself.”

The smile stayed on her face as you passed her, but you felt the weight of her eyes following you all the way out.

Jeongguk was waiting near the entrance, his coat draped over one arm. He offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitation. The cool air outside wrapped around you as you walked together toward the street, your laughter blending into the night.

“Thank you for tonight,” you said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied with a grin. “This is only the first one.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could reply, a car pulled up. He opened the door for you, the moment stretching warm and unhurried, then disappearing as you slid inside.

Inside the restaurant, Haneul was paying her bill. She’d seen you and Jeongguk leave, the way you leaned just slightly toward him as you spoke. She didn’t say anything—at least, not yet.

The next morning, she was at Jin’s office.

The place smelled faintly of cedar and fresh coffee, sunlight spilling across the black marble desk where he sat reading over contracts. She breezed in, tossing her bag onto the visitor’s chair like she owned the space.

“I stopped by the new restaurant last night,” she said, flipping through a stack of fabric swatches she’d brought. “Everything looks good. The lighting is perfect, and the menu’s solid.”

Jin didn’t look up right away. “That’s good to hear.”

She let the silence linger a second longer than necessary, then added casually, “Oh, and I saw your… ex there. Leaving with someone.”

His pen stilled mid-signature. “Y/N?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone deliberately light, as if she were just sharing a harmless piece of gossip. “She was with a guy. Looked like a date.”

Jin finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Hm.”

Haneul smiled faintly, watching him as though she were waiting for something—a flicker of reaction, a shift in his voice. But he only went back to his paperwork, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the room.

She didn’t need him to say anything. She’d seen the way his hand had paused, just for a moment.

A month blurred past in a rush of flower samples, seating charts, and endless revisions.

Most mornings began with Hoseok’s bright voice on the phone, even before you had your coffee.

“We have to move the cake tasting to Friday,” he’d say, sounding more like a man managing a diplomatic summit. “And Haneul wants the escort cards to be in calligraphy from that French studio, not the local one.”

You’d scribble notes with one hand while balancing your tablet with the other, your schedule a messy mosaic of supplier meetings, menu changes, and emergency calls. The florists had learned to recognize the tone in your voice when you said, “We need to talk about the hydrangeas again.”

Haneul’s requests came like soft rain at first—occasional, almost reasonable—but grew heavier with each passing week. The drapery needed to be a shade lighter. The string quartet should add another violinist. The favors weren’t “charming enough” and had to be reimagined entirely. She didn’t scream or throw tantrums; she simply tilted her head, smiled, and said, “I’m sure you can make it happen.”

And you did.

You always did.

On quieter evenings, when the day’s chaos had settled into a kind of humming exhaustion, you’d hear from Jeongguk. Sometimes it was a quick photo—his camera pointed at the sky over the Han River at sunset, captioned, Thought you’d like this light. Sometimes it was a voice message, his tone casual but warm, asking how your day went and laughing when you told him about the time a florist nearly cried over imported peonies.

It was nice. Easy. A small tether to something outside the wedding whirlwind.

You noticed Jin’s absence without meaning to. He rarely appeared at meetings unless it was for the menu or the wine pairings. You told yourself it made sense—he was busy, after all—but a quiet part of you wondered why he didn’t at least drop by. It was easier not to think about it.

The days bled together in a film reel of soft chaos: the echo of your footsteps in empty ballrooms, the smell of fresh linens as you brushed your hands over table runners, Hoseok’s teasing grin when he caught you sighing after another last-minute change.

One afternoon, you and Hoseok were tucked into the corner of a crowded café, laptops open, the table between you buried under sample books and invoices. Outside, winter’s first chill painted the windows with fog.

“You’ve been running yourself into the ground,” Hoseok said, eyes narrowing over the rim of his cup.

“I’m fine.” You didn’t look up from your screen.

“You’re not. All you do is make other people’s fairy tales come true. Maybe you should plan your own for once.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not this again.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Jeongguk’s a good guy. You smile when you talk about him. That means something.”

“It means I have a friend,” you countered.

“It means you’re still human,” Hoseok replied gently. “And you’re not getting any younger. Neither of us are.”

You gave him a look that was half-annoyed, half-affectionate. “I have enough on my plate without adding romance into it.”

“You always say that,” he said, leaning back. “But when this wedding is over, when the flowers are gone and the champagne’s finished, you’ll go home to an empty house. Don’t you want someone to be there?”

The words settled between you, heavier than the sound of the rain tapping against the window.

You didn’t answer, and Hoseok didn’t push. Instead, he reached across the table and stole the last bite of your pastry, grinning like he hadn’t just tried to change your life.

The knock at the office door was polite but firm. You looked up from your schedule notes and saw Haneul’s radiant smile first, dragging Seokjin behind her. She was practically vibrating with excitement, the kind of energy that filled a room without asking permission.

“I’m so happy to be here!” she exclaimed, her bag swinging against her hip. “We just came from the monthly check-up! Everything’s perfect.”

Seokjin trailed slightly behind, his posture stiff and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb anything. His eyes flicked toward you for the briefest moment, a shadow of something unreadable passing across his face.

“That’s wonderful,” you said, keeping your voice steady, professional. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and gestured toward the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Haneul practically plopped into the chair with a soft thump, spinning slightly in her excitement. “I’m just so thrilled! I can’t wait to start this family with Jin. It’s everything I ever dreamed of. I keep thinking about decorating the nursery and—oh! And the names! I’ve already started a list. Aren’t babies just… magical?”

Seokjin’s expression remained calm, but the small tilt of his head betrayed the faintest hint of discomfort. He sank into his chair beside hers, hands folded loosely on his lap, glancing at you with a subtle, almost apologetic smile.

You nodded along, heart tightening. “That’s… wonderful.”

The words sounded hollow in your own ears. You glanced at the floor for a moment, thinking of the quiet house you returned to each night, the city skyline pressed against the glass like a reminder that your life had taken a very different path. Your friends were settling down, some already with children, some planning futures with partners. And here was Seokjin—your first love, the man you had once imagined a lifetime with—about to begin a new chapter you weren’t a part of.

Haneul continued, oblivious to the tension in the room, her excitement spilling over. “I keep thinking about all the traditions we’ll have at the wedding, how we’ll involve family, the flowers, the colors… everything has to be perfect!”

You smiled tightly, scribbling notes as her words washed over you, trying not to let the ache creep in. The laughter and plans around you felt distant, almost like someone else’s life being played out on a stage you weren’t allowed to step onto.

Hoseok’s voice echoed softly in your memory, a gentle reminder: “You’ve got your own story to live. Maybe it’s time to start planning a chapter for yourself too.”

You shifted in your chair, your fingers brushing against your notepad. Jeongguk’s messages from the previous evening came to mind—the soft, thoughtful encouragement, the small flirtations that made your chest warm in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps Hoseok was right. Perhaps while you were orchestrating someone else’s dreams, you had quietly set aside your own.

Seokjin cleared his throat lightly, drawing your attention. “Haneul, can you—” He paused, a subtle hesitation. “Maybe give her a moment? I mean, I know she’s busy taking notes, but—”

Haneul laughed, brushing his comment off with the air of someone who was utterly unbothered. “Oh, don’t worry! I’m just excited! You know how it is. Babies, weddings, everything.”

You nodded, letting the professional mask settle over your expression again. “Of course. It’s my job to make sure your excitement turns into reality.”

Seokjin’s eyes flicked to you again, lingering just slightly longer than before, perhaps noticing the small weight in your expression that you tried so hard to hide. But he said nothing, simply watching as Haneul continued to chatter, her words blending with the soft hum of the office, as if the world had condensed into the bubble of their excitement.

You took a deep breath, mentally shaking off the pangs of nostalgia and quiet envy. You were still standing, still building something incredible. And maybe, just maybe, it was finally time to let someone new into your own story.

Chapter 3

@mar-lo-pap @pp0810 @syh-a @andoyuki @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @woncheecks @chocolateladycat @carriereadsbooks @amarawayne

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inkedwithcharm · 7 days ago

Text

Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Chapter One

The morning light slanted through the sheer curtains of my office, casting pale gold shapes over the polished wood desk. The scent of fresh peonies from yesterday’s meeting lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of the coffee machine in the corner. My planner lay open before me, neat columns of names and dates lined with careful handwriting.

Today’s appointment was circled in soft blue ink. I had written only Bride – Initial Consultation and the time. No names, no hints. Just another client.

Or so I thought.

The first time she came in was two weeks ago. She had walked into my office like a beam of light—tall, graceful, the kind of beauty that seemed both effortless and intentional. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, diamond studs catching the light as she smiled. She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into tailored trousers, the sort of elegance that made you aware of your own posture.

“You must be Y/N,” she said, extending her hand with a warmth that made me want to stand straighter. “I’m Haneul. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

We shook hands, and I gestured for her to sit. My pen was poised above my notepad, ready to jot down whatever she said.

“I’m getting married in four months,” she began, a soft laugh following as if she already knew the timeline was tight. “And I need someone who can make it feel like we’ve been planning for a year.”

“Four months is doable,” I replied, smiling. “It just means we’ll need to work closely and make decisions quickly. Have you and your fiancé discussed what kind of wedding you want?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I have, yes. He’ll go with the flow. He’s not the type to fuss over details. As long as the food is good, he’s happy.”

A flicker of curiosity made me ask, “And his name?”

She hesitated only for a second before answering, almost casually. “Kim Seokjin.”

The sound of his name landed in the room like the quiet thud of a book closing. For a moment, my pen hovered above the page. I must have blinked, but it felt like I’d closed my eyes and seen him exactly as I remembered—his laugh spilling into the night air, the warmth of his hand around mine, the sound of rain hitting the roof of our old apartment.

She didn’t notice the pause.

“Yes,” she went on, smiling, “the Kim Seokjin. The chef. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

I nodded once, setting my pen down so she wouldn’t see my fingers tremble. Of course I had heard of him. It was impossible not to. His face was on billboards, his name printed in glossy magazines alongside glowing reviews of his restaurants. He had become the kind of man whose life seemed built in perfect, curated snapshots.

But I had not seen him. Not since that night in the rain. Not in ten years.

I swallowed the ache in my throat and said, “Congratulations. Let’s talk about your vision.”

She leaned forward, eyes bright. “I want something romantic but not overdone. Soft colors—ivory, blush, maybe a hint of dusty blue. Outdoor ceremony if the weather allows, but with a tented reception so people can dance without worrying about the wind. And flowers—lots of them. Not just arrangements, but archways and hanging installations. I want the space to feel like you’ve stepped into a dream.”

I wrote everything down, each word neat and controlled, even as my mind tried to imagine him in this scene. Seokjin, standing at the end of the aisle in a suit. Seokjin, smiling at her as she walked toward him.

“And the food?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

She laughed. “That’s the only part he’s insisted on. He’s handling the menu himself, but he promised it won’t be complicated. He wants the focus on us, not the dishes.”

Us.

I nodded again, my pen moving automatically. My voice was calm, my questions professional, but inside I was folding parts of myself into smaller and smaller shapes so they wouldn’t spill out.

By the time we finished, she looked relieved. “You’ve made me feel like this is actually possible,” she said, standing.

“That’s my job,” I replied, smiling.

She thanked me again before leaving, her perfume—a soft, floral scent—lingering after she was gone. I sat for a moment in the quiet, staring at the closed door, my pen still in my hand. Somewhere in the city, he was preparing for a wedding. His wedding. And I was the one planning it.

Now, two weeks later, the appointment in my planner was different.

This time, he would be here.

I smoothed the front of my blazer, adjusted the stack of swatch books on my desk, and forced my smile into place. The sound of footsteps in the hall grew louder. The door opened.

She stepped in first, radiant as before, chattering about flower options she’d seen on her way over. Alone.

“He’s coming,” she said with an easy laugh. “Traffic. He’ll be here any minute.”

My pulse quickened, but I nodded, pulling out the folder I’d prepared. “We can start with the updates from last time.”

She moved to the window seat, her voice filling the room as we reviewed color palettes, table settings, and floral mock-ups. I listened, asked the right questions, took careful notes. The seconds stretched, each one bringing me closer to the moment when the door would open again.

And then, faintly, I heard another set of footsteps.

The door swung open then, without a knock, letting in a burst of cooler air from the hallway and the sharp scent of fresh blooms. Hoseok appeared in the doorway, his presence immediately filling the space — tall, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, a faint dusting of pollen still clinging to one cuff. His arms were loaded with a loose bundle of flowers in various stages of bloom, the kind of casually perfect arrangement only he could pull off.

“Oh,” he said, his eyes darting between the two of us. “Didn’t know you had company. And here I was thinking I’d just barge in like the hero with the roses.”

“This is my assistant, Jung Hoseok,” I said, gesturing between them. “He’s currently handling all your floral arrangements.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, perfect. I was just telling her I want everything very elegant, very timeless. White orchids, blush roses…” She trailed off expectantly.

Hoseok’s expression didn’t falter, but I caught the flicker of something in his gaze — the tiniest narrowing of his eyes, a subtle lift of his brow. “Lovely,” he said, the word thick with understated commentary only I could decode. “And of course, they’ll be arranged to perfection for… the happy couple.”

Her smile brightened. “Jin and I met at an event, you know. I was working with a PR team, and he was catering. I’d heard of him before — everyone has, right? The famous Chef Kim Seokjin — but meeting him in person… he’s even more handsome than on TV. We’ve been together only a few months, but when you know, you know.” She touched her flat stomach with a coy smile. “And… well, the timing is just perfect. We’re getting married before I start showing.”

Hoseok’s eyes darted to me, his mouth twitching into the faintest smirk. Not cruel, but sharp enough that I had to fight back my own reaction.

“I see,” Hoseok said smoothly. “A whirlwind romance. Sounds… intense.”

“It’s fate,” she declared. “We didn’t waste time. Life is too short to wait for happiness, don’t you think?”

I nodded as if agreeing, though my heart was nowhere near the conversation. My pen rested still on the paper, the ink drying in a half-formed flourish. I could almost hear the echo of his laughter from years ago, could almost see the tiny kitchen we once shared, lit by nothing but the glow of the stovetop, his hands smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary.

Hoseok busied himself with the flowers, but I could feel his gaze flick toward me every so often, sharp and assessing, the way a friend does when they know more than they should.

“We’ll make your wedding beautiful,” I said finally, my voice steady, my smile fixed. “Every detail will be perfect.”

She leaned back, satisfied. “I trust you completely.”

The clock on the wall ticked softly between us, marking the space between who I used to be and the stranger I was sitting across from now.

“Oh, he just texted that he won’t make it. Traffic caught him. We’ll be here tomorrow for the food samples—he wants to handle it personally.”

She said her goodbye. I stood up, thanked her, and told her I’d see her tomorrow.

Then the door clicked shut behind her, and with it, the last thread of her perfume drifted out of the room — something sweet and cloying that didn’t quite match the airy elegance she insisted she wanted for her wedding. Silence settled over us, thick enough to muffle the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Hoseok stood by my desk, one hand resting lightly on a vase of pale hydrangeas he had placed there, the other shoved into his pocket. His face carried that particular stillness I had learned to recognize over years of friendship.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if examining a puzzle piece that didn’t fit where it should. “Do you really want to do this wedding?”

I kept my voice light, casual, even as my stomach gave a slow, traitorous twist. “Why not?”

“Why not,” he repeated, his tone dry enough to cut through glass. “That’s your answer? Just ‘why not’?”

I busied myself with the open portfolio in front of me, turning a page even though I wasn’t reading it. “It’s work, Hobi. They’re a big client. His fiancée wants the best, and I can give her that. There’s nothing else to it.”

His gaze was too sharp for me to look at directly. “Nothing else,” he said slowly, like he was testing the weight of the words.

I met his eyes then, forcing my tone to stay steady. “I’m not in love with him anymore.” The words came out crisp, as if saying them that way could make them truer. “That was a long time ago. I’ve moved on. I dated other people. I even got engaged once.”

For a moment, his expression softened, a flicker of memory passing through his eyes. “And he—?”

“He cheated,” I said, not flinching, not giving him the satisfaction of watching me break. “Half the time we were together, apparently. So, yes, I’ve moved on. I’ve survived worse than planning a wedding for someone I used to love.”

Hoseok leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms, the faint scent of lilies and eucalyptus drifting from his shirt. “You’re sure this isn’t… something else? Some twisted way of proving something? Because most people would say no to this job.”

I exhaled slowly, my eyes drifting to the soft light spilling over the rows of flower samples laid out like offerings on the credenza. The petals caught the sun in shades of blush, ivory, and champagne gold — colors she’d probably love. “I just want this wedding to be perfect. For her. For him. For the business.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I gave a small, humorless smile. “This isn’t just about pretty flowers and a paycheck, Hobi. They’re a big deal. Jin’s name carries weight in the culinary industry. The kind of connections he has? They could open doors for us — clients we’ve been trying to reach for years. If this wedding goes flawlessly, we won’t just be booked out for months. We’ll be booked out for years.”

Hoseok was quiet for a moment, studying me with a look I couldn’t read. Finally, he said softly, “You always were good at turning pain into profit.”

The words should have stung, but instead they sank into me like something half-true, half-accusation. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Mm,” he said, pushing himself off the desk. “I’ll have the flower mock-ups ready for you tomorrow. White orchids. Blush roses. Maybe a few calla lilies for drama.”

As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at me, his voice quieter, more careful. “Just… don’t lie to yourself too much, okay?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes lingered on the closed door long after he left, the faint scent of flowers still hanging in the air like a memory I couldn’t quite shake.

The city was a watercolor of lights when I drove home that night. Headlights blurred into the wet black ribbon of the road, and shop signs glowed faintly against the low-hanging clouds. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still shimmered as if holding on to the memory of it, reflecting passing cars in fractured patterns. My hands rested loosely on the steering wheel, the soft hum of the engine filling the empty spaces where words might have been if Hoseok had stayed.

By the time I turned into my neighborhood, the city’s noise had thinned into a quiet so deep I could hear my own breath. The wrought-iron gates to my driveway swung open with a familiar groan, the kind I kept meaning to fix but never did. My house stood in the middle of the lot, not grand but sturdy — clean white walls, dark timber framing, and windows that spilled warm light onto the cobblestone path like open arms waiting to welcome me back.

I bought it five years ago. My first real splurge after the business finally took off. At the time, I told myself it was an investment, a statement that I had made it. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I think I wanted proof — something solid, something mine — after everything else had fallen apart.

I slipped off my heels in the foyer, setting them neatly by the door. The faint scent of fresh peonies greeted me from the console table vase, their petals already starting to curl at the edges. The silence inside was so complete it pressed against my ears. No faint music from another room, no laughter, no voice calling my name. Just me and the gentle ticking of the wall clock.

I wandered into the living room, letting my fingers trail along the back of the leather sofa. The fireplace sat unlit, its marble hearth cold beneath the weight of an untouched book I’d left there days ago. Sometimes I still expected someone to be here when I came home — a ghost of a thought I had never fully shaken, even after all these years.

It was strange, remembering how it all began.

After Jin and I ended, I had nothing but my degree, a few savings, and a heart so hollow it felt like wind could whistle through it. Hoseok had been the one to suggest we try wedding planning. “You’ve always had an eye for detail,” he’d said over lukewarm coffee at a dingy café we couldn’t really afford. “And I know people who know people.”

We started in a tiny rented office above a bakery. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon clung to our clothes, sometimes covering the bitterness of our failures. Business was slow, painfully slow. We had weeks where the phone didn’t ring at all. Months where rent barely scraped by. I remember sitting on the threadbare couch in that office, paperwork spread across my lap, fighting tears because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going.

Hoseok would drop into the seat beside me, draping an arm around my shoulders like a shield. “Hey,” he’d murmur, “you’re allowed to cry, but you’re not allowed to quit.” And I did cry, sometimes so hard my vision blurred, not just from exhaustion, but from the ache of missing Jin. Weddings were cruel that way — every vow, every bouquet, every smile was a reminder of what I had lost.

The turning point came when a distant acquaintance introduced us to a politician’s daughter. Her wedding was lavish, the kind that made magazines pause mid-print to add new spreads. Hoseok and I poured everything into it — every sleepless night, every ounce of patience we had left. When it went off without a single flaw, the calls started coming. Celebrities. Senators. Heirs of old family fortunes. Our names began to circle in rooms we had never stepped into before.

And yet, even at the height of it, there were moments when the memory of Jin cut through the noise. Late nights in the office when I’d pause mid-task, my eyes stinging for no reason. Hoseok would notice but never push, just slide a mug of tea in front of me and sit in silence until I found my voice again.

I sank into the couch now, pulling the soft knit throw blanket over my lap. The rain began again, light at first, then heavier, tapping against the windows like restless fingertips. Somewhere in the kitchen, the fridge hummed. I closed my eyes and listened, letting the quiet settle over me like the final notes of a song.

I had built a life. A good one. Successful. Comfortable. I had learned to stand on my own feet and keep walking, no matter how hard the wind blew. But as I sat in the dim living room, the faint scent of peonies in the air, I couldn’t help but feel the echo of the girl I used to be — the one who had once imagined a very different kind of homecoming.

The clinking of glass against wood filled the quiet evening air of the restaurant’s private lounge. Outside the tall windows, the city lights blinked like constellations scattered too close to earth. Seoul had that restless energy—honking cars, muffled laughter from couples strolling under lamplight, the faint echo of music from a street busker somewhere down the block. But inside, the world was still, the hum of the air conditioner the only competition to the silence between Seokjin and Yoongi.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, dark eyes watching Seokjin with that usual, measured gaze of his. “So,” he began, swirling the whiskey in his glass, “you’re getting married.”

Seokjin didn’t look up from his drink. “That’s what it says on the invitations, yes.”

Yoongi’s mouth curved slightly. “It’s sudden.”

Seokjin’s lips twitched but didn’t turn into a smile. “She’s pregnant. Her parents want the wedding soon. Four months.”

“Are you happy?” Yoongi asked it so simply, as though it were the easiest question in the world.

Seokjin’s fingers tightened around the glass. “Does it matter?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was heavy enough to make Seokjin’s shoulders feel weighed down.

He took a slow sip, the burn of the alcohol trailing down his throat, and let his mind drift—back, always back.

The apartment had been small. Too small for the way your laughter filled it, too small for the nights your arguments pushed you into opposite corners. He could still see you standing by the bed, shoving clothes into your bag with shaking hands. That the weight of uncertainty, of unpaid bills, of endless job rejections—it was crushing both of you.

He had stood in the doorway, feeling every ounce of his pride collapse. He wanted to beg you to stay, but he couldn’t. Not when he knew you deserved better than watching him fail over and over.

“You should go back to your parents,” he had said instead, his voice hoarse. “At least there, you won’t have to worry about eating instant noodles three nights in a row.”

You had stopped packing for a moment, your back to him. “Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. But he’d nodded anyway.

And when the door closed behind you, he had sunk to the floor, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until they burned. That night, he cried until his chest ached, hating himself for letting you walk away and hating himself more for knowing it was the only thing he could give you—a chance at something better than him.

The weeks after blurred. He found a job as a chef at a small, family-run restaurant, working sixteen-hour days just to scrape by. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. He poured himself into every dish, every plate sent out from that kitchen. Cooking was the only thing that kept him from thinking about you.

And then Yoongi walked in.

A wealthy regular with a quiet demeanor and a discerning palate, Yoongi had sat at the counter one evening and watched him work. Days later, he approached Seokjin with an offer—funding, mentorship, the kind of chance people dream about. “You have something rare,” Yoongi had said, “and it would be a waste if it died in a kitchen no one knows exists.”

Seokjin had taken the leap.

Years later, he owned restaurants scattered across the city. His name was in magazines, his face occasionally on TV. He was rich, respected, and busier than he’d ever been. But on the day he first earned enough to buy something frivolous, he didn’t think of champagne or designer watches. He thought about you—how you used to talk about eating ice cream even in the dead of winter, how your eyes lit up at the smell of street food. He bought both that day and ate alone, telling himself it didn’t matter that the seat across from him was empty.

A couple of years ago, he’d heard from a mutual friend that you were now a wedding planner for celebrities and politicians. He’d felt something then—a mix of pride and an ache so deep it surprised him. He’d been happy for you. Or at least he told himself he was.

Then came her.

His current fiancée had known about you. She knew the story of his first serious relationship, the one that didn’t work out. He didn’t know what possessed her to hire you as their wedding planner, but she had. When he’d asked her why, she’d shrugged. “You’re both adults. Besides, you have good taste in people. I’m sure she’s the best.”

He didn’t fight it. There was no reason to. Maybe you’d moved on. Maybe he had, too.

Yoongi set his glass down, breaking the long silence. “You’re not that interested, are you?”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. “In the wedding? Not particularly.”

“In her?” Yoongi’s gaze was sharp now.

Seokjin didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, eyes drifting to the city lights again. “It’s… fine. This is just the next step, right? You work, you succeed, you settle down. That’s life.”

Yoongi studied him for a long moment. “If you say so.”

Seokjin didn’t say more. He just reached for his glass again, but the whiskey didn’t burn this time. It was just… empty. Like drinking shadows.

Outside, the street below was alive with strangers moving toward their own destinations. Inside, Seokjin sat still, tasting the past on his tongue.

Morning sunlight poured through the sheer curtains of your office, pooling in golden rectangles across the polished floor. The scent of fresh peonies from the arrangement on your desk mingled with the faint aroma of coffee cooling in your cup. Outside, the low hum of the city filtered in—traffic rolling like a steady tide, the occasional laugh of a passerby drifting up from the street below.

Hoseok leaned casually against the doorway, flipping through the clipboard that held today’s itinerary. He was dressed sharply as always, his tie loose, his hair a little messy in that way that looked intentional.

“Tasting meeting at eleven,” he reminded you, his voice light but his eyes sharp, already scanning the schedule again as if daring it to try and surprise him. “They sent over their sample menu yesterday. I arranged for the kitchen downstairs to plate them exactly as Chef Kim’s team designed. Everything’s ready.”

You were seated behind your desk, sleeves rolled up, arranging the menu cards you had printed—heavy cream paper, embossed with elegant gold script. Each dish was described in careful detail, the layout neat and symmetrical. It was a habit of yours, fussing over the smallest things. Clients rarely noticed these details, but you did.

“I know,” you murmured, straightening one last place card, more to steady your own thoughts than because it needed fixing. “Everything has to be perfect.”

“Because of the wedding,” Hoseok teased, though there was a knowing edge to his tone. “Or because of who’s catering it?”

You shot him a warning look, but he only smirked.

Before you could reply, the door opened.

The sound was so ordinary—the gentle click of the handle, the faint creak of the hinges—yet it seemed to cut the air in two. You froze, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the desk, and looked up.

Kim Seokjin stepped into the room.

It had been ten years, but the moment felt like only days had passed. He looked older, yes, but in the way fine wine deepens—sharper in some places, softer in others. His hair was a darker brown now, styled neatly back, a few strands falling in that familiar, careless way across his forehead. The crisp white shirt beneath his tailored jacket fit him like it had been made for him, sleeves rolled just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms.

And his eyes—still the same deep, warm brown you had once memorized in every light—met yours for the briefest moment.

The air shifted. Heavy, like the space between thunder and lightning.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice the same, though steadier than you remembered.

“Good morning,” you replied, the syllables leaving your lips with more composure than you felt.

You rose from your chair, smoothing the front of your blouse as you stepped around the desk. You didn’t offer your hand, and he didn’t either. Some distances are too fragile to bridge with something as simple as touch.

“I’m a little early,” he said, glancing at the menus on the table. “My fiancée will be late. She had another appointment.”

The word fiancée hung between you like glass—fragile, sharp, dangerous.

“That’s fine,” you said evenly, gesturing toward the tasting table set near the window. “We can get started by reviewing the menu together. She can join when she arrives.”

He nodded, moving toward the table, and you followed. The city stretched behind him through the tall windows, skyscrapers shimmering faintly in the sunlight, a gentle breeze swaying the sheer curtains.

As you began describing the dishes—seared scallops with truffle foam, slow-braised beef short ribs with rosemary jus—you kept your voice steady, your hands precise. He listened with the same quiet attentiveness you remembered from years ago, nodding occasionally, asking small questions about plating and portion sizes.

It was professional. Perfectly professional.

And yet, beneath every word, there was the silent hum of everything unspoken.

The memory of his hand in yours on cold nights. The sound of his laughter in cramped kitchens. The night you had left—bags packed, heart breaking, the silence between you so loud it drowned out the world.

When he spoke, you heard echoes of the past in the warmth of his tone, even if his words were all about the wedding.

“This one,” he said, pointing to a dessert—black sesame panna cotta with yuzu coulis. “It’s one of my specialties. I’ve been making it for years.”

You remembered. Not the exact dessert, perhaps, but the way his eyes always softened when he spoke about food. Cooking had been his language when words failed.

“It looks perfect,” you replied, and your voice almost betrayed you—almost.

Hoseok entered then, carrying a tray of plated samples, breaking the tension like a hand clapping in a quiet theater.

“The first course,” he announced cheerfully, setting the plates down. His eyes darted between you and Seokjin for a split second, his smirk almost imperceptible.

You all sat, and for the next hour, you tasted, discussed, and decided. Every bite was another act in the delicate play you were both performing—keeping your expressions neutral, your tones courteous, your gazes carefully measured.

When the door finally opened and the bride-to-be swept in, smiling, the room filled with her energy. You greeted her warmly, sliding easily into your role, your heart steady now, your face unreadable.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, before settling into the chair beside Seokjin. Her perfume was strong, something sharp and expensive, and it immediately overpowered the softer floral scent in the room. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and smiled brightly at you. “So, what do we have today?”

You gave her the warmest professional smile you could muster. “We have final selections for your menu tasting, floral arrangements to finalize, and the shortlist for venues.”

Hoseok sat beside you, posture straight, eyes alert, his clipboard already half-filled with bullet points and little sarcastic doodles in the margins. Across from you, Seokjin was silent, his hands folded loosely on the table. His suit jacket was draped over the chair, his crisp white shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves. He looked like the picture of calm professionalism, but his eyes told a different story—flat, tired, the kind of gaze that stayed miles away from the room.

She glanced at the sample menus, pushing aside two with manicured fingers. “Not this one. Too common. And not this one—it feels… rustic. We need something elegant, upscale. People need to talk about it for months.”

Hoseok’s pen paused for a beat before he continued writing, his expression as smooth as glass, though you caught the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Seokjin stayed quiet. You glanced at him briefly, hoping for at least some input, but his gaze was fixed on the far corner of the room, jaw clenched.

“Of course,” you replied smoothly, sliding a different set of menus toward her. “These feature seasonal ingredients and offer a balance between elegance and flavor. Chef Kim’s team has prepared them for your review today.”

At the mention of his name, her hand rested lightly—too lightly—on his arm. “Well, I trust Jin will make everything perfect,” she said sweetly, as though you weren’t sitting right there.

You felt Hoseok shift slightly beside you. The sound of his pen tapping against the clipboard was just quiet enough not to be considered rude.

The conversation moved to the venue. You presented photographs of three final options—each one a masterpiece in its own right, with different atmospheres: the romantic countryside villa, the modern rooftop terrace, and the classic grand ballroom.

“I’ll need to schedule a site visit for the final decision,” you said. “Hoseok can coordinate—”

“Oh, no.” She leaned forward, her eyes locking on you. “I want you there. Personally.”

You blinked once, quickly recovering your professional tone. “I assure you, Hoseok is more than capable of handling—”

“I know,” she cut in, voice sugary. “But this is important. I want the head planner. It’s not the same without you.”

Hoseok’s eyes flicked to Seokjin with a look that could cut glass. Seokjin, for his part, didn’t return the glance. Instead, he pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at the table, looking for all the world like a man silently counting down the minutes until his escape.

“I’ll make it work,” you said finally, your tone even, controlled. Years of working with demanding clients had taught you that bending without breaking was an art form. “I’ll adjust my schedule to accompany the visit.”

Her smile widened in satisfaction.

The rest of the meeting continued in a similar rhythm—her speaking, Hoseok scribbling notes with surgical precision, you guiding the conversation forward, and Seokjin offering little more than the occasional nod. But it was in the quiet in-between moments—the brush of his sleeve against the table, the way his eyes sometimes drifted toward you before pulling back—that the air grew thick with the ghosts of ten years past.

When the meeting ended, she swept out first, already on her phone discussing something that sounded suspiciously like a spa appointment. Hoseok lingered just long enough to mutter under his breath, “If looks could kill, Mr.Kim would be a corpse and she’d be arranging her own flowers,” before following her out.

You gathered your notes in silence. Across the table, Seokjin stood, slipping his jacket back on. His eyes met yours briefly—just long enough to send a ripple through the carefully still water between you—before he walked out without a word.

But later, after they left, the echo of Seokjin’s voice still lingered in the room, and you realized that some distances, no matter how far, never really disappear.

The afternoon sunlight poured through the car windows in slanted beams, turning the city outside into a moving canvas of gold and shadow. The air inside smelled faintly of Haneul’s perfume—something floral and expensive that lingered in the upholstery.

She adjusted the mirror, her fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. “I still don’t understand why that planner couldn’t be there in person for every meeting,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’m not paying for her assistant. I want her.”

Seokjin leaned back against the headrest, his gaze fixed on the slow drift of clouds above the skyline. “Her assistant knows what he’s doing,” he replied quietly. “He’s been there the whole time.”

“That’s not the point, Jin,” she countered, brushing her hair back with a practiced sweep of her hand. “I want things exactly the way I imagined them. This is my wedding, and I want perfection.”

He didn’t argue.

The hum of the car filled the spaces between her words, the city sliding past in soft blurs.

“You’re very quiet today,” she said after a pause. “Don’t tell me you’re already tired of talking about our big day.”

“I’m listening,” he said simply.

She smiled faintly, taking it as encouragement to keep going. Soon she was speaking of the flower arrangements, the sprawling house they’d move into, the baby’s nursery—east-facing for the morning light.

Seokjin nodded occasionally, murmured a soft “okay,” but most of his mind had already slipped away, carried off by the sound of her voice into a different kind of past.

It wasn’t the heavy, fractured years after you left that came to him now. It was the light, unburdened ones—the first time he’d seen you on campus. You’d been wearing a pale sweater too big for you, sleeves tugged over your palms, and you’d laughed at something your friend said in a way that made the world slow for him.

He remembered the autumn afternoons when you would wait for him after class, your scarf pulled up against the wind, cheeks flushed pink. The way your eyes lit up when you saw him—even from a distance—like you’d been looking for him all day.

The cheap ramen shop down the street from the dorms where you always ordered extra kimchi. The rooftop you discovered together where the city spread out in a sea of lights, and you’d sit there until your legs went numb, talking about nothing and everything.

There was a warmth in those memories that time hadn’t touched. A version of himself who laughed more easily. A version of you who would lean into him as though there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

The car slowed at a red light. Haneul’s voice filtered back into his awareness, speaking of baby names now, her words filled with certainty about the future she saw for them.

He made a sound of agreement, eyes still fixed on the shifting reflections in the window. But beneath the surface, the ache was quiet and persistent—like a song he hadn’t heard in years but somehow still knew by heart.

Because no matter how far he had come from that campus boy with too-small dreams, the image of you—hair caught in the wind, eyes shining in the amber glow of streetlights—was something the years had never managed to take away.

Chapter 2

@mar-lo-pap @pp0810 @syh-a @andoyuki @kittenan2 @misschelliejeon @woncheecks @chocolateladycat @carriereadsbooks

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inkedwithcharm · 7 days ago

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Gown, Rings, and Regrets | Kim Seokjin

Pairing: Kim Seokjin × Reader (Y/N)

Genre: Romance | Second Chance | Angst | Slow Burn

Synopsis:

You loved him for six years—through late-night study sessions, shared takeout boxes, and the quiet comfort of knowing you’d always come home to him. But life after graduation wasn’t the fairytale you imagined. With no jobs, no luck, and dreams crumbling faster than you could rebuild them, the two of you drifted apart.

Ten years later, you’re a wedding planner with a thriving career. He’s a celebrated chef with restaurants across the city. Your paths should never have crossed again… yet here he is, walking into your office with his bride-to-be.

It’s just another wedding.

Until it isn’t.

1 2 3 4 5 (completed)

Prologue

The rain had been falling since morning, turning the streets into a wash of gray and silver. Inside the café, the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted beans, warm enough to make you forget the damp chill waiting outside. Hoseok sat across from me at our usual corner table, his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee. He always ordered it without sugar, claiming he liked the taste pure.

“So,” he began, leaning forward with the kind of smile that meant he was fishing for news, “you still haven’t told me about this mysterious new client. Is it someone famous? A celebrity couple? A chaebol’s daughter?”

I looked down at my latte, at the swirl of foam that had already started to collapse. My throat felt dry. “It’s a big wedding,” I said, slow and careful.

“You do big weddings all the time,” he teased. “Why are you saying it like you’re about to confess a crime?”

I hesitated, then met his gaze. “Because the bride-to-be is marrying Kim Seokjin.”

For a moment, the rain seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was just the rush of blood in my ears. Hoseok’s smile faltered, and he sat back in his chair. “Seokjin,” he repeated softly. “Your Seokjin?”

I nodded.

“Wow,” he breathed, running a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t know he was even in the city. What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Ten years,” I echoed. The words felt heavy in my mouth.

He was quiet for a moment, watching me over the rim of his mug. “You’ve never really told me the whole story,” he said finally. “I know you two were serious, but… not how it ended.”

I traced the edge of my cup with my fingertip. “We met in our first year of college,” I began, and before I could stop myself, the memory pulled me under.

It was late September, the kind of day where the air still carried a trace of summer’s warmth but the wind hinted at autumn just waiting for its turn. The campus quad was a tangle of color and noise. Flyers rustled against wooden tables, laughter carried from one end to the other, and the faint smell of roasted sweet potatoes drifted from a nearby cart.

I was at the photography club booth, half-bent over the table, trying to find the sign-up sheet buried under a chaotic pile of other papers. My fingers brushed page after page until another hand reached past mine.

“Here,” a warm voice said.

The paper slid toward me, neat and precise, like he’d been waiting to do it all along. I looked up.

Black hair fell slightly into his eyes, and his white shirt was crisp but not stiff, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There was nothing extraordinary about the moment, yet something about his smile—soft, easy, like sunlight breaking through clouds—lodged itself somewhere deep inside me.

“Thanks,” I managed.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and for the briefest second, it felt like we had known each other longer than the five seconds we’d spoken.

After that, he started appearing everywhere. At the library, leaning against the shelf in the exact row I was browsing. In the cafeteria line, holding a tray and asking if I’d tried the dumplings. On the bus after class, standing close enough that I could smell the faint trace of soap and coffee on him. I told myself it was coincidence, but the day he asked if I wanted to get lunch, I knew it wasn’t.

Lunch turned into coffee. Coffee turned into late-night study sessions. Those turned into walks across the quiet campus at midnight, our shoulders brushing in the dark. And then, somewhere in between laughter over cold noodles and the quiet moments when we shared a single pair of earphones, we fell in love.

By the time we graduated, we didn’t need to ask if we’d live together. We just found a tiny apartment near the river with peeling wallpaper and a kitchen barely big enough for one person. The windows stuck in the winter, and the water heater had moods of its own, but it was ours. We painted the walls a warm cream, strung fairy lights over the couch, and filled the cupboards with mismatched mugs from thrift stores. On good nights, we’d cook together, laughing when we burned the garlic. On bad nights, we’d eat instant ramen sitting on the floor, promising each other it was temporary.

But love didn’t keep the electricity on.

We sent résumés into the void, each rejection chipping away at the easy warmth we’d once had. Seokjin took restaurant shifts, sometimes not getting home until two in the morning, smelling faintly of grilled fish and soy sauce. I spent hours hunched over the dining table, writing cover letters until my eyes blurred. At first, we made jokes about our struggles. Then the jokes stopped.

We started fighting over things that didn’t matter—whose turn it was to buy detergent, why the sink was full of dishes, why we seemed to be running in circles. Every fight felt heavier than the last, until the walls of that tiny apartment seemed to close in on us.

The night it ended, it was raining. The kind of rain that fell in relentless sheets, making the whole world sound muted and far away. I don’t even remember what started the argument. Laundry, maybe. Or bills. But it built until it was everything we hadn’t said—every frustration, every hurt, every disappointment.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said finally.

I didn’t ask how long. I just packed a bag, my hands shaking. I remember the creak of the old stairs under my feet, the cold air hitting my face, the rain soaking my clothes before I reached the end of the street. He didn’t follow.

I never saw him again.

Not until now.

Ten years later, I’m a wedding planner with my own office, a calendar booked months in advance. He’s a chef with restaurants scattered across the city. Our paths should never have crossed again. But the bride sitting in my office this morning, smiling as she told me about her fiancé, had said his name.

Kim Seokjin.

The man I once thought I’d marry.

The man whose wedding I now have to plan.

Chapter 1

Hey, Lovelies!

I’m starting a new fic! If you want to be on my permanent taglist so you never miss an update, drop a comment or DM me. Can’t wait to share this one with you! 🤍

@mar-lo-pap @syh-a @pp0810 @kittenan2 @mischelliejeon

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inkedwithcharm · 9 days ago

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Ruin Me Like a Love Song | KSJ

Chapter 7 (final)

The air in Buenos Aires felt alive. Not just because of the warm summer night or the hum of the crowd outside the venue, but because of him.

Seokjin’s hand stayed threaded with yours from the moment you stepped out of the car. The city lights caught in his hair, the dark strands glinting gold under the streetlamps. He didn’t let go, not even as security guided you through the narrow corridor leading to the backstage area. Somewhere beyond these walls, thousands of voices roared in anticipation.

Inside the dressing room, the sound softened into a muffled thrum, like the ocean heard from underwater. The members were scattered about—Yoongi tuning a keyboard, Jeongguk sprawled across the couch with his drumsticks tapping an impatient rhythm against his leg, and Taehyung lounging against the wall with a lazy smile.

You caught the way their gazes shifted toward your intertwined hands.

“Ah, our favorite couple,” Taehyung drawled, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Favorite? We’re the only one,” Jeongguk snorted, though his grin betrayed his teasing.

Yoongi didn’t even look up from his keys. “Just don’t get so distracted you forget you have a show, hyung.”

Seokjin shot them a warning look, but his fingers tightened around yours as if to say he wasn’t letting go—ever.

The manager entered, headset in place, clipboard in hand. “Five minutes, Jin. Are you ready?” His tone was businesslike until his gaze flicked to your joined hands. There was a pause. “So… you’re not faking it anymore?”

Seokjin met his eyes without hesitation. “No. We’re dating for real.” His voice was calm but firm, each word carrying weight.

You felt your chest tighten—not from nerves, but from the certainty in his voice.

When the call came for the band to take their positions, you walked with him toward the side of the stage. The faint vibrations of the cheering crowd buzzed under your feet, and the glow of stage lights spilled into the wings.

You reached up, brushing his cheek with your fingertips. “Go be brilliant,” you whispered.

His lips curved into that rare, soft smile reserved only for you. He bent down and kissed you—unhurried, warm, a quiet promise in the midst of chaos. “Stay where I can see you,” he murmured before pulling away and stepping into the light.

From your place backstage, you could see everything: Jeongguk taking his place at the drums, Yoongi at the keyboard, Taehyung adjusting his bass strap, and Seokjin, tall and striking at center stage. The roar that greeted them was deafening, a wave of love and excitement crashing over the venue.

The first songs rolled by in a blur of sound and light. But no matter where he moved on stage, Seokjin’s eyes kept finding yours. Sometimes it was just a fleeting glance, sometimes a lingering one that made your heart race.

Then the lights dimmed.

He stepped forward alone, cradling an acoustic guitar, his figure bathed in a single spotlight. The crowd quieted into an expectant hush.

“I want to play something… different tonight,” he began, his voice carrying across the arena, rich and steady. “This song… I wrote it for someone who changed me. Who made me face things I was too afraid to face. Who reminded me that even when you feel lost… there’s always someone who can guide you home.”

Your throat tightened.

He glanced toward you—just a flicker of his gaze, but it held the weight of everything you’d been through together.

And then he began to play.

The gentle strum of the guitar filled the air, each note soft yet deliberate. His voice, when it came, was low and intimate despite the thousands listening.

You didn’t just hear the words—you felt them. They were warm and tender, carrying images of starlit skies, endless roads, and the safety of someone’s presence beside you. As he sang, the world seemed to fold down to just the two of you—him in the spotlight, you watching from the shadows, hearts tethered by something unspoken.

The crowd swayed, some already in tears. But Seokjin’s eyes never left yours.

By the time the final chords faded, you weren’t sure if you were breathing. The arena erupted in applause, but all you could hear was the echo of his voice and the quiet beat of your own heart.

He bowed slightly, murmured his thanks into the mic, and let the band pick up again for the next song. But you knew—so did he—that the moment had already been carved into something permanent.

The concert had ended hours ago, but the air backstage still vibrated with the ghost of the crowd’s cheers. Laughter spilled from the dressing rooms, crew members zipped flight cases shut, and the faint echo of bass still rattled through the floor.

You were still catching your breath from the emotional high when you saw him—Seokjin, coming down the corridor in that way he always did after performing. His shoulders still carried the weight of the spotlight, but his eyes… his eyes were looking only at you.

Before anyone could call out to him, before a stylist could tug at his sleeve or a manager could shove another schedule in his hand, he reached you. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you into him, and you could feel the heat of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

His voice was lower than the thunder outside the venue doors. “Come with me tonight.”

You blinked, your mind still somewhere between the lights of the stage and the reality of the hallway. “I’m already here with you.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes but something more serious beneath it. “I mean… come with me, just us. No security. No assistants. No headlines. Just… you and me. Like we’re no one.”

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure if he was serious. “You’re Seokjin. There’s no such thing as ‘no one’ for you anymore.”

His fingers tightened just slightly against your back, as if anchoring you to him. “For tonight, I want to be no one. Not a rockstar. Not the guy they take pictures of from across the street. I want to be… just a man who’s crazy about his girlfriend. I want to eat bad fries and sit in a corner booth where nobody cares who we are.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to go, but because the thought of slipping out without the watchful presence of his team felt reckless. “Your manager will kill you.”

His smile tilted, a little boyish, a little dangerous. “He’ll live. Besides, I already told him about us tonight. Thought it was about time.”

He held your gaze, letting the moment sink in. “He’s the least of my worries. I’m more worried about whether you’ll say yes.”

You studied him for a beat—the messy hair still damp from the encore, the smudge of eyeliner beneath his lashes, the adrenaline still humming in his veins. It was ridiculous, the way he made you feel like the only person in a room full of noise.

“Fine,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “But we’ll need disguises.”

His answering grin was pure mischief. “Already thought of that. Hoodies. Caps. I’ll even wear glasses if it makes you feel better. No one will look twice.”

“I don’t know,” you teased. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“Then you’ll just have to keep me distracted,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath warmed your ear.

The world seemed to shrink until it was only him, the smell of his cologne and the hum of your pulse. You were dangerously close to forgetting there was anyone else around when one of the crew members called out for him.

He didn’t move, not right away. “Meet me at the back exit in ten minutes. Don’t bring anything that screams ‘celebrity girlfriend.’”

You laughed softly. “What does that even mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.” He brushed his lips against your temple—quick, fleeting, but enough to leave you dizzy—before slipping away into the maze of backstage chaos.

Ten minutes later, you found him leaning casually against the shadowed wall of the back exit, hood up, baseball cap low, hands shoved in the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

He looked at you the moment you stepped into view. His smile wasn’t the one he wore for cameras—it was quieter, private, like a secret he was letting you hold.

“You ready to be ordinary?” he asked.

You nodded, and together you stepped into the cool Buenos Aires night, leaving the noise of the venue behind.

The streets felt different without the black SUVs, without the security detail keeping the world at bay. Just the sound of your sneakers on uneven pavement, the neon hum of corner shops, and the occasional rumble of a passing bus.

It felt reckless. Free.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

He stuffed his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, glancing at you from beneath the brim of his cap. “Fast food. The greasiest one we can find. Somewhere with sticky tables and bad lighting.”

“And why do I feel like this is your idea of romance?”

His lips curved. “Because it is. The kind of night no one writes headlines about. The kind of night I’ll remember when I’m old.”

The two of you found a hole-in-the-wall diner glowing faintly in the distance. Inside, the smell of frying oil and toasted bread wrapped around you like an old blanket. You slid into a booth in the far corner, the plastic seat squeaking beneath you, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like no one was watching.

He ordered burgers and fries without looking at a menu, and when the server left, he rested his chin on his hand, studying you.

“What?” you asked, pretending not to notice the way his gaze softened.

“I like you like this,” he said quietly. “No makeup artist. No gowns. Just you. The same girl who kissed me backstage and made me forget I was supposed to be nervous.”

You felt heat creep into your cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said simply, no tease in his voice this time.

You ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything—songs he wanted to write, places you wanted to visit, what kind of dog you’d get if you lived somewhere quiet. Somewhere ordinary.

The world outside could be screaming your names, but here, in this little booth with ketchup-stained napkins, you were just two people in love.

The air smelled faintly of fried batter and melted sugar when you stepped onto the uneven gravel path. Neon signs flickered like tired eyes, some letters missing, some buzzing faintly. It wasn’t one of those grand carnivals you saw in glossy magazines—this one was small, outdated, and holding itself together with chipped paint and stubborn cheer.

Seokjin’s cap was pulled low over his brow, his hoodie zipped halfway, but you could still see the curve of his smile in the shadows. He glanced at you, almost as if checking if you were truly here with him, and not a dream he might lose in the next blink.

“Not exactly Coachella,” you teased, kicking a small stone as you walked.

His hand brushed against yours. Just a feather-light touch, like a promise not yet spoken. “Exactly why I brought you here,” he replied. “Big places are loud, crowded. Here… it’s just noise and lights pretending to be magic. Feels more real, doesn’t it?”

You tilted your head, taking in the crooked ticket booth, the rusty gates, and the carousel in the corner that spun like it had stories older than both of you. “It’s… kind of perfect,” you admitted.

The first ride you chose was the bumper cars. You both slipped into separate cars, the metal smell of the steering wheel clinging to your fingers. The moment the ride started, Seokjin didn’t hold back—his car swerved straight toward yours, colliding with a satisfying thud. You gasped, laughing so hard you barely managed to steer.

“Is this your idea of romance?” you shouted over the static music blaring through the speakers.

His grin was shameless. “Survival of the fittest.”

The next few minutes were chaos—your car spinning out of control, his laughter chasing you like sunlight breaking through clouds. Every bump, every turn, every stolen glance felt like a tiny rebellion against the world outside these fences.

Afterward, you found yourselves in front of the old roller coaster—a rickety track that creaked even while still. The paint was faded, the carts small enough for your knees to almost touch the bar.

“Looks dangerous,” you murmured.

“Exactly,” he smirked. “Sit with me.”

The ride was short but wild, the wind whipping your hair back, the wooden track rattling like it might fall apart. At one sharp turn, his arm instinctively wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close until you both stumbled out breathless, laughing in disbelief.

Then came the gun target stall. The old man running it looked like he’d been there for decades, his voice gravelly as he handed over the rifles. You aimed carefully, tongue pressed to the corner of your lip, but your shots barely grazed the edges. Seokjin, of course, hit nearly every target.

“You cheated,” you accused when the man handed him a ridiculous prize—a bright yellow hotdog pillow with cartoonish eyes.

He tossed it into your arms. “I play to win,” he said, then softer, “Besides, it looks better in your hands.”

The night slowed after that. You shared a too-sweet milkshake at a tiny food stand, the straw bending between you. The cold drink made you shiver, but you didn’t care. Your knees brushed under the table, your laughter catching between sips.

Before leaving, you spotted a dusty photobooth tucked beside the Ferris wheel. Seokjin fed in a few coins, and the cramped curtain swallowed you both. Four flashes later, you had a strip of imperfect photos—one where you were laughing too hard, one where he was looking at you instead of the camera, and one where he pressed his cheek to yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When you finally stepped back onto the quiet street outside the carnival, you could still hear faint music behind you. Seokjin’s hand found yours this time, no hesitation.

“See?” he murmured. “Just two people. Not the headlines. Not the rumors. Just us.”

And for a moment, you almost forgot that anything else existed.

It’s already midnight when you and Seokjin left the carnival, your laughter still echoing in your chest like an aftertaste you didn’t want to lose. The streetlights were just flickering on, spilling warm golden halos over the narrow road that led you toward the riverside. The air smelled faintly of grilled food and damp soil.

You walked hand in hand, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your knuckles, until he suddenly slowed his pace. Without saying a word, Seokjin veered toward a small bench facing the river, half-hidden beneath a willow tree whose leaves swayed like slow-moving curtains.

“Sit with me,” he said softly, not pulling you, just waiting until you joined him. The river was dark but alive with reflections of scattered city lights. Somewhere across the water, a train passed, its faint rumble fading quickly.

For a moment, you both just sat there, listening to the water lapping against the rocks. Then he exhaled, almost as if he’d been holding something in all evening.

“You know,” he began, eyes fixed on the current, “people always think my dreams are about music. About the stage. About being known.” He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t the smile he gave fans—it was smaller, quieter. “But the truth is, I’ve always wanted something simpler.”

You turned to look at him, curious. “Like what?”

He shrugged one shoulder, but his voice was steady. “A small house. Somewhere outside the city. Waking up to the smell of breakfast someone I love made. Maybe a little garden. Days where my phone isn’t constantly ringing.” He glanced at you, and his gaze softened. “Days like today.”

Your chest tightened in that bittersweet way only genuine moments can cause. “You could have that,” you said quietly.

“I’m starting to think I already do,” he replied, and the weight of his words lingered between you, heavy and warm.

He leaned back, resting an arm on the bench’s backrest, his fingers brushing your shoulder. “Now that we’re… you know, really together,” his voice dipped low, almost shy despite the confidence he wore like armor, “I want you to meet my mom when we get back to Seoul.”

The words caught you off guard, not because you didn’t want to, but because of how naturally they spilled from him.

“Your mom?” you echoed, your lips tugging into a smile.

“She will love you,” he said with certainty, as if it was already a fact, like gravity or sunrise. “She’ll probably try to feed you until you can’t move.”

You laughed softly. “Sounds like something my family would do.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “What about you? What’s your dream?”

You hesitated, because your dreams had always been tangled with reality’s sharp edges. “I think… I just want a life that doesn’t feel like I’m constantly running. I want to create things that matter. To have a place that feels like mine. And—” You glanced at him. “Someone to share it with.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You already have someone,” he said simply.

A silence settled in, but it wasn’t empty—it was full, rich, like the hush between verses of a song you never wanted to end.

Still, reality crept in, the kind neither of you could ignore. “Our schedules are… chaotic,” you admitted. “I’m not worried about how I feel about you. But… will we be able to make this work? With everything pulling us in different directions?”

Seokjin’s fingers found yours again, interlacing them with a quiet conviction. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone gentle but unwavering. “The only thing that matters is that we want to make it work. If that’s true, everything else is noise.”

“You make it sound so easy,” you whispered.

He smiled, that warm, slightly crooked smile that made you believe him despite yourself. “That’s because it is. We’ll fight for it. For us. No matter how messy it gets.”

You looked at him then, and thought about how rare it was to meet someone whose presence felt like home even in the middle of the noise.

The breeze picked up, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers from somewhere along the bank. The city hummed faintly in the distance, but here, it was just the two of you, and a promise that felt as real as the ground beneath your feet.

He didn’t kiss you, not right away. Instead, he squeezed your hand once, as if sealing an unspoken vow, before resting his head lightly against yours.

Seokjin’s phone buzzed against his palm, the vibration cutting through the quiet hum of the riverside park. He glanced at the screen, saw his manager’s name, and sighed before answering.

“Jin, where are you?” His manager’s voice came out in a rushed whisper, the kind people use when they are trying to stay calm but failing.

“At the park near the hotel. Why?”

There was a pause—too long, too heavy—before his manager exhaled sharply. “Someone took a photo of you two. It’s already on X. The tags are blowing up. People know, Jin. You need to get back now before the crowd gets too big. This… could be dangerous for both of you.”

I felt my heartbeat catch at those words—dangerous for both of you—like a faint shadow stretching over the soft moon light we’d been wrapped in just minutes ago.

Seokjin turned toward me, his eyes scanning my face as if measuring whether I was scared, but his voice stayed steady for his manager. “We’ll head back.”

He hung up, but before he could say anything else, it happened.

A scream—not of fear, but recognition—cut through the gentle murmur of the river. Then another, and another, multiplying like drops of rain on glass until it became a chorus. The air shifted. Footsteps echoed on the pavement. Someone shouted his name. Someone else shouted mine.

Seokjin’s eyes widened, and without a word, he reached for my hand. His grip was warm and sure. “Come on.”

We ran.

My heart pounded in rhythm with our feet hitting the pavement, the sound mixing with distant shouts, camera shutters, the wild laughter spilling from both our lips.

Because somehow, even with the chaos building behind us, I liked this. I liked him like this—his hair falling over his forehead, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he glanced back to make sure I was still with him. The world could be narrowing in, but his hand didn’t let go.

We darted down a narrow path lined with low-hanging willows, their leaves brushing our shoulders. He pulled me behind a tree, both of us pressing into the shadows, trying to catch our breath. His chest rose and fell, his breath warm against the side of my face.

“This is insane,” I whispered, but there was a smile tugging at my lips I couldn’t hide.

He grinned, eyes bright even in the dim light. “You mean thrilling.”

“I mean reckless.”

“I mean…” He leaned in slightly, enough for me to feel the heat of him without touching. “…fun.”

My laugh escaped before I could stop it, soft and breathless. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze dipped to my lips for a fleeting moment before he straightened, still holding my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Come on. Let’s make it back before we really do cause trouble.”

And so we ran again—through quiet alleys, past shuttered cafés and flower stalls closing for the night—two people who were supposed to be careful but couldn’t stop feeling alive.

Tonight, the city knew our names. But for these few minutes, we only knew each other.

The hotel lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive perfume, the kind of quiet luxury that could hush even the loudest thoughts. The click of camera shutters still echoed in your ears, even though the crowd had been left far behind.

Seokjin’s manager walked ahead, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and urgent. Your bodyguard trailed just behind you, a silent shadow. Both wore the same expression—concern sharpened into something almost protective.

When you reached the private elevator, the manager finally looked back at you. “It’s not that I don’t trust you two,” he said, his tone more weary than stern. “But the way people are talking online… You’re both too famous for this to be easy. If something goes wrong—”

Seokjin interrupted with a calmness that felt like defiance. “Nothing will go wrong.”

The ride to the top floor was a cage of silence, the kind where every unspoken word seemed to fill the air. When the elevator doors opened, the manager exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

Your suite door was already open—staff had prepared it in advance. You stepped inside, the faint scent of fresh flowers greeting you. The manager gave you a final, measured glance. “Stay in. Both of you. Please.” He looked to Seokjin for confirmation, but Jin’s gaze was already on you.

The manager left with your bodyguard, and the moment the door shut, the hallway seemed to grow smaller.

Seokjin didn’t walk to his own room. Instead, he lingered at your doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. “You’re really going to sleep without me tonight?” His voice was quiet, but there was a challenge in it.

You gave him a look over your shoulder. “I didn’t say that.”

His mouth curved, slow and knowing. He stepped closer, brushing his fingertips against your arm, light enough to be mistaken for accident. “Then maybe you should sleep in my room.”

You turned fully toward him, heart stuttering at the proximity. “Or,” you said, lifting your chin, “you could sleep in mine.”

His grin deepened like he’d won a game. He bent his head, lips finding yours in a kiss that was soft at first, then more insistent—an unspoken answer. His hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you closer, until the open hallway was the only reminder that you weren’t alone.

From somewhere behind, a voice cut in—dry and perfectly timed. “Get a room.”

You broke the kiss to see Yoongi standing at his door, expression flat as stone.

Seokjin didn’t even turn his head. “We have one.”

You raised a brow. “Mine.”

“Yours,” he agreed without hesitation, his eyes still on you.

Inside, you could feel your pulse in your fingertips. The shower was already running before you realized he’d followed you in. The glass steamed over quickly, the world outside the bathroom blurring away.

Seokjin’s hands were careful at first, brushing damp hair from your face, his forehead resting against yours. “Okay?” he murmured, the word both question and promise.

“Yes,” you breathed.

The steam wrapped around you both like another skin. Water traced down his jaw, catching on his lashes. He kissed you again, slower this time, his lips lingering as if memorizing every angle of your mouth. His palms skimmed the curves of your waist, grounding you in the heat between you and the cool tile at your back.

The water was a chorus, rushing in your ears, but every sound you made seemed louder—soft gasps, quiet laughter, the whispered way he said your name. The world shrank to the space between your bodies, every movement deliberate, every touch carrying both want and reverence.

When the tension finally broke, it was like falling into quiet after a long-held note—your foreheads still pressed together, your breathing uneven, your hearts still racing in sync.

You stayed like that until the water began to cool, neither of you willing to break the moment.

The first thing you felt when you woke was warmth.

Not from the hotel’s plush duvet or the faint sunlight creeping past the heavy curtains, but from the steady rise and fall of Seokjin’s chest beneath your cheek.

The world outside might have been rushing forward—airport terminals, screaming fans, flashbulbs—but here, in this quiet pocket of morning, time was still. His arm was draped around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your back as if to remind himself you were really here.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep.

You tilted your head to look at him. His hair was a disheveled halo on the pillow, his eyes soft, almost boyish. “Barely,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but carried the weight of tenderness. “Good. I was worried you’d miss breakfast… or my face.”

You rolled your eyes, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “I’ve seen it enough.”

“Impossible,” he said with mock offense. “You could spend a lifetime looking at me and still not be tired of it.”

His teasing faded into a quieter look, something deeper—something he rarely showed in public. “We’re flying out this afternoon,” he said, his thumb brushing against your arm. “Another show in the next country, then… after that, we head back to Seoul. Two weeks break.”

Two weeks. The words tasted like freedom.

“What will you do?” you asked softly, studying him.

He looked at you for a long moment, the kind that felt like it was trying to memorize the details of your face. “I’ll… rest. See my Mom. Maybe stay in bed for a week. But…” His gaze flickered down to where your hand rested over his heart. “Mostly I want to be with you. No managers knocking, no schedules, no running from cameras.”

Something inside you tightened—this impossible man, the one everyone thought was untouchable, was here in a hotel bed whispering things he’d never say under stadium lights.

“Then be with me,” you said simply, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

His hand slid into your hair, pulling you closer until his forehead rested against yours. “Careful,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “I’ll take that as a promise.”

You smiled against his lips when he kissed you—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carried the weight of all the days you’d spent apart and the hope of all the days you still had.

The knock on the door came too soon, a reminder that the world outside was still waiting.

He sighed, pressing one last kiss to your temple before reluctantly pulling back. “Come on, sleepyhead. Pack up. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

But his fingers lingered on yours even as he stood, as if letting go would mean waking from this fragile dream.

The days blurred into a rhythm of soundchecks, bright lights, and stolen moments. Two nights, two sold-out concerts, and a thousand voices chanting his name still echoed faintly in your chest. Now, the adrenaline of the stage was fading, replaced by the gentle hum of an early morning airport.

The plane’s windows were tinted with a pale gold glow, the sunrise spilling like warm honey across the clouds. Seokjin was beside you, baseball cap low, mask covering half his face, but even with half of him hidden, you could feel the quiet electricity radiating from him. His fingers brushed yours on the armrest, subtle, like a secret only the two of you knew.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” His voice was low, almost a murmur over the sound of the engines.

“What?” You turned to face him, the light catching the corner of his eyes, making them look softer than you’d ever seen them on stage.

“My mom,” he said simply. “And how she’s going to meet you.”

You froze for a second, the words hanging between you like something fragile. “Meet me?”

He gave a small nod, his hand now fully closing over yours, the warmth of his palm anchoring you. “We have two weeks off when we get back to Seoul. I don’t want to waste it. I want you to see my world outside of all this,” he gestured vaguely toward the rows of fans in the airport far behind you, the security, the cameras. “I want you to meet the people who made me who I am.”

You swallowed, your heart thudding against your ribs. “Seokjin… are you sure? I mean, that’s… a big step.”

“That’s why I want it,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve spent so much of my life hiding the parts of me that matter. I don’t want to hide this. Not you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your chest ache. You looked away for a moment, your gaze tracing the clouds outside, their edges glowing as if the sun had dipped its brush in molten gold. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

His fingers tightened around yours. “Then she’ll have to get used to you. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, but your eyes were prickling. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”

“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “That’s why I do.”

The rest of the flight passed in quiet touches and soft exchanges—your head on his shoulder, his hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh, the way his gaze lingered every time you smiled.

The moment the plane touched down in Incheon, you could feel the hum of the city calling you home. Neon and glass stretched toward the sky, the streets below already moving in the rhythm you knew so well. The air was brisk when you stepped outside, carrying with it a faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a vendor near the terminal. Jin’s hand found yours without thought, warm and steady, grounding you amid the rush of people and headlights.

The first days back passed in soft blurs.

You spent mornings at your father’s company, the familiar echo of his office hallways making you feel like the child who once tagged along after him. He watched you closely, asking quiet questions about your life, about Jin. You didn’t hide it anymore—you told him and your mother that you were together for real now.

They exchanged looks, hesitant ones, the kind that weighed trust against fear. But when Jin joined you for dinner, dressed neatly yet not stiff, his voice calm but sincere as he spoke to them, you saw the shift happen. By dessert, your father was laughing at one of his stories, and your mother was smiling in that quiet, approving way she reserved for people who had won her over.

Jimin, of course, had been dramatic about the news.

“You kept this from me for how long?” he’d exclaimed the first time you met him at your favorite café. But it took less than an hour for him and Jin to slip into an easy, teasing rapport. Before you knew it, they were exchanging numbers.

The rest of the break felt like stolen time. Some days, you barely left Jin’s penthouse—mornings spent tangled in sheets while sunlight painted the room gold, afternoons cooking together in his sleek kitchen, evenings where you wandered the city in plain caps and masks, just two anonymous souls among millions.

And then the day came.

It was just after lunch when Jin appeared in the doorway of the living room, his keys in hand.

“Ready?”

You looked up from the book you were pretending to read. “For what?”

He gave a small smile that didn’t quite hide the tension in his eyes. “To meet my mom.”

The drive felt longer than it was. You watched the scenery change from the dense steel and glass of Seoul to quieter streets lined with familiar hanok rooftops, the air growing softer, touched with the faint scent of pine and wood smoke. Jin’s hand rested loosely on the gear shift, but you noticed the way his thumb tapped against it, a quiet rhythm betraying his nerves.

“You’re quiet,” you said finally.

“So are you,” he replied, glancing at you. “Nervous?”

You exhaled, pressing your palm to your thigh. “A little. What if she doesn’t like me?”

He shook his head immediately, a reassuring certainty in his voice. “She will.” Then, softer, “She’s going to see what I see.”

The last turn brought his childhood home into view—a modest two-story house with a small garden out front, its winter flowers stubbornly blooming in the pale light. He parked and cut the engine, but neither of you moved right away.

“She’s been asking about you,” he said, looking straight ahead. “Since the first time I told her your name.”

You turned to him, surprised. “What did you tell her?”

“That you’re someone I don’t want to let go of.”

You didn’t realize how hard your heart was beating until the front door opened. A woman stepped out, wrapped in a wool cardigan, her face soft but her eyes sharp in the way mothers’ eyes often are. She smiled when she saw Jin, then looked at you, her expression unreadable for a moment before it softened into something warmer.

The walk to the door felt like walking into another world. Jin’s hand brushed yours briefly, a silent anchor.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of simmering broth and something floral—jasmine, maybe. She ushered you in with quiet hospitality, her voice low and melodic as she asked if you’d eaten.

The conversation was slow at first, full of polite questions. Where you were from, what you did, little details that seemed to weave a bridge between you. Jin watched the exchange from beside you, sometimes adding his own comments, sometimes just smiling to himself.

At one point, she disappeared into the kitchen, returning with tea and a small plate of tteok. She set it down in front of you with a gentle gesture. “Jin liked these as a child,” she said. “I made them for you to try.”

You thanked her, touched more than you expected to be by such a small act.

By the time you left, the sun was low, the sky painted in watercolor streaks of lavender and peach. Jin’s mother hugged you at the door, her voice soft near your ear. “Take care of my son,” she said. “He’s stubborn, but his heart is kind.”

Back in the car, Jin was quiet for a moment before he started the engine. “She likes you,” he said simply. And then, after a beat, “I told you she would.”

You smiled, but it wasn’t just relief you felt—it was something deeper, a sense of having stepped into another part of his world and finding that you belonged there.

The night was quiet except for the faint hum of the city far below, a sound softened by the thick glass walls of Jin’s penthouse bedroom. The curtains were left half-open, letting the moonlight pour in and spill silver across the sheets. Your skin still felt warm from his touch, the two of you lying tangled together, the world outside feeling impossibly far away.

Jin’s arm was draped loosely across your waist, his fingertips absentmindedly tracing patterns along your hip. His breathing was slow, steady, but you could feel the heaviness beneath it—something unspoken pressing between you both.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice deep and husky from the evening, a lazy sort of tenderness in it.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, the moonlight catching in the soft brown of his eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About the tour… and about my dad.”

Jin’s hand stilled against your skin. He didn’t speak right away, letting the silence stretch, as if giving you space to say it all before he answered.

“I can’t go with you,” you said finally. The words were heavy, falling between you like stones in water. “The company needs me now. My dad’s… he’s getting weaker, Jin. And I can’t just leave.”

His gaze didn’t falter. He shifted onto his side to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. “I know,” he said softly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say it. I could see it in your eyes every time we talked about the tour.”

“Your father needs you. And your company… it’s part of your family too.”

The lump in your throat grew. “It’s not just the company. It’s him. I don’t want to miss moments with him, Jin. I’ve already noticed… little things. He gets tired faster. His voice isn’t as strong.”

Jin’s thumb brushed across your cheek, as if to soothe the tremble there. “I understand,” he said again, more firmly this time. “And I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t hurt to know you won’t be with me. But I’d never ask you to leave your dad when he needs you most.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to lighten the ache in your chest. “You’re making it too easy for me. I was prepared for you to fight me on this.”

“Why would I fight you?” He smiled faintly, but it was tinged with sadness. “You’re my person. I trust you. I’ve always trusted you.”

That trust meant more than you could say. And in the silence that followed, you found yourself tracing the sharp line of his jaw, memorizing every detail as if to keep it with you for the months ahead.

Your thoughts drifted, just briefly, to the day his stylist had resigned—the same woman you had once caught pressed against him backstage, lips locked in something that had twisted your stomach. Back then, you hadn’t been official, and jealousy had been something you tried to swallow. But when she found out the truth—that you and Jin were real,—she’d quit without another word. It should have been a small thing, but to you, it was another quiet reassurance that the past no longer hovered between you.

Jin must have read your mind because he murmured, “You don’t have to worry about anyone else. Not now. Not ever.”

“I know,” you whispered. “It’s just… these three months are going to feel long.”

“They will,” he admitted, his hand sliding from your cheek down to your collarbone, resting over your heart. “But I’ll call you every night. And I’ll send you pictures of everything. Even my bad hair days.”

You laughed softly. “You don’t have bad hair days.”

“Lies,” he teased, but the way his voice softened after made your chest tighten. “I’m going to miss waking up next to you. This… right here.” He gestured to the two of you tangled together, your legs brushing under the sheets. “I don’t want to get used to an empty bed again.”

You shifted closer, your forehead pressing against his. “Then promise me something,” you said quietly.

“Anything.”

“When you come back, no matter how tired you are from the tour, no matter what time it is… you’ll come straight to me.”

Jin smiled, and for a moment the sadness in his eyes gave way to something warmer, brighter. “Straight to you. Always.”

You stayed like that for a while—his fingers drawing lazy shapes against your skin, your breaths falling into sync. The night outside was endless, but in here, time felt slow, stretched, reluctant to move forward.

Somewhere deep down, you knew that when the morning came, he’d have to start packing for his next leg of the tour, and you’d have to start your days without him. But for now, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, memorizing the weight of his arm around you, the way he smelled faintly of soap and his favorite cologne, the way his heartbeat matched yours.

Because for the next three months, these memories would have to be enough.

The hum of the city at night was a sound you had grown used to, but lately, it felt emptier. Even as the skyline glittered outside your window, Seoul’s beauty didn’t quite fill the space Jin’s absence left.

Your desk was scattered with neatly stacked contracts and a half-drunk cup of chamomile tea, now cold. It was nearly 3 a.m. when your phone lit up with his name.

You didn’t even hesitate. “Hey,” you whispered, your voice warm despite the hour.

On the other side of the world, you could hear faint laughter and distant chatter, the background noise of a post-concert celebration. His voice broke through it all, steady and full of quiet relief. “I knew you’d still be awake.”

“You always know,” you replied softly. “How’s London?”

“Tiring,” he admitted, a small chuckle following his words. “Crowd was insane tonight. I’m still buzzing. But I couldn’t sleep without hearing you.”

The line went quiet for a moment, and you imagined him there — hair damp from the shower, face lit by the soft glow of a hotel lamp, exhaustion making his eyes heavy yet bright at the thought of you.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “One more month, Jin. Just one more.”

“I’ve been counting,” he said. “Every city, every night, I cross off another day until I can come home to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting his voice sink into you like warm light. “The company’s doing well. Jimin says our quarterly report is something Dad would be proud of. There’s even an article about me — about us — in the business section.”

“I saw it,” he murmured. “I’m proud of you too. You’ve done what no one thought was possible.”

You laughed quietly. “Sometimes I still feel like that scared girl standing in my father’s office, wondering if I could really handle this.”

“You’re more than handling it. You’re leading it. And… you’re still making time for me, even if it’s 3 a.m. for you.”

“I’d wake up for you,” you whispered. “Every time.”

There was another pause, but it wasn’t empty — it was full of unsaid things, of yearning that a phone call could never quite satisfy.

“I wish I could see you,” he said finally. “Just… even for a minute. I miss the way you look at me when I talk, like I’m the only thing in the world.”

“And I miss the way you hold me like you’re afraid I’ll vanish if you let go,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly.

He chuckled, but it was soft and aching. “When I get back, I’m not letting go for a long time. You’ve been warned.”

The night stretched on, and neither of you wanted to hang up. You spoke about little things — his setlist, your meetings, Jimin’s ridiculous office jokes. But every word was a thread keeping you tied together across oceans.

Eventually, you whispered, “You should rest, Jin. You have another concert tomorrow.”

“Only if you promise to sleep too,” he replied. “Close your eyes, and I’ll stay on the line until you drift off.”

You curled into your bed, the city’s glow faint through your curtains. His breathing became your lullaby. And just before sleep took you, you heard him whisper, almost to himself, “One more month. Then I’ll be home.”

The boardroom still smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee and polished wood. The meeting with the new investors had gone better than you dared to hope. Numbers had been laid out, projections had been met with approving nods, and for the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe without the weight of a collapsing company pressing down on your lungs. The praise in the latest article was still fresh in your mind—“From the brink to brilliance: how she turned a sinking ship into a sailing dream.”

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor as you walked back to your office. The warm afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall glass windows, painting golden streaks across your desk. That was when you saw it—an enormous bouquet, lush and full, set neatly in the center of your workspace.

Peonies and roses in muted blush and cream, their petals unfolding like quiet confessions. The scent was intoxicating, sweet enough to tug you away from spreadsheets and deadlines.

You smiled without thinking.

Jin.

Your hand was already reaching for your phone, ready to tease him for being impossibly romantic even from oceans away, when a soft knock tapped at your office door.

“Come in,” you called, still distracted by the flowers.

The door opened, and for a split second, you didn’t look up. Then you did.

And the world went quiet.

He stood there in the doorway, casual and impossibly breathtaking, wearing a simple white shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, the fringe brushing against his forehead. His eyes—those deep, warm constellations—were locked on you, and in them was something you hadn’t realized you’d been aching for until now.

“Jin?” Your voice cracked over his name. “But you… you’re not supposed to be back for another two weeks.”

“I wasn’t,” he said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “But I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Your breath hitched, the air in the room thick with the unspoken months of missing him. You were on your feet before you realized you’d moved, and then you were in his arms.

The hug was not neat or polite—it was desperate. You buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent of him, something warm and clean and entirely Jin. His arms wrapped around you like they were meant to, his hand splayed against the back of your head, holding you as if the distance had been a storm and this was the harbor.

“I missed you,” you murmured against his shirt, the words breaking under the weight of everything they carried.

“I missed you more,” he replied, his voice low and steady, but you could feel the tremor in him.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your cheeks damp. “I didn’t know you were coming. I would have—”

“Done what? Worn something fancier?” His lips curled into the smallest, fondest smile. “You’re perfect like this.”

You laughed through the tears, swatting lightly at his chest. “You should have told me. I was ready to count down the days.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb over your cheek, catching the tear before it could fall. “But I wanted to see your face like this. I wanted to surprise you.”

You took a shaky breath, still drinking him in as if you were afraid he might vanish if you blinked too long. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here,” he said simply, as if that alone could heal the months of longing.

There was a pause—soft, not awkward—just the kind that lets you memorize someone all over again. You traced your gaze over him, from the faint creases at the corners of his eyes to the way his shoulders seemed more at ease than the last time you saw him.

“How was the tour?” you asked, though part of you already knew from the late-night calls and messages.

“It was good,” he said, his hand still holding yours. “But every city, every stage… I kept wishing you were there. I kept turning to say something to you and remembering you weren’t beside me.”

Your throat tightened. “I know the time zones were crazy, but you still called. Even at three in the morning.”

“I didn’t care what time it was,” he said. “Hearing your voice was better than sleep.”

The words hit you like a warmth you’d been starving for.

You looked at the bouquet on your desk. “So… was that you?”

“Of course,” he said with a smirk. “Though now I feel like the flowers are competing for your attention.”

You smiled, shaking your head, and for the first time in months, the office didn’t feel like a place of endless deadlines—it felt like the room where the waiting ended.

He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not leaving again for a while. I want to make up for every day I wasn’t here.”

You closed your eyes, the truth of it sinking in, and whispered back, “Then stay. Just… stay.”

And in that quiet, it didn’t matter that the city kept moving outside or that your phone was buzzing with another email. What mattered was that his arms were around you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t have to imagine what it would be like to hold him again—you just could.

The evening air in Seoul was softer than usual, as if the city itself had decided to breathe slower for you. The heat of the day had faded into a gentle coolness, the kind that carried the faint scent of rain from somewhere far away. Streetlights blinked awake one by one, spilling warm halos across the pavement as Jin’s car rolled quietly through the quieter outskirts of the city.

You were still holding his hand over the console. Even now, hours after that reunion in your office, you kept touching him—as if to prove to yourself he was real, that you weren’t dreaming in some lonely hotel room.

He drove without hurry, the low hum of the engine blending with the soft jazz that floated through the speakers. Occasionally, he glanced at you, the curve of his mouth betraying a smile that seemed to grow every time your eyes met.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice low, not wanting to disturb the peaceful rhythm of the moment.

“You’ll see,” he replied, eyes still on the road. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow and steady. “I just… want us to be somewhere that isn’t about work, or cameras, or schedules.”

You exhaled, leaning back into the seat. “That sounds perfect.”

The city lights thinned until they were behind you, replaced by the silhouettes of hills and clusters of trees. Eventually, the road narrowed, and he turned into a quiet path lined with low lanterns. At the end of it was a small clearing with a wooden deck overlooking a lake. The water caught the moonlight in silver ripples, and the world seemed to still.

Jin parked and came around to open your door. “Come on,” he said softly.

The air here was fresher, cooler. You followed him to the edge of the deck where a low wooden bench sat. He’d brought a blanket from the car, spreading it so you could both sit.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice catching slightly.

“It is,” he murmured, though when you turned to look, his gaze was fixed entirely on you.

The quiet was the kind that didn’t feel empty—it felt safe, like you could fill it with anything, or nothing at all. The moon hung low, the sound of water lapping against the shore the only interruption.

After a while, he spoke again, his voice steady but deep with something more. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About… what’s next for us.”

You tilted your head. “Next?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ve been chasing schedules and fitting each other into the spaces between work and flights. But when I was away, I kept thinking—how much longer are we going to live like that? How long before we start… building something that’s just ours?”

Your throat tightened. “You mean… the future?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Our future. A home that’s ours. Dinners where you don’t have to wait for my call to know if I’m coming. Mornings where I wake up and you’re right there, not on the other side of a screen.”

Your eyes burned, the tears welling before you could stop them. “You really thought about all that?”

“Every day,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. “I know it won’t be easy. Our lives are still… complicated. People still have opinions, the industry still has its rules. But I’m tired of living around them. I want to live with you.”

You looked at him through your tears, your lips trembling into a small, shaky smile. “Jin…”

He reached for you then, cupping your face so gently it felt like a vow. “I don’t want us to keep putting happiness on hold. I want to build it now.”

The tears slipped free, warm trails down your cheeks, and you let out a soft laugh between them. “You always know how to make me cry and smile at the same time.”

“Good,” he said with a quiet chuckle, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. “That means you’re listening.”

You leaned into him, your forehead pressing to his. “I want that too,” you whispered. “All of it.”

And for a long time, you just stayed like that—your hands tangled together, your breaths syncing, the lake reflecting the quiet promise between you.

The night deepened, the stars sharper now against the indigo sky. Jin pulled the blanket tighter around both of you, his arm holding you close as he looked out at the water. “So,” he murmured, “when we go back… we start making it real.”

You smiled into his shoulder, your heart full enough to make the night feel endless. “We will.”

The mornings after his return from the tour felt softer, warmer, as if the world itself was breathing easier again. The city was waking up in its usual way. Buses groaning down narrow streets, market vendors sweeping dust from their storefronts—but in your world, everything had slowed down. Jin was in the kitchen, still barefoot, humming under his breath as the kettle whistled. The sunlight framed him like a scene from a film, pouring in through the window and softening every line of his face.

You sat at the counter, chin in your hand, simply watching him move. There was something about this version of him—quiet, unhurried—that felt different from the man you first knew. He caught your gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” he asked, sliding a mug toward you.

“Nothing,” you murmured. “Just thinking… you’re too domestic for someone who’s supposed to be intimidating.”

He laughed, the sound deep and warm. “If this is intimidating, then you’re easy to scare.”

It became your new rhythm—waking up with him, letting the world spin without the urgency that once ruled your lives. But true to his word, Jin began making quiet changes. They weren’t the kind that came with speeches or announcements. Instead, they slipped into your days like sunlight through an open curtain.

One afternoon, he took a different turn while driving you home.

“Where are we going?” you asked, watching unfamiliar streets roll by.

“You’ll see.”

He stopped in front of a small, ivy-covered building. The entrance was framed by white roses, their petals trembling in the wind. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and rain. He led you through rooms with polished wooden floors and windows that opened to a garden alive with birdsong.

“I thought… maybe we could make this ours,” he said, his voice almost cautious. “Not just mine. Not just yours. Ours.”

You traced your fingers along the doorframe, imagining mornings here, evenings lit by warm lamps, the quiet in-between moments that would belong only to the two of you.

“Jin,” you whispered, “are you sure?”

He looked at you as if the answer had always been obvious. “I’ve never been more sure.”

In the days that followed, your lives unfolded in this gentle way. He came with you every single time you visited your father, who now spent most days in bed. Jin would sit beside him, listening as your father told stories from his youth, sometimes nodding in approval, sometimes chuckling. And without fail, at least once during each visit, your father would turn to Jin and say, “What are you waiting for? Ask her to marry you while I’m still around to see it.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your mother would smile softly from the doorway, her hands folded in front of her. She was always emotional when it came to you and Jin, but her support was unwavering. She’d often press a hand to your cheek and say, “He looks at you like the world is in your hands.”

There were days when you’d drive out to visit his mother, carrying a fresh bouquet of lilies or peonies—flowers Jin insisted on picking himself. She’d greet you at the door with a warm hug, her home smelling faintly of sweet rice cakes. “You’ve brought my favorite flowers again,” she’d say, her eyes shining. You’d sit around her kitchen table for hours, sipping tea and listening to her stories about Jin as a boy, her laughter ringing through the small, sunlit room.

Sometimes, the two of you would spend evenings with Jeongguk, Yoongi, Taehyung, and their new producer Hoseok, who quickly became a natural part of the group. Jimin would join whenever he could, his presence adding a familiar warmth. There were no cameras, no audiences, no schedules—just friends sprawled across a living room floor, eating takeout and teasing each other until laughter filled the air.

Life became easier. Happier. It was the kind of happiness that didn’t come from grand declarations but from small, steady moments—the ones you didn’t realize you’d been craving until they were there, quietly anchoring you.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, you sat with Jin on the porch of the place you now called home. The garden was alive with the hum of summer insects, and the air was heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I used to think love had to be… loud. Like fireworks. Like something the whole world could see. But this… this is different.”

You turned to him. “Different how?”

He reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “It’s the kind that makes me want to build a life instead of just moments.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. It was the first time you truly believed that the future you’d both been afraid to imagine was already unfolding—one day, one quiet choice at a time.

Somewhere in the distance, your phone buzzed with a reminder you ignored. Here, in this slow and certain world, there was no rush.

It had been six months since Jin came back into your life. Six months of finding your way into each other’s routines, of the soft, unremarkable days that turned out to be the most remarkable of all. The world had grown quiet, not because it stopped spinning, but because you finally had someone who made you feel safe in the noise.

You thought today would be just another one of those quiet days. He told you to dress nicely, but not too nicely, and there had been something unreadable in his smile when you asked why. The air carried the warmth of late afternoon, painted in shades of gold and blush as you walked with him down the cobblestone path toward the small hill just outside the city.

The moment you reached the top, you saw them.

Your father was there—sitting in his wheelchair, your mother beside him. His hands rested on the blanket over his lap, but his eyes were brighter than they had been in months. Beside them stood Jin’s mother, her warm smile holding a hint of tears, a bouquet of small white flowers cradled in her hands. And then your breath caught—because behind them, Jeongguk, Yoongi, Taehyung, Hoseok, and Jimin stood in a neat, almost shy line. Some held flowers. Some held cameras. All of them wore the kind of smiles people reserve for witnessing something sacred.

The sun seemed to hold its breath.

You turned to Jin, heart pounding. “What… what is this?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand finding yours with the kind of certainty that came from months of knowing and loving you in silence and in storm. He looked down at you, and for a heartbeat, you could swear the entire sky folded itself around his gaze.

“You know how I told you love isn’t just in the grand moments?” he began softly. “It’s in the mornings we wake up late. In your hands wrapped around a coffee mug. In the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking. It’s in the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. But… sometimes, love also needs to be told out loud. It needs to be promised.”

Your throat tightened as the world blurred.

He took a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Your father… every time I visit with you, he tells me the same thing. That I should marry you while he’s still here to see it. And I keep telling him I will. Today, I want to keep that promise.”

The wind curled softly around you, carrying the scent of flowers and earth, the rustle of leaves whispering like witnesses.

Jin reached into his pocket and sank to one knee. Not rushed. Not trembling. But with the kind of deliberate grace that made it feel as though this moment had been waiting for you your whole life.

“I have loved you in ways I didn’t know a person could be loved,” he said, his voice steady but thick with feeling. “And every day since I came back, I’ve loved you more. I don’t want another day where I’m not yours in every way I can be. So…”

He opened the small velvet box, and inside, the ring caught the light like it had been made from the sunset itself.

“… will you marry me?”

You covered your mouth, your breath breaking. Your father’s hand pressed against your mother’s as if urging her to hold him still. Jin’s mother blinked away tears. The boys waited quietly, their smiles trembling at the edges. The air felt too full to breathe.

You knelt in front of him, your hands shaking as you cupped his face. “Yes, Jin,” you whispered, the words spilling out like a prayer. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

He laughed, a sound wet with relief, and pulled you into him. When his arms closed around you, it felt like the rest of your life began in that very moment. Somewhere behind you, your father’s voice cracked into a cheer, your mother’s soft sob followed, and your friends’ voices rose in applause and teasing shouts.

Jin slid the ring onto your finger, kissed your knuckles, then your forehead, and finally your lips—slow, deep, as though sealing not just a promise, but a lifetime.

The world moved again. The sky exhaled. And the sun dipped just low enough to bathe all of you in liquid gold, freezing the scene into something you knew you would carry forever.

The first light of dawn was pale and tender, brushing across the sheer curtains like a soft sigh. The room still smelled faintly of last night’s celebration — the roses Jin had filled the bedroom with, the lingering sweetness of strawberry cake you had barely touched, and the faint warmth of candle wax still clinging to the air. Outside, the city was still sleepy, a few early morning birds tracing songs into the silence.

Your eyes fluttered open, not because of the light, but because your body had been quietly whispering something to you for days now. A dull wave of nausea rose in your chest. You pressed your lips together and sat up slowly, your gaze falling on Jin.

He was still asleep, facing you. His breathing was slow and even, lashes casting small shadows on his cheeks. His hair was messy from sleep, one hand loosely curled near your pillow, like even in dreams he was reaching for you. The sight made you pause — marriage hadn’t dulled the way he made you feel. If anything, it had deepened it, turned the spark into a quiet, unshakable flame.

You slipped out of bed carefully, your bare feet pressing against the warm wood floor. The morning was hushed, sacred almost. In the bathroom, your hand hovered for a moment before you reached for the small box hidden behind a folded towel. You had bought the kit yesterday, unsure, almost afraid to hope.

Your heart beat in your ears as you took the test, then placed it on the counter. Seconds stretched painfully. You watched the lines form — one, and then the second, faint but clear. Positive.

You swallowed hard, blinking at the reflection in the mirror. A dozen emotions collided in your chest: disbelief, joy, fear, wonder. Just to be sure, you took another test. Then another. Three in total. All the same answer.

Positive.

Your hands trembled as you gathered the three little pieces of plastic, your fingers brushing over them as if the truth might change if you weren’t careful.

You stepped back into the bedroom. Jin was still there, tangled in the sheets, one arm now stretched into the space you had left. The soft golden light had crept further into the room, wrapping him in a warmth that made him look almost unreal.

You kneeled beside him, brushing your hand gently along his cheek. His eyes fluttered open slowly, confusion giving way to the warm, sleepy smile you knew so well.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” you whispered, but your voice carried something heavier, trembling with the weight of what you held.

He blinked, sensing it immediately. “What’s wrong?” His brows knit slightly as he pushed himself up on one elbow.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you placed the three tests in his hand.

He looked down, still groggy, scanning the little windows. And then he froze. His lips parted, his eyes darting back up to you, and in a moment the sleepiness was gone — replaced by something raw and unguarded.

His hand shook. “Is this…?” His voice broke before he could finish.

You nodded, tears already blurring your vision. “Yes.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. And then Jin’s breath caught, and his eyes filled, the tears gathering so quickly that one slipped free before he could stop it.

He pulled you into his arms so suddenly you nearly dropped the tests. His hold was fierce, trembling, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. You felt his shoulders shake as his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

“This…” His voice cracked, deep and unsteady. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into him. The warmth of his embrace was almost overwhelming — the smell of his skin, the quiet, choked sounds he was trying to hide, the way his hands kept moving over your back as if trying to memorize every inch.

“I wish my father could’ve known,” you whispered softly against his hair, and you felt his grip tighten.

“He knows,” Jin said without hesitation, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy, but his gaze was steady. “I’m sure he knows. And I’ll make sure our baby knows him too.”

You cupped his face in your hands, brushing away the tears that had spilled down his cheeks. “You’re going to be such a good father.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “But I already know you’re going to be an incredible mother.”

The room was silent except for your breaths mingling. Outside, the world had begun to wake — faint traffic in the distance, the whir of a coffee shop machine somewhere down the street — but inside, time seemed to hold its breath.

Jin leaned in and kissed you then, soft at first, then deeper, like he was pouring every wordless feeling into it. When he pulled back, his smile was wet, a little broken, but full of light.

“Happy first wedding anniversary,” he whispered. “I didn’t think it could get any more perfect, but you… you always prove me wrong.”

You laughed quietly through your tears. “I guess this means we’ll need a bigger home soon.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “We’ll make it perfect. Just like we made this life perfect.”

And in that moment, with the morning light spilling over you both and the tiny miracle growing quietly inside you, you knew — the life ahead would be filled with moments just like this. Moments where love was loud without a sound.

The End.

Hi Lovelies,

This is our final chapter, and my heart feels both full and a little bittersweet writing these last words. I’m so grateful to every single one of you who has been here from the very beginning, waiting patiently for updates, sending me messages, sharing your favorite lines, and feeling every high and low alongside these characters. Your support means the world to me.

To those who read in silence, to those who left comments, to those who stayed up late for every new update—you made this journey unforgettable. Thank you so much.

This may be the final chapter for Ruin Me Like a Love Song, but the emotions, moments, and characters will stay with us a little longer. Thank you for loving them as much as I did.

With all my heart,

InkedWithCharm ♡

@amarawayne @kittenan2 @mar-lo-pap @jimochi @pp0810 @syh-a 🤍

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